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Mad Max


"There is nothing I can't repair. And if there is, I'll make it repairable."

 

Max was born in the time of plenty, the age of excessive goods. In a corrupt society whose moral values had long ago declined, the global economic recession hit doubly hard, and Greece’s erstwhile centers of medicine and technology had crumbled in a day. Nothing could stop the vortex of decay. Politicians tried to patch up non-superficial wounds in the system without disinfecting them first, and despite summit after summit, society succumbed to the infection of insurrection. Countries transformed into medieval fiefdoms and old friends became foes. Greece ceased to exist.

The pre-Apocalypse, the period humanity had come to know as The Decline, began with a general breakdown in social order. Individual neighborhoods and small townships fortified themselves and clashed with armed gangs of thieves and raiders. It was not long before the global supply of fossil fuel was exhausted, and terrorist strikes around the world knelled the beginning of The End. Roaming gangs plundered anything in their path in their quest for precious fuel, and gasoline became far more costly than diamonds.

In the sequence of those events, Max lost his family, and as a result of their deaths, his sanity. He forgot who he was and where he had come from, those memories too painful to keep. He became someone else entirely during a tearful evening spent cowering in the ruins of a movie theatre, hiding from raiders out for his blood, praying to the torn movie poster of another man whose wife and child had also been killed, a man who had faced a different End as a warrior armored in leather.

He woke up that morning convinced his name was Max. Everyone who knew his real name or history had been killed anyway, so there was no one around to contradict him. He became Max, and whoever he had been before was no longer important.

Insane with grief, Max faced marauders day in and day out. One thing and one thing only brought a semblance of stability into his life: the smell of gasoline. He became obsessed with fuel and, as a consequence, obsessed with cars and engines. The only way he could sleep at night was with a tank of gas next to his bed.

Almost as savage and brutal as the gangs he once tried to eliminate, he met the Sandmen who gave a new meaning to his life, but not early enough to forestall his addiction. The fume accompanies him wherever he goes, always.