The man in the red Civic fled across the desert, and the road warrior followed. The road warrior was many things—a fighter, when he had to be, a savior, when he could. Above all, though, he was Mad.
His prey would falter eventually, he knew. Gasoline was scarce, too scarce for a car to be anything other than a show of force and the flaunting of wealth, all wrapped together. The red Civic didn't have any external fuel tanks, the way that the road warrior's Pursuit Special did.
The tanks of the Pursuit Special had been fuel when the road warrior set off on his quest to find and kill the man in the red Civic. Now, at midday on the third day of the chase, they were still more than three-quarters full. It didn't matter that the Civic was faster. It would stop eventually.
The moment finally came, the faint glimmer of distant red no longer receding, twisting and warping in the haze off the sand in the brutal sun. It grew gradually larger, a smudge of color that grew from no larger than a beetle to the size of the road warrior's fist. The details gradually sharpened, resolving themselves into the form of a 1993 Honda Civic, its once brilliantly red paint dulled and pitted from the elements. Nothing stayed pretty in the wasteland for very long.
The road warrior could see that his target was still in the car. He admired that, in a way. A coward would have abandoned the car, choosing to extend their life the few minutes that running on foot would buy until they were run down. A dangerous man would stay in the car. The road warrior was curious, in a way, as to what the man in the Civic's weapon would be. His fists? A gun? His wits? The road warrior had taken on many men who had thought that they could beat him. That he was still alive, still driving, was all the evidence that was needed as to how those battles had gone.
The driver of the red Civic rolled his window down. "You're here to kill me," he said calmly.
It was a statement, not a question. "Yes," said the Road Warrior, cocking his shotgun and leveling it at the driver's head.
"You've got the wrong man,"
"Is that so?" asked the Road Warrior.
"It is. I'm after the same man you are. The one they call the Speedblood."
"So who are you?"
The Civic's driver smiled, and it briefly transformed his face and seemed to breathe life into the desert. "I'm Dirk Speedblood. And I'm going to hunt and kill whoever is using my name."
The Road Warrior regarded him intently. Finally, he was satisfied with something that he read in the man's face and nodded, swinging his shotgun up onto his shoulder as he extended his hand. "Max," he said.
From the passenger side of the Civic, a husky female voice spoke up. "It's nice to meet you, Max. I'm Krystal."
She looked to be half human and half cat. Some kind of mutant, probably. The sort that would be worshipped as a goddess in some parts of the wastelands and stoned to death to keep the bloodlines clean in others. The Road Warrior simply nodded. "You'll need some gasoline if we're to get to this imposter."
Dirk Speedblood nodded. "I've heard tell that the Speedblood runs Sacktown. It was where we were headed."
Max busied himself preparing to transfer some of the precious gasoline from the Pursuit Special to the Civic. "Then we'll go to Sacktown."
The journey took several days and nearly all of their gasoline, no matter how carefully they rationed it. But eventually they stood before the ruins of what had once been a thriving city. What remained was a mere ghost of its former self. The buildings were crumbling and poorly repaired in places, rising unevenly into the sky in a crude imitation of the skyscrapers that had once existed.
The streets were abandoned, and it quickly became obvious why. At the center of the town, a crippled man on a platform was stoking the enthusiasm of the population into a near religious fervor. "WHO RUNS SACKTOWN?" he demanded in a voice that boomed and filled every corner of the square, bouncing off the walls without any amplification.
"THE SPEEDBLOOD," the crowd responded in unison.
"WHAT DOES THE SPEEDBLOOD PROMISE US?"
"FOOD, WATER, AND GASOLINE," they roared.
"WHAT DOES THE SPEEDBLOOD PROMISE OUR ENEMIES?"
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!" they cried, stamping their feet and waving their arms wildly.
"While the crowd is distracted, I'm going to sneak into that building," said Dirk Speedblood, pointing at the tallest building in the town, "If anything is the Speedblood's castle, that is."
The castle was surprisingly easy to infiltrate, the two lone guards quickly and silently falling to his katana. As he made his way upwards, the castle seemed oddly familiar in some way, as though he had known it once long ago. Finally, at the top of the tower, he came to what could only be a throne room. The space was dominated by a Civic that had been reworked and gilded to become a magnificent chair, overlooking an enormous pit that seemed to reach all the way past the ground floor of the castle and into the very bowels of the Earth. The chair was occupied by a woman who stood and began clapping sarcastically as soon as Dirk Speedblood entered. "So, you finally made it," she sneered.
She was tall and might have been pretty but for the large L shaped scar on her face, a perfect mirror of the one on Dirk Speedblood's face. "I don't know who you are, but I'm the only Speedblood!" he yelled, charging forward to run her through with his sword.
She deflected the blade almost carelessly with a katana of her own. "Is that really the best you've got? My, what a waste all of that practice was."
Dirk Speedblood ignored her taunt and stepped forward to attack again. But as he began his swing, she suddenly unsheathed a dagger with her free hand and stabbed him in the chest. Dirk Speedblood fell to the ground, writhing in agony, feeling his blood oozing out of the terrible wound. "You'll have to do better, brother."
"Brother?" Dirk Speedblood asked, not understanding, "I don't have a sister. And my only brother is dead."
"That's where you're wrong, dear brother," she said, malice etched into her face, "Our parents always wanted a son, and so they raised me as one. And then you were born. I swore that I would make you pay for taking our parents' love, and my vengeance is almost complete."
Dirk Speedblood shook his head, refusing to believe her words. "It's true, brother. I am Max Speedblood. Who do you think was behind your every failure? When you lost a swordfight and the blade snapped and gave you that scar, who do you think weakened the blade? When your friend murdered your girlfriend in a rage, who do you think drugged him to become violent? And when your flesh began to putrefy and wither, who do you think wished it to be so? It was me, Dirk Speedblood. I am the cause of all your pain!"
"It can't be true!" shouted Dirk Speedblood weakly.
"It is true. And now, my vengeance is complete. Your body will be decomposed to make the biodiesel that powers Sacktown," she said, as she pushed him towards the pit in the center of the throne room.
"Still," Max Speedblood mused, "It would be a shame to send your corpse down to the pits with a sword as fine as this."
She pulled the dagger free of his chest and in one smooth motion severed his hand, which was still tightly grasping his katana. Once her prize was free, she kicked Dirk Speedblood into the pit. He didn't even have the energy to cry out as he was swallowed by the darkness.