Mad Max Trainer: Fling Upd

The sun baked the rusted bones of the old world. On the salt flats, a lone figure in torn leathers dragged a steel wagon behind a gas-guzzling rig. Inside the wagon: a squeaking, squirming pile of pure, untamed chaos.

Three days later, Scrotus Jr. found Giblet sitting politely, giving paw, and refraining from devouring a raw mutton leg placed on his nose.

They were Pibbles. Pug-huahuas. A single, fluffy Great Pyrenees. And a three-legged Chihuahua named Princess Buttercup who snarled like a chainsaw. Mad Max Trainer Fling UPD

“Turnip. Protocol ‘Good Boy.’”

“That’s Giblet,” Scrotus Jr. growled. “He bit three of my war boys last week. He ate my spare tire. He answers to no one. Fix him, or you feed the lizard pits.” The sun baked the rusted bones of the old world

Max didn’t flinch. He knelt, pulled a dried piece of jerky from his vest, and held it out flat.

WITNESS HIM. Witness the sit.

“Release the captive canines, oppressor! Free shaping is fascism!”