That’s when the update hit.
It was chaos.
Velvet Lash screamed as her own prized Pomeranian trotted over to Max and offered a paw.
His rig coughed to a stop outside the Bullet Farm. The gate creaked open, and out stomped Warlord Scrotus Jr., twice as mean as his old man and half as smart. Behind him, chained to a post, was a beast that looked like a bulldog crossbred with a bear trap. Mad Max Trainer Fling UPD
One by one, the enemy dogs stopped. They sat. They tilted their heads. They wanted that . The calm. The treat. The clicker.
A dust storm roared in, but it wasn’t weather. It was a fleet of dune buggies flying the flag of the Pampered Pooch Collective —a rival gang who believed dogs should never be trained, only “expressed.” Their leader, a woman named Velvet Lash with chrome-plated fingernails, shrieked through a loudspeaker:
Max sighed. He unclipped the leash from his own dog—a scrappy mutt named Turnip who knew 140 commands and could operate a crossbow release with his teeth. That’s when the update hit
Max just held up a new leather muzzle. “Now. The puppy class.”
They were Pibbles. Pug-huahuas. A single, fluffy Great Pyrenees. And a three-legged Chihuahua named Princess Buttercup who snarled like a chainsaw.
Three days later, Scrotus Jr. found Giblet sitting politely, giving paw, and refraining from devouring a raw mutton leg placed on his nose. His rig coughed to a stop outside the Bullet Farm
Giblet lunged. Max sidestepped. Giblet’s chain snapped taut, and the dog flipped, landing on his back with a confused whuff .
“Release the captive canines, oppressor! Free shaping is fascism!”
“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.”
This was Max. Not the Mad Max. Just Max. The last certified dog trainer in the Wasteland.