“Witchcraft,” the Warlord whispered.
“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.”
They were Pibbles. Pug-huahuas. A single, fluffy Great Pyrenees. And a three-legged Chihuahua named Princess Buttercup who snarled like a chainsaw.
Max didn’t flinch. He knelt, pulled a dried piece of jerky from his vest, and held it out flat. Mad Max Trainer Fling UPD
Max picked up the Pomeranian, tucked it into his jacket, and looked at the defeated gang. “Training isn’t breaking. It’s speaking. And you,” he added, tossing a bag of dehydrated liver treats to Scrotus Jr., “need to start with basic sit-stay. No more spare tires.”
“Release the captive canines, oppressor! Free shaping is fascism!”
Velvet Lash screamed as her own prized Pomeranian trotted over to Max and offered a paw. “Witchcraft,” the Warlord whispered
“Turnip. Protocol ‘Good Boy.’”
This was Max. Not the Mad Max. Just Max. The last certified dog trainer in the Wasteland.
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. “He bit three of my war boys last week
That’s when the update hit.
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: