"My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories. I remember a time of chaos, ruined dreams, this wasted land. But most of all, I remember the road warrior, the [somewhat] man we called Djoos. To understand who he was we have to go back to the other time, when the world was powered by the black fuel and the desert sprouted great cities of pipe and steel — gone now, swept away. For reasons long forgotten two mighty warrior tribes went to war and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all.
Without fuel they were nothing [HEY GATORADE IS PISSED]. They'd built a house of straw. The thundering machines sputtered and stopped. Their leaders talked and talked and talked, but nothing could stem the avalanche. Their world crumbled. Cities exploded — a whirlwind of looting, a firestorm of fear. Men began to feed on men [vegan eating men became a hot commodity].
On the roads it was a white-line nightmare. Only those mobile enough to scavenge, brutal enough to pillage would survive.
The gangs took over the highways, ready to wage war for a tank of juice, and in this maelstrom of decay ordinary men were battered and smashed — men [eternally too young to look mannish grown] like Djoos, the youngling Djoos. In the roar of an engine, he [almost] lost everything [his thigh] and became a shell of a youngling, a burnt-out desolate youngling [who misses Fortnite], a youngling haunted by the demons of his past [the darkness of a younglings soul who can never understand the savage but real internet wars of Blu-ray vs. HD DVD or Android vs. iOS], a youngling who wandered out into the wasteland [without instagram]. And it was here, in this blighted place, that he learned to live again [SHL].