My long black hair flaps about in the wind as my cherry red convertible zooms across the wasteland, mutated hounds right on my tail, nipping at my rear bumper. I press a button, and a jettison of flames roasts them alive, their burned flesh further agonized by the sand my tires spit in their direction. I do love my car, I think as I leave the howling pack behind in the dust.

Unfortunately, every raider in the wasteland thinks the same.

"There it is! The beauty!" one madman screams as I zoom past the ruins of a cigarette billboard.

A band of lizard men give me the finger as I zoom past, an acid puddle splashing all over them.

Always Something There to Remind Me is blasting out of my 80s mix tape and into my speakers, the power of the bass shaking my rearview mirror.

Just me, the road, and the scattered corpses of would-be car thieves behind us.

Unfortunately, I'm not always thorough enough in my feeding.

It's the stereotypical scene of a car theft, I would believe; I'm asleep in my backseat at 3:00 hidden in a ring of rock formations one minute, and the other the car is gone, and I am left behind with my head impaled on my crowbar. Either someone didn't tell my assailant about my healing factor, or he just didn't care.

It never is wise to not care about consequences, especially in a nuclear wasteland.

A few day's walks, and I finally reach a camp. I could easily track the scent of my killer at this point, but I need to set priorities. It's been over a week since I've eaten anyone, and it feels like I'm about to collapse.

I can even make due with someone's livestock, at this point. The thought alone of sinking my fangs into the delicious hide of a cow, a horse, a person, anything; just the idea makes me foam at the mouth.

Fortunately for me, I get jumped by a raider; a shirtless man whose skin is so badly sunburnt that it looks to be peeling at the seams. "You will be my meat! Meat, meat, meat!"

He lunges down and a whip made of chain link fence digs into my eye socket before being yanked back to its owner. "If you can't see, you can't fight!"

I dodge the second time, grabbing his whip and yanking it from his hand, slashing it across his neck.

He is just enough provisions to make another week of wandering, which is perfect, because it is within two more days of wandering that I find the remains of a neon lit metropolis deep in the recesses of a massive rock formation. The town is completely deserted apart from the occasional mutant who I consume, ranting about messiahs and chariots of fire.

This would not have peaked my interest even a bit under normal circumstances, but painted upon the surface of one of the walls is a mural of a red chariot; one with four wheels, a front window, and a protruding spoiler on its rear. A convertible.

The rest of the mural goes on to depict a second apocalyptic event, but in this case, it isn't even remotely related to the bombs or the wars, but one of magical proportions; pictures portraying thunderstorms pouring down blood, creatures made of acid destroying settlements, and finally...

Me, standing on an enormous pile of skulls, alone like a character gracing the cover of a heavy metal album.

"You there!"

A new mutant comes from between the crevices of the ruins behind me, clad in spiked armor and wielding a rusty, bloodstained crowbar.

"You... are the Cursed One!"