Mad Max

Vítáme Vás u třetího dne každoroční soutěže Na Pěst, jediného souboje, kde je počet rukou vždy stejný, jako počet soutěžících. Ukončete, prosím, veškeré sázky.
Po včerejší překvapivé diskvalifikaci našeho šampiona pro nepovolené využití motorové pily nás dnes čekají tři zápasy. V prvním kole nás čeká Alchymista - nohu si výjimečně mohl ponechat - proti Královrahovi.
V druhém kole pak máme dámskou jízdu - Soví dáma proti Imperátorce. A žádné podvody, prosím. Ano, mluvím na jednu z Vás. Žádná kouzla, ano?
A třetí - muž z minulosti proti…
(Povzdech)
Mohly by se zástupci Předaleké Galaxie konečně dohodnout, kdo bude soutěžit? Otec, syn, a nebo klon?

„Já tě chápu, jsi zamilovaná. Ale on je nepřítel," vysvětlovala Angharad.

Capable zvýšila hlas: „Nux od Vlčáků odešel a Nadsmrťas ho chce zabít, co ještě víc chceš slyšet?"

„Jednou Vlčák, navždy Vlčák," sykla Dag.

„Cheedo? Toast?" Capable oslovila zbylé dvě kamarádky, ale ty mlčky zavrtěly hlavou.

Bolelo to. Nepočítala s tím, že ji její nejbližší v tom nechají samotnou. Stejně tak profesorky její prosbu zamítly. Vlčák si prý nic jiného než smrt nezaslouží. Ale Capable to udělá - prolomí štíty Australské školy čar a kouzel a zachrání ho. Navíc ještě tu je jedna osoba, kterou nepožádala o pomoc.

Zbývá ještě Max.

Nakonec mu zbyla jen pistole, měch s vodou, a bunda. Auto zůstalo stát v dunách.
Kolem poledne dopil poslední kapky.
K večeru se svezl do písku.
Na obzoru stála chatrč z vlnitého plechu. Nezmizela, i když na chvíli zavřel oči.
Nějak se dokázal doplazit až k ní.
„Co to bude, šéfe?“ usmál se chlápek a ukázal zčernalé pahýly zubů: „Pro policajty to máme za půlku.“
Sáhl do kapsy. Nahmátl potrhaný zelený papírek. Podal ho muži a ukázal na jednu z nádob.
Nazpátek pár šedivých mincí a kelímek stejně našedlé hmoty. Studila ho do prstů.
Chutnala sladce a studeně, jako vzpomínky.

Seemingly out of nowhere, out of place and out of time in the severe vastness of the desert, a murder of crows found its way to us.
Sitting perched atop large rocks and black branches of dead trees, some fifty birds, tired and hungry, but ultimately alive - their frigthfully intelligent eyes twinkling with some secret mirth.
(We have survived.
We shall prevail.)
I strech out an arm, a meagre offering of dry fruit.
The crows watch, silent.
Max raises an eyebrow.
I persist.
A gust of wind.
A flap of wings.
Max smiles.
"You make new friends pretty easy, huh."

"Fuck me into stratosphere and then twice around the Moon, Max, I mean... This is really something. This is... Fuck, this is the greatest shit since..."
"Since ever?"
"Since ever," Arthur agrees happily, squinting in the midday sun. His skin is flecked with tiny shimmering dots. He is...
He is radiant when he strips down to his nude self, racing over hot red sand, diving under the clear blue surface of the waterhole that I found by coincidence an hour ago.
Is there such a thing as Luck?
Guess not.
I thank it regardless, and follow Arthur into the deep.

Max drags the dry, mummified corpse out of the sad ruins of a war rig, and up the sand dune towards me. He pauses for a few beats, catching his breath.
I pass him the canteen and he drinks briefly.
The corpse, now lying at his feet, offers me a forced smile.
“Robbed of dignity, even in death.”
Max gives me a disgruntled look, picking the dead body up again.
“I get it. For dead, dignity is an option. While we, the living, have to keep intact as much of it as possible.”
Max shrugs, unbothered. “He’ll make good kindling.”

I didn’t ask.
Arthur tells me anyway.
About his family.
His parents.
His sisters.
His brother Joe.
The Baby.
Mostly Joe, though.
Joe who always rocked Baby to sleep.
Joe, who used to pull Pinkie’s and Noodle’s ponytails.
Joe, who always helped Mama and never talked back to Dada.
Not like Arthur, who was never home, hunting lizards and rabbits in the outback.
Gradually moving on to larger and larger prey.
Joe never talked back to Dada.
Not even when Dada smashed Pinkie’s head with a brick.
“Joe,” Arthur says, his eyes reflecting the fire he built. “My better half.”

Max dozes off, I drive.
He doesn’t sleep at night.
So the terrors follow him into his daytime catnaps.
He tosses, he turns, he murmurs fitfully in response to their calls.
Every time he growls like a wounded animal that he is, I shake him.
He blinks groggily.
Drained of pleasure and purpose, on the verge of sanity and that other, dark, sacred place.
“How much?”
He hums, confused.
“How much for a good, long sleep?”
“I donť have that… kind of wealth.”
“Max, you don’t have anything.”
“Yeah,” he says after a long while. “Can’t buy it back, either.”

I took a right old beating.
Not proud of that.
Got a few scratches ‘n’ bumps.
Sprained wrist, too.
Tried tending to it myself (once we finished scraping “The Navigator” off the windshield).
The bandage kept slipping through my fingers.
Fucking silk.
Useless.
Arthur does the bandaging in the end.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I locked you ‘n’ cuffed you,” I say, later.
Arthur scowls, nods, then slaps my injured wrist.
Hurts.
Fuck that hurts.
“You ain’t doing that shit to me again, understand?” Arthur says, serious.
I nod my head yeah.
Ain’t gonna.
We journey together now.