Matters of Myth

Meet A Newly-Minted Scribe of Tall Wasteland Tales...

In a sea of suits and ties, Leo Godred cut a rebel’s profile, even at 76. Having survived his first of year of retirement from Command, the black-furred cowboy found himself involved in the desert’s various historical societies, a passion he pursued with his classic showboatsmanship. Still dressed in his punked-up leather jackets and white boots, still bombing around in his large, bulbous Fleetline, and still sharp as a tack.

It had also proven a good rest cure. 40 years his junior, Adam Knox was learning fast, which made the job of mentoring easy. Unfortunately, not even retirement could stop Godred from getting in on the action alongside the young blood. Both protégé Knox and lifelong friend Eric agreed that it would be best for their elder’s health that he learned to enjoy himself away from battle again.

“If you catch me saying ‘I ain’t gettin’ any younger,’” the black cowboy began in his glowing baritone, “Put me in the earth right here and now.”

The short red mechanic chuckled. “Yes chief, will do chief.” Both hounds sauntered through the glass doors of the conference hall, and made their way to the room where the meeting would be held.

When they arrived, Godred popped a squat and kicked his boots up on the table, only to get them slapped to the floor by Eric. “Get that yokel crap outta here!” he guffawed. “Even if the rest of ‘em are. We’re supposed to pretend we’re all upscale.” With an impish smirk, the black wolf obliged.

Soon enough, the rest of the delegates filed in, taking their seats at the long elliptic table. Under the arms of those suit-and-tie historians were binders upon binders of findings, notes, and miscellany. It was a multi-region conference surveying Wasteland mythology. And what Godred couldn’t imagine was how dull this pack could make the subject seem.

Even for a man of faith, the segment on Abrahamic faith and desert life was rote, the richness of pre-colonial native folklore was severely diminished by its clinical presentation, and the only saving grace for the tall tales of the Old West was that someone had shown up with genuine Old World film reels. How the nitrate had lasted that long was almost as mythic as the information it housed.

And then it happened.

It was time for the myths of the 23rd century and beyond. The extraordinary tales to be told in the wake of the bombs that rocked the Earth to its core. While hopeful at first, the results soon left the black septuagenarian appalled, and his red-furred companion doing his best not to laugh

First up was the Wil’ders clap-trap, the old story of feral hound and machine united in sensual euphoria. It wasn’t even a parable so much as an illustration of fact. The scientific data on motoring as aphrodisiac was fascinating, but to call the premise “mythic” was frankly an insult to mythology itself.

“If I wanted a tale about foot-fucking a car,” Godred whispered thru clenched fangs, “I’d call up the Missus for a home movie.” The red mechanic snorted, trying his damndest not to laugh.

Next up was the tale of the Hellioness. The determined Indian wolf and her fondness for that strange silver motorcycle had earned its place in canon, and it was a story the former general had gleefully proliferated among his Moto Corpmen. Unfortunately, the hunt for said bike had proved fruitless thus far.

“Artie’s building a replica out west,” Eric whispered. “Helped him with the blueprints. Least we got polaroids to prove it existed at some point.”

“Tell him to rust it and bury it,” Godred snickered. “Give someone a real start when they dig ‘her’ beast up.”

Rule of threes dictated that there was something sure to knock both out of the park. The first tale was thematically amusing, but the folkloric equivalent of smut, and the second was a classic so well-known, you could recite it from heart. And yet, that third special something never came.

It was the same fifty stories, over and over. Boy/girl in car/bike facing problem/villain. No special characteristics, no fantastic odds, just people fighting. Idiots fighting for their idiot lives. He couldn’t even call it comic-book mythology, for that was the mundanity proliferated by these abysmal myths. Here was a standing army of historians, wolves of every color and creed, united in a thorough lack of vision in spite of pounds of research. And pulled into focus for the first time was what Godred could now do with his newfound freedom.

At long last, as the curtain fell on the final inane tale of “dude drive car, baddie go bang,” the former general stood up and made his way to the whiteboard, the heels of his cowboy boots clacking confidently across the carpeted floor.

“Thank you.” the towering hound began, military frame looming large over the room. “Pleased to hear some headway has been made on learning more about such stories as The Hellioness, but I must confess…75% of what we’ve discussed here today utter rubbish.”

The room fell silent. No jaws dropped, but the wide eyes gave it all away.

“Wil’der is little more than slang for being hornier than a whorehouse, and I’ve seen radio writers rooms more creative than these stories put up for canonization. If going somewhere and doing something is grounds for becoming myth, then my black-ass might as well be the son of God.”

To the civilian Godred’s delight, it appeared that he hadn’t lost an ounce of his commander’s presence, one he leveraged for the remainder of the presentation.

“When I’m talking myth,” his voice boomed. “I’m talking large-than-life-itself. It’s not about the size of your engine block or how much blood you left on the sands. It’s about hounds who make it all make sense. We’re decentralized, we’re searching for connection, for visions of greater things and these stories are the ways in which we do that. Hell, I’d call that damned kids show on WHOL better myth than what’s been shown here today. Stan Winshaw’s messed-up little mind has given that 20-year-old red wolf a world in which he’s got the cutest thing on four wheels, and the pairs of ‘em slaughter everything from horrors of the mind to the overlord of his little world, Langdon.”

The comparison to a juvenile series caused some to shrink into their seats.

“Let’s kill the ad copy though,” Godred continued, a sly grin splitting his muzzle, “Y’all forgot the biggest sonofobitch we should be making hay outta; James Baron Marshall ring any bells?”

The collective sigh of “oh shit” was remarkably telling.

“We’re sitting on the Wastelander’s Saint George! A hound who went around slaying dragons! We have on record some of most bizarre creatures to emerge during fallout, and y’all don’t think the fucker clubbing them to death in the name of what’s good and right is worth a mention!?”

One brave wolf, a gray in a black suit, raised his hand. “And could any number of the tales told here not be molded into that status?”

“One or two, sure.” the black wolf replied, leaning against the whiteboard. “But not 50 of the same shit. Salute the common hound all you like, but common hounds ain’t what myths are all about. Some, but not all. We’re talking titanic personalities, titanic features, and folks who embody something either cautionary or emulatory. Heroes to aspire to, tragedies to avoid. If anything, these tales need to be about the ordinary becoming the extraordinary, not the shit I can do blindfolded.”

“Mind giving some?” ventured a white wolven woman. “Examples I mean?”

“I’ll give you 10.”

And so he did, regaling the room with not just the heroics of Marshall, but of those in his settlement, of the rare Duellists who played the part of the knight-errant in a sea of degeneracy, and of course, cowboy hounds who settled scores with revolvers and rat-rods. They all came with exotic touches, from Marshall’s radiation-based vitiligo making him a “half-albino hell-hound,” to the idea of a Wil’der sitting best in Duellist culture and their high-octane libidos. And of course, whether the 1880s or the 2380s, the cowboy had proven himself immortal.

By the end, and after a hearty round of handshaking from the delegates who had been making feverish notes all the while, Eric was ready for dinner at the Godred clan’s homestead.

“There.” teased the scruffy red mechanic. “Didn’t have to slaughter a soul.”

“Just rerouted a few years of work.” winked the gentleman warrior. “No need to conspire about keeping me off Base for the next few days.”

“How’d you—”

He was cutoff with a look. A knowing, piercing, powerful look, one which was followed by the full-throated laugh of the elder black wolf. It was a moment that told Eric that there may be a few myths yet to write about his grand old friend.