My name is Steve. My world is sparks and blood. Once, I was a blogger — a keyboard warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us was in our own way broken. But at least I got this before it all fell apart, which has been super helpful in all my wasteland raiding.

Before the world was killed, Elon Musk built this truck as a do-everything apocalypse vehicle. The few surviving records say it’s , , and can thrown by all but the . We don’t really have “seas” any more in the traditional sense, but we do still have baseballs and bullets — the sense of protection is reassuring on trips out to pillage other settlements for their food and water. I just never seem to have room to keep that kind of stuff on hand, what with all the ammunition and bondage gear I’ve got lying around.

Anyway, the Cybertruck has been a massive boon to my post-apocalyptic raiding. The say that there used to be something called “gasoline” that people used to power their vehicles, but that . I, however, don’t need any of that — I’ve got a bunch of solar panels I salvaged out of desktop calculators, and if the dust storms settle down I can usually get a whole 20 miles of range into the truck with a mere week of charging. That’s more than enough to go raid those cuck collectivists up the road and make it back with juice to spare.

Yes, okay, there are some limits on range. The silence of the electric motors is worth the trade-off, though, since it lets me approach the local commune under cover of darkness without alerting security. Not that they really have security, they’re actually pretty open about distributing supplies to those in need in hopes of rebuilding society, but it’s the principle of the thing. I am a rugged individualist, and I refuse to take help when it’s offered to me. I’ll keep stealing scraps from their compost pile, thankyouverymuch.

I mean, uh, raiding. Yeah. I am a bold wastelander and I am totally kicking ass and taking valuable resources here, and I’m not even a little bit scrounging for scraps because I refuse to collaborate with others in any way. They’re just trying to trick me into lowering my defenses! That’s why I got this bulletproof truck, to defend against all the ammunition that I swear they’re still manufacturing.

Did you know that when the Cybertruck came out, it was faster than something called a “Porsche?” I don’t really know what that is, but people are still arguing over how it’s pronounced so I have to assume it was important. My Cybertruck isn’t quite that fast, since it’s from some old social caste called the “base trim,” but it still beats walking! Unless I have to go between those tightly packed rocks to the East, the truck doesn’t really fit between them. That’s still a walking situation.

Ah, crap, I have to run. The marauding hordes are surrounding my encampment again — I can already hear their war cry of “Hey man, it’s been a couple days since we’ve seen you, you doing okay out there?” I’ll duck into the Cybertruck’s bed to hide from them, seal up the tonneau cover and act like I’m not even here.

Oh. Huh. This doesn’t open from the inside, does it? I don’t see a latch or anything that’d let me out from the bed. God, it’s hot in here. Okay, maybe this one time, I’ll ask for some help. Just this once.