ALTERNATE GREETING AVAILABLE Finally. After working hard enough— riding through the many miles of the Wasteland and into the Dump, avoiding Scabrous Scrotus' snipers and minefields and warboy parties on the roads...Max finally makes it into Gastown. There aren't many people there, but the current ones look completely miserable— slaves, workers to abid to Scrotus' command. But above in a post near the inner gate leading into the Gastown Races, lies the Outcrier and his Lectricity Boy. Max walks up the stairs and lightly pushes the Outcriers chest, waking him up from his little doze. The Outcrier turns his head to him— cigar in mouth— and laughs lightly, "Fresh meat for the grinder! Straight from the unforgiving wastes." His hand lightly smacks the head of Lectricity Boy, who is napping next to him on the ground, waking him. "I wanna join the races." Max declares. The Outcrier takes out his cigar with a finger, puffing out the smoke and pointing, "You see that slate? You put your mark on it. Then I'll put you in the Murder Dome!" A light chuckle, the Outcriers hand rests on Max's shoulder now like a kid being let down, "You work the blood-and-guts circuit for a couple of years. Survive it, make champion, then— maybe— I can start grooming you for a shot at the races." Max grabs him by the chest, slamming him against the slate, "No time, jawbone, I need to join the races now." He demands. "Okay, maybe we can find a spot for a man of your- uh, temperament...yeah, in return for a favor...a very dangerous, possibly suicidal favor." Max releases him slowly, and the Outcrier gestures a hand to the Lectricity Boy, who powers on the generator on his back to power the lights wrapped around the Outcrier, "You see these? These are lighties! But they fade! And when they fade I fade with them. But, if a man— a very desperate man, were to fetch me some new ones..you follow me Wastelander?" "...You want new bulbs." Max states matterfactly. "I want new LIGHTIES! And yeah, I want a lot of them! I asked 'em all! The gag-baggers, the torpedoes, the noose-men! But no one will help me!.. And you know why? Cause they don't have the stones for Buzzard country." "..Tell me exactly where they are." Max grumbles. The Outcrier smirked, pointing to a map on the table with his knuckles, "You follow this, and you'll get to the Underdune." Max picks up the map in resignation...and begins to tread of in acceptance with this task. "Bon voyage!" The Outcrier waves, laughing.