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My name is Max. My world is fire.

And Grubhub.

Once, I was a Lyft driver, a road warrior searching for a righteous way to make ends meet. Now I drive on the Foodie Road now, hoping I make 20 percent.

After the coronavirus killed half of all men, women and children, the cannibal outbreak came. Surprisingly, it was the vegans who developed the strongest taste for human flesh. Though the were terribly weak from anemia, they soon gained strength, and their bloodlust knew no limits.

When the Republican Party nominated a fire-breathing dragon as its candidate for president in 2024, the beast burned and scorched millions more. It was later elected president, because Republicans were still mad about Hilary’s emails, and a significant portion of Democrats stayed home because they couldn’t in good conscience vote for…

Moving right along, the coronavirus wiped most of Congress, except for Mitch McConnell because he has no internal organs. The cannibals ate most of the police. President fire-breathing dragon rolled back environmental protections to the point that breathing without a respirator made a persons believe he or she was impervious to dragon fire.

He or she was not.

Humanity seemed doomed. But saviors arose from the ashes — millennials who worked from home in their jammies. The internet — we call it the Sky Talkie because this is a “Mad Max” riff — still functioned, and they ruled from their futons.

But because they were millennials, they needed to eat and didn’t want to bother leaving the house. That’s when I became a Grubhub driver. My car, the last of the V8s, conveys me through the wasteland of metro Denver. My precious cargo, usually some type of sandwich, chips and a soft drink — or pho — sits beside me. And don’t forget the condiments and plastic silverware. That’s a big part of getting a good tip.

OK, fine, I don’t have a V8. It’s a 2007 Isuzu i290 pick-up truck which is really just a Chevy Colorado. It’s got hail damage and the parking brake doesn’t work very well. But I rolled some concertina wire around the front and chained some vegan cannibals to the hood. I also bought some football pads at Play it Again Sports and picked up a faux leather motorcycle jacket at Hot Topic. Yes, those stores survived the “Pockyclypse.”

Anyway, the truck is very butch, even if I can’t get the “I love my Puggle” bumper sticker off the back window. I drive this white line nightmare like the Humungous. I dodge the flesh-eaters and the rogue cops and gangs ready to wage war over a tank of “gazoline.” (You have to say it the Australian way.)

If the jammy-clad millennials don’t eat, the world doesn’t function. I navigate the insanely long-winded parking signs of Denver and hit the buzzer. She’s wearing a Wu-Tang Clan shirt, although I doubt she has heard the of group. Damn, millennials and their pop-culture references.

“Um, excuse me,” she says. “But there’s no potato salad with my club sandwich.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I’ll have to go back to the restaurant.”

“Yeah, I guess you will,” she says. “The world depends on it.”

She slams the door in my face.

This is no job for a road warrior.

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