Muzzy Kebabs

From the Journal of Little Copper Nick 

# The Rise of Muzzy

Listen, mate. See that grease-stained sign flapping in the wind? Muzzy's Rat Kebabs. "Best in the Wasteland," it says, and Christ, they're not taking the piss. Thing is, old Muzzy wasn't always king of the skewer. Time was, he was just another poor bastard trying to scratch out a living in the Burn.

The sun had been trying to kill everything for about three years running when Muzzy first set up shop. Wasn't much to look at—skinny bloke with dead eyes and hands that shook just enough to tell you he'd seen some things. But he had this knack, see. While the rest of us were chewing boot leather and calling it dinner, Muzzy worked out how to make rat taste like... well, not rat.

Found himself a busted Weber from some torched suburban dream, a couple of tins of mystery spice from a looted IGA. Started small—just him and an esky full of freshly caught vermin, working the highway stops where the fuel trucks came through. Blokes would wrinkle their noses at first, but when your guts are eating themselves and the alternative is another night of hunger, you'll try anything once.

And Muzzy's kebabs? They were alright. Better than alright, really. Filled you up, didn't make you chuck, and for a few bottle caps or a working battery, you could pretend you were human again for an hour or two.

Word spreads the way it does out here—slowly, mouth to mouth, like a virus nobody really wants but can't avoid. Muzzy started following the trade routes, always there when the scavenger crews rolled in from the deep desert, always ready with a hot meal and that thousand-yard stare of his.

"Got the Muzzy belly," they'd say after a feed, patting their guts like they'd just had Christmas dinner.

## The Raskoll Circuit

The Raskoll 3000 started out as just another way to die spectacularly, but it grew into something else—a carnival of chrome and desperation that brought out the worst in everyone. The tribal bosses loved it because it kept the natives distracted. The scavenger kings loved it because it was good for business. And the punters loved it because, well, there wasn't much else to love anymore.

But running a proper race circuit meant logistics. Fuel for the chase cars, ammo for the spotters, spare parts for the winners, and most importantly, food for the crowds. Because nothing ruins a good vehicular bloodbath like a bunch of hungry spectators deciding the hot dog stand looks more appetizing than the main event.

The big shots—Silas "The Jaw" Jenkins, Ma Kettle, that psycho Dingo Dan—they were always scrapping over who'd put up what. Sometimes it was water, sometimes it was ammunition, sometimes just the right to call yourself king of a particular stretch of bitumen. But feeding the mob? That was always the problem nobody wanted to solve.

## The Proposal

It was at Serpentine Flats, middle of summer, heat coming off the asphalt like the breath of something dying. Muzzy had been working the crowd for three days straight, rat kebabs flying off his little cart faster than he could skewer them. The air was thick with engine smoke and the smell of his meat sizzling on the grill.

He walked up to Silas Jenkins, who was squinting at a road map like it held the secrets of the universe, arguing with Ma Kettle about prize money for the next sprint.

"Silas," Muzzy said, his voice rough from the smoke. "You're always whingeing about keeping the mob fed."

Silas looked down, face like thunder. "What's it to you, grease monkey?"

Muzzy pulled out a perfect kebab, still steaming. "I can feed them. All of them. Every punter, every driver, every poor bastard who turns up hoping to see someone else die instead of them. For every race."

"And what's your price?"

"Sponsorship." Muzzy's voice was steady, matter-of-fact. "My name on every banner. My carts are at every start line. Official food supplier. In return, I'll keep your crowd fed and happy. And I'll throw in a special prize—a lifetime supply of my premium jerky for whoever comes second in the main event."

The silence stretched out like the highway itself. In the Wasteland, a lifetime supply of anything was serious business, especially something that kept you breathing.

Silas chewed his lip, then grinned that death's-head grin of his. "Muzzy Rat Kebabs, eh? Best in the Wasteland." He spat in the dust. "You're on, you mad bastard."

## The Brand

And that was it. Simple as that. From then on, the Raskoll 3000 had itself a sponsor. Banners made from salvaged tarp started appearing at every race—a grinning rat with a skewer, painted in whatever colors Muzzy could scrounge. His carts got bigger, more professional. The smell of cooking rat became part of the Raskoll experience, mingling with exhaust fumes and the stench of fear.

It made sense, really. The Raskoll was about survival, about making do with what you had, about the thin line between civilization and chaos. And so were Muzzy's kebabs. You either had the stomach for what the world was serving up, or you didn't. Simple as that.

These days, you can't think about the Raskoll without thinking about that greasy rat on the sign. Muzzy didn't just sell food—he sold the taste of the new world, bitter and strange and somehow necessary. And if that's not poetry, I don't know what is.

The Wasteland's a hard place, mate. But it's got room for anyone mad enough to make their mark. Even if that mark's just a rat on a stick.