You thought I was mute, didn’t you?
Bitch-boy on the back of the bike,
there for show, right?
They all thought that.
Wez too, sometimes. He always liked to show off,
Max knows it.
I mean, what else do you call a savage
who growls like a beast and pops wheelies?
If that wasn’t assertion enough of his dominance, then
maybe pulling an arrow out of his arm was.
—But I’m not about to complain,
I loved my big, mohawked guy.
He cared for me and
Yeah, I know the lad didn’t mean it—
the feral whelp, that is, the one that spoke in grunts,
wearing only old, smelly furs.
He didn’t throw it at me,
didn’t know it would hit me,
but it did. And let me tell you, a
boomerang to the head fucken hurts.
It was quick, at least, and I’m glad for it
(better than smashed by a tanker, I’ll admit).
But who knew I was to be like Helen, who sparked the Trojan war,
only I sparked a high-octane road battle?
Again another Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior influenced poem. This is a dramatic dialogue from the perspective of the Golden Youth, who rode pillion to Wez, the psychotic warrior with the red mohawk.