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kjorteoThe year is 2019. The world is a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and the last survivors of humanity gather in shabby run-down towns that dot the irradiated landscape. The crowds are rough, the terrain rougher. Many wasteland warriors spend their time in the dingy bars and seedy watering holes, but none is more instantly recognizable at a glance than Celine, the Shredded One.
Marred from head to toe, her body carrying more scar tissue than untouched flesh, each of the hundreds if not thousands of lines etched painfully into her frame tells a story of battles and bloodshed from long ago.
"This one," she says, after catching you stare, "is from the time I caught my leg on a coffee table. And this one is from the time I tried to open an envelope and cut myself. And this one is from the time I tried to open a pack of folders and cut myself. And this one is from the time I tried to open an orange and cut myself. And this one is from the time I tried to walk through a doorway and missed. And this one is from the time I tripped over a rock. And this one
Marred from head to toe, her body carrying more scar tissue than untouched flesh, each of the hundreds if not thousands of lines etched painfully into her frame tells a story of battles and bloodshed from long ago.
"This one," she says, after catching you stare, "is from the time I caught my leg on a coffee table. And this one is from the time I tried to open an envelope and cut myself. And this one is from the time I tried to open a pack of folders and cut myself. And this one is from the time I tried to open an orange and cut myself. And this one is from the time I tried to walk through a doorway and missed. And this one is from the time I tripped over a rock. And this one