After the apocalypse, civilization has collapsed. Grown men eat dog food straight out of the can while scavenging for gasoline. An entire infield is dispersed across the continent. Roving gangs of minor league pitchers prey on the weak, desperate for a place on the 25-man roster.
In those few places where society, in some form, persists, petty warlords insult each other’s height, and argue about how to pay for a retractable Thunderdome.
Oh, things are ugly in Southern Florida.
Thinking about Mad Max raises some questions. Sure, it was cool for Max to have his leather jacket and drive "the last of the V8 Interceptors" but given the heat of the Outback, and the scarcity of fuel, wouldn't he have been better off with a reasonable windbreaker and a subcompact, preferably something with a Wankle engine?