Welcome to the Wastelands, mofo.

You've probably heard a few things about me.

Most of them are probably wrong.

So I'd rather you hear it from the dog's behind himself.

Name's HELLBORN.

Tall. Strong. Handsome as hell.

I ride a motorcycle called Your Mother, the best thing that I've ever had beneath my thighs.

I look like a guy who doesn't give a damn.

Which is partially true.

Except for one big damn.

The Deep.

The Immortal's little tin fortress, sitting on top of the last decent source of water for miles and miles of nothing.

The Immortal is the bastard who controls all of it.

I want it.

The Lonesomes too — the Immortal's harem of little bed warmers.

And the Shat Eaters — their army of fanatics who'd happily die for the privilege of being looked at by their master.

I want enough water to last the rest of my life.

Enough to swim in.

Enough to piss in.

Enough that I'll never have to watch someone die thirsty again...

...

I don't know who you are.

I don't know what side you're on.

But you're here now.

Sooner or later, you're going to have to decide what you're going to do about me.

And don't look at me like that. This isn't that kind of story.