In the distant future, I envision a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Cannibalism and harsh justice are present in equal amounts, and the only thing more prized than bullets… is batteries. In this blasted landscape, the only relief afforded the dwindling survivors — hungry, tired, and irradiated — is found in a small shack hidden between the painted cliffs of the former Dakotas.
There, the weary travelers queue for hours as the lone masseuse attends to each of them in turn. No one cuts, no one complains of the wait. How can the massager the masseuse wields can continue to buzz this many years after the fall of mankind, no one knows. It must be a miracle.
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