Sponsor Catalog

Grant Rutherford is the son of a militaristic, American, oil baron. He is aggressive, rich, and uncompromising. His beaming face, beneath his trademark cream Stetson, adorns billboard advertisements for his high-quality and high-priced Rutherford brand weaponry. Teams sponsored by Rutherford gain access to military surplus, missile launchers, tanks, helicopters, and as much ammo as they can carry. After his team won in 2016, he was only too happy to kiss the Earth goodbye and now runs his company from his, highly exclusive, Martian office.

Yuri Miyazaki grew up in the rubble of Tokyo, fighting her way to the top of the speedway circuit with incredible feats of daring and vehicular agility. She has a small fleet of elite couriers who run jobs for the wealthiest or most desperate clients. It is whispered that she also runs guns for the Pro-Earth Resistance, but no one who spreads that rumour lives long enough to spread it far. Miyazaki's drivers are unsurpassed in their skill and finesse.

Andre Mishkin is not a natural sportsman. However, the brilliant Russian engineer and inventor proved in 2010 that technology is just as solid an answer as skill or ferocity on the track. From his research and development facility on Mars he continues to send designs for unusual and devastating weapons and sleek, hi-tech vehicles to Earth for field-testing by the teams he sponsors.

Yandi Idris was an addict. From the first time the hot and sweet fumes of a singing petrol engine filled his nose he could find no other joy. He said that the first time he pressed that nitro-oxide button was like touching the face of God. Mystical, irrational, and dangerous, the Cult of Speed spread like wildfire after Idris' meteoric rise during the 2012 Gaslands season. He crossed the final finishing line in a ball of fire and his body was never found. His fanatical followers say that at 201mph you can hear his sonorous voice on the rushing head wind.

Slime rules a wild and feral city in the Australian wastes known as Anarchy. Young people crawled out of the wreckage of the scorched earth in their thousands to rally round her ragged banner. The wild-eyed and whooping joyful gangs of Anarchy are led by Slime's henchwomen, the Chooks, who seek fame and adoration from the global Gaslands audience.

Warden Cadeila is proud to live in São Paulo, a shining hub of humanity and relatively untouched by the war. The São Paulo People's Penitentiary has produced three of Gaslands' top ten teams in the past decade, and the Warden continues to grant her prisoners a chance at freedom as long as the Gaslands franchise continues to deliver the sponsorship deals. The deal isn't great for the damned souls who are welded into the Warden's solid steel “coffin cars”, but it's better than the alternative.

Gaslands is able to support a vast ecosystem of villainous and scurvy raiders, picking off richer teams as their rigs roll from one televised race to the next. Many of these self-styled pirate crews have gained renown, but none have rivalled the infamy or showmanship of Scarlett Annie. A dashing and flamboyant buccaneer, her cult following is likely more to do with her canny association with the long-running “Death Valley Death Run” documentary TV series than any particular skill at dust bowl piracy.

Along the Wrecked and broken highways, where law is another word for vengeance, and justice is a forgotten memory; a handful of souls still cling to a dream of order. Perhaps they do it for the glory. Maybe they even get a kick out of it. They are unsanctioned, unloved and unpaid. Their only power: a badge of bronze. Their only weapon: 600 horsepower of fuel-injected steel. The Highway Patrol are the last law in a world gone crazy.

Many have taken the bent deal offered by Warden Cadeila but only one has ever earned their freedom. As skilled an engineer as he is a driver, the newly-freed Verney now specialised in building unique Frankenstein's monsters of vehicles for anyone who can afford his high-quality customs.

Maxxine is the current grease-smeared face of The Black Swans. While many might assume art to have been the last thing to survive the Martian bombs, The Black Swans dance their mechanised masque for a hypnotised audience. It's ballet, but the dancers weigh 4,000 pounds and are dripping in engine oil.

Yandi Idris is not dead. He cannot die. He rides on in the living flame. His voice can be heard in the roar of the road and the screams of superheated metal. Yandi is free, and we can be too. He has shown us the path. Only by knowing the flames can we know true freedom. Buy your copy of “Freedom in The Flames” today to find out more. Available from Order of the Inferno stalls at all major trading outposts.

The low growling of the starting grid was suddenly eclipsed by an ear-splitting, dizzying sound. Eyeball-shakingly loud, the shrill screeching was suffocating. A single car drifted forward into the pack, windows like onyx, bumper corroded. The sound changed timbre, dropping suddenly to a sub-audible throb that tightened chests and shattered headlamps. Despite the harsh desert sun, frost began to form on windshields. Beverly was a stupid story told to scare children. She wasn't real.

Zeke Rusty and his boys been wall to wall and treetop-tall since before the world went to hell, running moonshine past Smokey back since before the big red one fell. Their stills are volatile, their delivery vehicles are ramshackle, but they still run liquor that grandpappy would be proud of... though none the boys can remember just how he liked it right now. Damn that gin.