Animation by Plague of Gripes

It is the post apocalyptic 22nd century. Undead turtles, true-as-life apparitions and sentient fungi roam the planet, consumed with the unending thirst for raw sinew and old hopes. Civilization is in ruins. The underground pipes once used for safe transit of the first survivors have been claimed by the mutants. All that is left now, is The Race. What few left that have staved off insanity have brought together their hoarded treasure of lifeblood resources. None claim enough for one person; but together, enough to save, at most, three depleted husks of humanity. All must race, amidst the tumult of the hellscape void of lost souls, walled only by the thin strips of a single tattered road, encircling and devouring itself, unending as the twilight red sky of their dead world. None see the world for what it is. A medieval kingdom. A throng of cheering crowds encircling an ancient racetrack. A rainbow road leading into space, clipping upon the seams of mortality, and into whatever waits beyond. Or a grim, open desert landscape – a tame representation of the reality its imagined holder deigns to admit. None are true, but for the cost of a tank of gas, and the death of a few strangers, at least one can live their lie in the utmost luxury, which their painted world can afford them. And when the nightmare engine pierces the sky, and the vertebrae of entangled memories pulls its single beating cage open to the victor, who dares step inside? Admist the fanfare of the million screaming children of those lost fevered dreams, who, even in victory, can choose to ride their wealth, their selfish, bent wish, straight into the bursting maw of Hell? Probably Toad. Fucking Toad.