The wasteland held a secret, a palace built of old car bonnets and fence posts, shiny things, slimy things, broken things and mouldy things. The stench of musty armpit cheese and toe jam rose up high into the air, settling like farts in some guys trousers.
The Slap Shack was the place to be, a funky disco in an unforgiving world. All were welcome from the seediest crooks to the sweetest ground mutants, they flooded in from every hidey hole, some flew, others crawled and slithered, but most just kind of walked there. Everybody wanted a glimpse of Big Toe Johnson and to touch his throbbing foot. He was the ultimate celebrity, bigger than Lapthorn, the disgraceful, Scarier than Treacor the Terrible and sexier than Bongo big Tits. If you didn't wanna funk it up with Big Toe Johnson you may as well be dead!
Looking for a good spanking? Come no further! The beer may of tasted of toxic waste and the strippers were certain to have an extra limb or two, but in a world where every neighbour you ever had, had consisted of sand and dust, it seemed like heaven. Especially to Big Toe Johnson who had spent his life surrounded by rabid rats from hell, perched on the edge of the great nothing after single handedly defeating fifty thousand Rad-soldiers. Well....that's how the story goes, it tends to get updated a lot. Anyway however you boil down to it, Big Toe Johnson was a crook, a manipulative but lazy scoundrel who had probably seen as much action as he had seen comfortable footwear.
He lived where he sat, poured into a bowl shaped seat with food and drink being pushed into his mighty face hole from every direction. He was a hideous blob, worshipped for his questionable heroics and revered for having the largest foot ever seen on such a short person. New wave types, trying to both start and simultaneously follow and critique crazes, came to ask Big Toe Johnson what the next big thing would be.
It was difficult to understand him, Big Toe Johnson's words were muffled by his piggy face and large chin, somehow though entire books were interpreted and accredited to his genius. Big Toe Johnson was the man who told you how to live, and if you had any right to exist than you would do the right thing and listen.
It had been many an instance where Big Toe Johnson's righteous disco moves had probably been accountable for saving the day. Like the time one of his followers accidentally burnt a raiders settlement to the ground whilst attempting to do the splits to the latest beat and knocking over a oil lamp. Or the time a young girl by the name of Fondoola, caught the rare flying tree fish in her super gelled up funky hair style and immediately presented it to the hungry villagers of do-wap-do. The success of this achievement was in no way meyered by the fact that the flying tree fish is particularly toxic and that all the hungry villagers died slowly after consuming its flesh. Big Toe Johnson declared that the site be turned into a memorial dedicated to their memory and was said to have commented that they probably were sick anyway and that killing them was a merciful act.
So where is Big Toe Johnson now you are asking? Well the short answer is he is dead.
You can't seriously expect a short fat man to have a foot as big as a baby whale and it not to be a tumour do you?
