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Big was a legend, and was thus afforded the luxuries of his uncommon status. 350 full-time government employees plied him with food other creature comforts. Duly elected public representatives mobilized whole towns to accommodate his migration. Neighborhood associations knit him a sock. And since his defense against domestic or interplanetary foul play ensured near-utopian prosperity, it was only fair, most held, to accept his inadvertent clumsiness as the cost of service.

At a size that bloated the very boundaries of human comprehension, momentum was an enemy to Big. A pendulous swipe of his Buick fists would pluck a ten-block stretch of telephone line. A single misstep could flatten a church, often Lutheran. And when situations demanded true exertion – be they threats natural-cosmological or maniacal-mechanical – the graphic aftermath of a triumphant battle was often indiscernible from defeat. Coupled with the inevitable multi-city tickertape celebration, Big was a guaranteed mess.

Acutely aware of his unintended affect on diminutive denizens, Big would for the most part travel “quietly” through rural areas, lumbering like lost goliath, spreading thinner his tornadic consequences. Patience seemed inherent to his being, and he’d readily circumnavigate whole states in order to minimize the damage underfoot (though it was far too late to preserve West Virginia).

But when he was again called into service (Gorgon, Hubble, etc.), Big was always eager to assist. Big’s emotions knew shortcuts through his gnarled, cavernous brain, and regularly bypassed cognition in favor of visceral response. Often he became overexcited, invigorated by the pride of social value. Occasionally he committed flagrant oversmashings. And still, the grateful people would celebrate his efforts, breathlessly recounting the titanic clash as they dismantled his defeated opponent’s robotronic death tentacles.

“Our Big Wuhdeski is a one-of-a-kind hero,” reassured the mayor of Topeka, “and the Lutheran church we can rebuild.”