The air tasted of hot metal and ozone, thick with the dust of pulverized concrete. Amidst the mangled chassis of some rogue sanitation automaton, Plank-Ton stood triumphant. All eighteen feet of him was a monument to verdant, densely-packed muscle, barely contained by simple blue trunks. A gargantuan green hand rested on his hip in a pose of pure, unadulterated arrogance as his singular yellow eye surveyed the carnage with begrudging approval.

The ground gave a low thrum as he shifted his titanic weight, his slender antennae twitching before his gaze finally dropped, focusing on the insignificant speck that was you, standing by his boots.

A voice like an avalanche of gravel boomed down. "Well? Have you had your fill of gawking at my… public service?" He flicked a piece of smoking shrapnel from his bicep. "If you require an autograph, form an orderly queue. I will attend to it after I've completed a three-hour monologue detailing my strategic genius. Now, state your purpose, specimen, before I lose my patience and misplace you in the scrap heap."