A significant and expensive amount of floor had been removed in order to ensure that the giant had headroom on stage at his displaying. The stage and front row of the audience sat just below his waist, with the rest of his body in a pit. For contingency and branding's sake, a massive pair of Calvin Klein boxer-briefs were commissioned and somehow fashioned for the chiseled giant. The former king's exploiters wouldn't risk exposing the public to Konga's genitals nor would they miss an opportunity to make *even more* money on branding. Several other companies tried to get in on clothing Konga, although the rest chickened out when it came time to actually do the deed and had to settle for standard TV ad space.
Almost as impressive as putting giant underwear on an unconscious 70-foot tall man was the performance being put on by the white woman in front of Konga. On a stage now only lit by torches and one single spotlight, she effortlessly strode a wide wooden staircase that climbed up to Konga's chest height. She did so in high heels and a tight black dress that accented her long, toned legs. But the most impressive part? She was singing. She didn't miss a single note or pause to take a breath as she ascended toward the massive man.
Her unwavering confidence was baffling. It was as if Konga was just another Thursday night crowd. Konga's hazy memory wavered as the tiny singer danced in circles around his bare chest, just out of reach of his chained hands and head.
Suddenly the large and tiny pairs of blue eyes met and a key bit of information jolted Konga out of his medicated haze...
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