BIG BOY’S TRADING MARKET

Appalachia had cracked and rusted like the roads that ran through it, but Chicken Bone understood something most didn’t: survival wasn’t just about firepower, it was about leverage. While others fought over scraps, he built machines—patched-together, all-terrain beasts that could crawl riverbeds, climb shale hills, and punch through forests no map remembered anymore. Every trip brought back something worth keeping: tools, ammo, heirlooms, rumors. Bit by bit, value piled up, and Chicken Bone realized the wasteland didn’t just need scavengers—it needed a place to trade.

He carved Big Boy’s Trading Market into the land itself, a crossroads of wood, steel, lantern light, and grit. Trucks rolled in caked with mud, headlights glowing through the dust like promises. Inside, everything had a price and everything had a story: pre-war tech, hand-forged gear, questionable meat, and treasures pulled from places most folks wouldn’t dare enter. The market wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t safe—but it was fair. Chicken Bone made sure of that. Deals were honored, disputes were settled, and anyone who tried to cheat learned quickly why the market had stayed standing.

Word spread fast in Appalachia. Raiders, settlers, drifters, and wanderers all passed through Big Boy’s Trading Market, because in a broken world, trade was power and connection was survival. Chicken Bone didn’t rebuild civilization—he gave it a place to breathe. Under flickering lights and creaking signs, people didn’t just buy, sell, or trade. They planned, they listened, and they endured. And as long as the wheels kept turning, Big Boy’s Trading Market stayed open to anyone willing to deal straight in a crooked world.