The day the SuperFreaky AstroTwins came to earth was a day not unlike this one. Skippy and Doober were driving back from the desert covered in a fine layer of spacedust. They had been investigating the site of a recent meteorite impact along the 5, insofar as that was what their memory allowed.
Citylights came out before a few astral pinpoints pushed their way through the plasmatic orange glow in the Los Angeles sky. Like all subconscious explorers, our heroes retuned to Laguna, where it seemed too many buzz assassins had invaded their sacred space these days. No matter, though. They liked the fresh faces, the smiles, the laughter, the boxing-glove breasts filled with saline sunshine. Good moods make the universe, Doober always said with an alligator's gleaming smile.
They boys found a spot under the neon terrace of the Formica Cafe, the premiere spot on the strip for Absinthe martinis and prime rib. Their starry-eyed waitress was a lithe battleaxe of a young girl, and showed a particular peachykeen kindness to the two faintly glowing strangers on her terrace.
"It's a good day to be alive on the beach," Skippy remarked.
"Nosecandy for the eyes in this plastic paradise,” Doober replied with a grin, following his accomplice's eyes to the two supple sex-soldiers marching by on the sidewalk.
The women locked tractorbeam eyes on the boys and licked their ruby lips in unison, unable to reign in the love-lightningbolts leaping out of their chests.
"It's a good day, alright." It was said without a particular audience in mind.
Laguna is full of fake-ass motherfuckers, but they stay away from The MissionControl Brontosaurus Club, the playhouse for Aliens and Funkee Homosapiens alike. Skip and Doober nodded to the bouncer, who immediately recognized the two as twin-star supa playas, since they had already changed into uniform. Skippy, as always, was in perfect B-boy flavor, dressed in his neon green velour track suit with the glow-worm on the back. His electric-brillow afro tightly twined to the nines.
Doober, took the left road and put on his butter-fly-est of three piece suits. Lime green and PrincePurple all the way down to the dragonfly on the lapel. Crocodile shoes over green and yellow argyle socks put a neat wrapper on his candy.
More than a few heads turned when the two whipped through the Brontosaurus batwing doors. Many of the patrons puzzled over how Skippy and Doober looked like they had actually turned the house lights down in the place save for the ten or so around the doorway. Intergalactic spacedust strikes back.
Skippy paused to read the brainwaves in the joint, finding one familiar pattern among the others. Doober knew Skip and Peter North shared the same sign on the Zodiac, so with a friendly wave to Mr. North, he left the two PhreakPumas to catch up on ancient business.
Doober did his own reading of the crowd, training his carnivorous eyes on the feast laid out before him. He found one hourglass figure in the center of the bar, lesser spacemen in orbit around her. Dressed in black spandex from knees to cleavage, her shirt said "Jen-a-Palooza," but her eyes said "all systems go, commander."
Skippy, engaging Peter North in the PhreakPuma’s SecretSteelCyborg handshake, watched Doober float weightless over to Jen-a-Palooza, pushing tinsel and Technicolor comets away with his brain. She was temporarily hypnotized by the time-tested maneuver.
"I love it when he does that," shined Skippy with big-brother bravado, "I taught him that move at Hebrew camp."
Peter North could only stare, though he did manage to successfully knit his fingers into the final move of the PhreakPuma handshake, spelling the "T-Rex" of the full "T-RexDong" with his hands.
Doober landed to the right of Ms. Jen-a-Palooza and whispered, "Have you ever let a cowboy sit on your lap, SuperGirl?" It was a phrase heard in another bar on the other side of the universe, apparently. Jen-a-Palooza took Doober's hand and followed him into the ladies' room for a SuperFreakyDirty mindmeld in the third stall. The third stall, incidentally, was designed with this purpose in mind, and was covered in purple velvet and cellophane bubbles. Two life-sized paintings, one of an indigo cheetah and one of a subterranean soul dragon, hung on opposite sides of the den.
Skippy worked the crowd like a pro, but took a break when he received a psychic email from his buddy in SexStall-3. Doober needed some rocket fuel refreshment to keep his erotic game of laser tag running strong past the 50-minute mark.
"What are friends for?" Skip explained to the circle of bobby-sox Catholic Schoolgirl vixens sitting crosslegged around him on the Persian rug in the center of the room. They sighed simultaneously, and tightened ranks among each other, cooing and writhing in unison.
They giggled and batted steamy-spider-eyelashes at his sleek pimptitude. Skip assured his Persian kitty-cats their glitter party had just been put on hold for a second while he brought his buddy the Avocado and Giant Peach Gin gimlet he needed.
Skippy passed Doober (preoccupied with contorting his-and-hers bodies into phase III of the Klingon Krayfish) his refreshment under the door. Doober paused long enough to deliver the DogstarPound to his Astral Amigo by passing his hand through the solid matter of the wall, a trick learned from his MartianMillipede uncle, K-Freeze. A gentleman always has time for courtesy.
When it was done, and SuperGirl was asleep on a cloud of ectoplasmic rose petals, Doober re-joined ranks with Skippy to the tune of "Real King Coming."
That's when things started to get surreal.
Skippy was the BigBadBraniac of the pair, and he had been feeling a little strange all afternoon. This clearly had not been a typical day for the all-American pair. What he couldn't quite know at the time was that the meteorite dust had sent micromachine androids down Skip and Doober's neuronal superhighways, straight to the dome. Once inside, the cosmodroids let the Supernova virus off its leash to wreak havoc in the boys' cellular post office.
When the magic-trigger song leapt up from the vinyl dinner plate, the transdimentional virus spit out its ticker-tape RNA into the boys' brains, and sent a cascade of transmogrifying beta-waves through their bodies. Sensing the galactic power-up, Skippy and Doober walked into the silver spotlight burning a white-hot hole in the dancefloor just then. In perfect unison, the boys began to pop and lock at a furious pace, more freaktastic than any PopLock grandady in history. Their uprocking escalated at a furious pace. No one on planet Earth had seen such freakystyle moves before.
When Skippy pulled off a Venusian Caterpillar and Doober countered with a WarpDrive Headspin, the roof began to break off the Brontosaurus. Green lightning shot from their fingertips and pink Kung-Fu fireflies swarmed into the room, much to the delight of all the crew in the club, mesmerized by the cosmic spectacle. Never had they seen such breaking, or felt such a thrill.
When shootingstar sparks launched out from the boys' simultaneous Tandem SubSonic Moowalks, the air in the club had become electric. SpacedustDevils sprang up within the gyrating throng of onlookers as gamma waves of ZenGroove HyperAdrenaline whipped the crowd into an ecstasy supernova.
Suddenly Skip and Doober locked their feet in a thunderbolt of the sickest Kid-n-Play galactic twister. A flash of white energy shot out from their interlocked feet while the crowd, stuck in a spiritual timefreeze, watched in awe as a SuperSonic Soul Tornado formed around them. Galaxies exploded into a billion pieces within the Soul Tornado, twin stars shot through funkadelic wormholes at lightspeed, and the boys shot through all corners of the transdimentional meta-universe in a thirteen nanosecond roundtrip, aging 1 million years and learning all the ill-cosmic secrets of time from the KingFunk DJ Octopus spinning all the known and unknown planets backwards and forwards through history.
Skip and Doober would never be the same. Their DNA fundamentally altered, they would forever pray at the SuperFreaky Rainbow Altar as, not Skippy and Doober, but the AstroTwins. The great FunkaMorphosis was complete.
