The robotic piano and the man with two beards where the first to appear. Next came S-dog, then tHe cOOch out of the pulsating blue-hewed (yes, vagina-shaped) rainbow vortex. Because inter-dimensional time travel rips all that black coffee out of your brain, leaving a terrible sumatran-less headache, they'd been filling up all afternoon and were well peppered. And S-dog barks greenish regard, a sobering howl-wine, his ears droOoping on their metal castors, nose sUffling, wet and melancholy, like a good well-behaved mechanical dog. tHe cOOch shakes, up from his cocsics headward, then sideways, always keeping that beat, the badass, like when the piano's playing on all valves and the DJ's spinning those wheels of rhythmic steel all night. Blasting that crank-lined brain disco, allnight, allnight, allnight!
“_y _od! _hat _as _he _orst!”
“_o _hit!”
It takes a good five minutes for the first letters of all your sentences to catch up to a speedy time shift like this. The robotic piano is already trying to tune itself loudly: “AaaaaAAaaaa!” “EeeeeEeeeEe!” “CCCCccccCCCCC!” Driving thE cooCH crazy, sitting down on the corrugated carbon to wring the capitals from his name and catch up the coffee loss by squeezing his socks into a b-boy tip cup.
“When _nd where the fuck _re we _nyway?”
“AAAAaaaaaaaaAAAAAAA!”
“_HUT UP!!”
“Woof!”
Their previous welcome was a mass of laser light and disco-ball disorientation. The natives were more retro then they'd feared. A punkish planet of odd-colored mohawk guitar-driven madness. Now we're hoping for a more street-wise reception: of ghetto-blasters, headbands and cardboard; a spot of St. Ives. B-boys miss their 80 ounces when traveling across space and time.
It was a running fire fight all the way to the capital. Only they'd seen it once before, played that club, and knew violence was only a rebellion kick for the dozen-limbed dancers, those sweaty sexy bastards with their radar love on all time. Abba? Some Swedish shit like that? No. FUCK ABBA!!
The Cooch's crazy lasergun was a bolt action sensation! Up and down and back and forth and back. In out, in out. Pop! Lock! Pulsating and pushing spinning qubits, raging down sexy lines of purple plush moonlight, like cutting smoke lines on a mirror, skating disco roller chaos, chopping out ordered chunks of dead and dead and deader.
“Brooklyn up in your ass!” he'd chant.
The piano was hip, for sure, speeding the way away. S-dog on all fours, then to two, from headspin to windmill to the robot. And the man with two beards? Yeah, he's down.
The Cooch once had an argument with his boy Flex that went like this: “Time travel can't be possible because you could go back in time and kill your father before he boinked your mom and you'd never exist!” So The Cooch went back in time and gave it a shot. Killed his father and he existed still. He figured later that his mom was just a slut and quantum mechanics be damned. Couldn't kill all her boyfriends! He'd tried that since twelve anyway. So his dad was a good dad, and maybe he shouldn't have killed him before he got the chance to remember those times he took him fishing on trips out of the city.
The building was about six stories high and with only one window, a beaming yellow eye that blinked every time it digested another square city block. The Cooch cocked back his cock-blocking laser-gloc and set the beam for de-gentrification red. Gotta get them dollar bills. Another long day in the urban metaverse.... there's never enough time to just relax and smoke a spliff.
