Universe... Part 2: Enter The Screech Owl!

Dr. Pentramadon informed me that I'd be initiated into BODY-ROKK, the University of Lower Kentucky's think-tank/dance-troupe. The heavy-on-nudity rite prescribed the imbibing of tea made from a rare South American root, one that induced heavy vomiting and even heavier hallucinating. I disrobed as instructed and was introduced to the other members of the troupe.

X-FAKTOR: A streetwise mulatto kid from the Bronx. He took up dance as a way to escape gang life. He'd been working as counselor at the East Bronx Community Center teaching dance moves to at-risk youths when a space/time wormhole formed as a result of one of his windmill backspins. I took his threats to "fuck me in the throat with a Rambo knife" with a grain of salt. I knew underneath that hard shell exterior laid a soft nougat center.



PROTRAKTOR: This one-time magnet school prodigy had fallen onto hard times after a lovesick Broadway producer severed his leg with a saber. Since he couldn't afford a prosthetic limb he was fitted with a wooden duck decoy. He was doing street-performance for amyl nitrate money when Dr. Pentramadon discovered him. Protraktor's many offers of back rubs were disconcerting, though not entirely unappreciated.



DIGITAL BOB: Digital Bob's quest in the early 80's to perfect the urban dance style known as "The Robot" drove him to madness. He was now convinced he was an actual robot. Bob spent his free time lubing himself with Pennzoil 10W-30 and inserting sheet metal screws into his anus. He claimed this was how he got his robot-nutrients, but he was saving up money to get a solar panel installed so he could get energy from the sun. Though clearly insane, Bob had a good soul and a pure heart.



















LISA SKILLZ: Lisa Skillz was as tough as she was beautiful. She spent most of her childhood selling stolen cigarettes for her bleach-drinking, HIV-positive transvestite two dads until an unfortunate roller-blading accident left her an orphan. Her life took another sad turn at age 13 when she suffered a stroke as a result of her heavy meth habit. The stroke gave her a rare form of Tourette's Syndrome that compelled her to shout out the endings of recent releases whenever she entered a Blockbuster Video.



Lisa spent her late teens bouncing from one foster home to another until a former instructor for the Soviet State Ballet took Lisa under her wing and taught her the ways of dance... and love. Though Lisa Skillz swore up and down that she was gay -- as attested by the "MAN-H8ER" tattoo across her abdomen -- I could tell that like most would-be lesbians she just needed a good hard dickin.' And I was just the stallion to provide it.

After we'd all puked up the enchiladas Dr. Pentramadon had served for lunch (in retrospect a poor choice on his part), the psychotropic nature of the root tea took effect. As our trip neared its peak Dr. Pentramadon set needle to wax and 1000 watts of Technotronic's "Pump up the Jams" emanated from the JBL speakers mounted in every corner of the heptagonal chamber.

The troupe formed a circle and began the pulsing body-movements that signified the start of the ritual. As our rhythmic undulating became more pronounced my spirit rose from its dancing flesh-vessel and hovered mid-air. I watched as my physical "self" turned into a bio-mechanical dog with springs attached to its feet that bounced back and forth to the rhythm. I/it eventually gained enough momentum to bounce clear across the room and embed itself into one of the flesh-taffy walls. Spongy armadillo-like alien genitalia emerged from the mire and absorbed my animatronic animated exoskeleton until there was nothing left of me but a single "Tic-Tac" mint glowing with the intensity of a thousand suns. My soul-self was then whisked away by my fellow astral travelers into a transluscent orb travelling just under Light Speed through the hydrogen and interstellar dust of the Horsehead Nebula. HERE was where the REAL research was done.

Dr. Pentramadon's spirit-self explained to me that a nefarious secret order within the Public Broadcasting System had been monitoring BODY-ROKK's activities and selling the information to the Albanian Government. Therefore the only safe means of conducting research was through astral projection. All quite sound I'd thought at the time, or at least based on enough science-business that my tripping-balls brain was more than willing to accept it.

A sheet of linoleum was laid out on the floor of the "living laboratory" as the good doctor referred to his inter-galactic snow globe. We popped-n-locked whilst meditating on Lagranian Field Theory and how its quantization preserved the symmetry of diffeomorphism invariance. It was majestic. It was magic. How I returned to my organic form I'll never know, but when I awoke 17 hours later caked in a porridge comprised of my own body fluids I was certain of one thing: I was a man of science.

The next six years were a flurry of dance-science activity. The troupe had made great strides researching the quantum fluctuations of empty space, and there'd even been talk of a Nobel Prize. Apart from the troupe I'd been busy preparing my doctoral dissertation: A solo dance piece set to Ravel's "Gaspard de la nuit" that applied Dirac's Equation to ferromagnetic fields. And as I'd surmised from our first meeting, Lisa Skillz's penchant for poontang was simply due to the fact that she'd never had a taste of my cock-sauce.

True, she'd rebuffed my advances for the first few years; going so far as shooting me with a Tazer and even trying to chemically castrate me in my sleep. But after a particularly hot and sweaty night of research frolic Lisa gave in to her desire for what bulged liked a box-turtle in the crotch region of my Danskin tights. My lioness charged at me, stuck her tongue into my ear and whispered "do me so hard I get a urinary tract infection, Big Daddy." Spandex was shed like sheets of dead skin from a burn victim's back, and over the next six hours I inserted my meat-wand into all her available orifices there on the athelete's-foot infested floor of the ULK dance studio. It was majestic. It was magic. After the sex-business we laid naked on that bacterial nest discussing our hopes and dreams. As it turned out Lisa Skillz and I shared a common goal: To some day retire to a castle in Lithuania and spend our twilight years making amateur porn.

But little did we know, our dabbling with blue cinema would come sooner rather than later...

It was but a few weeks after my tryst with Ms. Skillz when an assassination attempt by a hard-line sect of Amish Luddites put our beloved Dr. Pentramadon into a coma from which he would never return. ULK was forced to close the doors of its College of Science for fear of further terrorist attacks.

But BODY-ROKK was not prepared to give up what we'd worked on so hard for so long. We were on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough that would change life as we knew it. And though deprived of our benevolent leader we were but a ship without a storm -- a cold without warm -- BODY-ROKK would not give in to the light inside the darkness that it needs. Nay, we were taking our shit underground.

Protracktor knew of an abandoned tuberculosis hospital from his homeless male prostitute days. After we ejected the crack-heads and punk-squatters via shotguns loaded with rock-salt, we scrubbed the feces off the walls and got to work transforming the place into our Secret Research Cave. Wood floors were installed. Strobe lights and lasers put in. A 10,000 watt sound system and mirrored disco ball added the finishing touches. As comfortable as we'd been with the ULK dance studio this was something on the bleeding edge of both dance and science. Still, all that advanced technology came at a cost. Racked with debt and incapable of applying for Federal grants due to the covert nature of our work, we all agreed that we'd need an alternate revenue stream to complete our research. And it better be a damned good one. I don't know who got the idea first. Maybe we'd been working together so long that our collective consciousness spat it out of each of our mouths simultaneously. Still, it made perfect sense. We were already comfortable with the close proximity, physical contact, and nudity that our research required. Why not take it to the next level? It was agreed unanimously that in order for BODY-ROKK to survive, we'd have to make pornography. And that’s when the JIZZ-NIBBLERS video series was born.

To Be Continued