It was a shimmering grey dawn when Skratch Happy was born into this world. The year was nineteen eighty-something when Ron, Bob, and Saul, a conjoined, crusty cluster of musically oriented triplets, were squeezed out of the mother-ship otherwise known as the groove-womb. The groove womb, which was deemed by the Bank of America to be “unfit” to raise such a family, dried up with shame and collapsed onto itself like a wrinkly, pinkish, hairy, juicy, neutron star of sorts. Having been violently split apart at birth with pair of hot tweezers and a hack-saw, and adopted into different foster families living in distant geographical borders, it was a dark time for Skratch-Happy. Approaching adult-hood, and searching for some sense of identity, some semblance of closure, Ron, Bob, and Saul escaped their savagely oppressive groove-less guardians, and met one night just outside the blast radius of the fleshy hole that spawned them, as if destined by the stars to do so, plugged in their amplifiers, and howled savagely at the night sky. The flesh was whole once again, and it was good. Rated PG-13.