The newest number would actually be an inter-disciplinary hop into the annals of underground legend: death metal fusion jungle techno. Now here me out. After a mini-set of "Bunny no honey," "Dendriticus Maximus" and "I love animals," the cyberphile on keyboard would start getting into a sortof cheeky DJ Generica kindof a zone as his four man turntable is uncovered. Some ongoing rifts from the bass guitarist jumper-cable girl and an occasional grunt from me would keep things going as this weird installment unfolded.

All of the sudden, our proxy Flea from Red Hot Chilli Peppers can't take it anymore: he snaps. Some unseen drummer starts pounding the fuck out of some unseen drumset as I belt out an incoherent death chant, raving madly about the Apokalypse as used car TV ads blare across all but one of the projection monitors in psychedelic "X" vision, while Flea hungrily drools and cranes his head and spine down at jumper-cable girl in an "I want to fuck and eat you, not necessarily in that order" way.

Meanwhile the techno beat is becoming fierce. DJ Generica has been born from the vile dead womb of Trauts Autram, more machine now than man, twisted and evil. It begins to consume the stereo system, the base growing deeper, rhythm more complex, the refrain shifting now and again with groovy scratches. Could this be a change, a sign from Lord Satan that we have failed him to spread the joys of the Rock his disciple Marilyn Manson so aptly proclaimed dead? I sing a dirge about this failure in German as off to the right of the stage, suddenly, blinding spotlights burst open and beat down on the audience and the band! The spotlights stop instantly as the lead guitarist slowly spins out of his "we're really fucked now" solo.

The darkness reveals El Hombre Rojo, a very Aryan man with disheveled long hair and a biker beard looking very pissed off. He is in the middle of a steel girder box-like structure, a gravelly voice croaking out a melody that matches the techno beat in style. In a feat of engineering wonder, the parts of the box begin to come undone as various parts of his body seemingly drift apart from one another. The techno jam becomes all engrossing, a 155 beat per minute fuckfest of noise and light as classical piano, soprano, and breaking storm threads loop around the audience like the remote-controlled puppet body parts in their girder supports. This Robert Milesian Analog Pussy Fifth Element operisima is punctuated by El Hombre Rojo evily intoning "Electric Jesus" every so often as part of the refrain. The floating crotch area would reveal an enormous phallus, which would squirt out onto the audience. The hands would occasionally flip the bird at onlookers. All this time I am brandishing a tazer at proxy Flea, finally shocking him as I then hook electrified nipple clamps to his chest and plug the leads into my enormous pleasure baton.

Eventually the girder pieces coallesce into one another on stage, where (very conveniently) a huge flurry of strobe lights and fog machines obscure the real steel girder prison being lifted up from the bottom of the stage. Out steps El Hombre Rojo from the mist, challenging me as the bass and lead guitarists couple their powers to produce some rifts that oddly lend a sinister but harmonized quality to the techno. We circle one another, barking like dogs in German, round and round as the two genres come in for the kill. And then...they combine, a forbidden lust unleashed in gurgling stage blood as we make violent musical fucking on stage. The audience is in a frenzy, driven further as I shock Flea into seizure-laden pleasure twitches. And as the music begins to fade, to ebb into that slower contemplative moment, El Hombre Rojo fades into the darkness. Upon the main projection monitor we see Christopher Lowell, dressed as if he'd just come out of a gay Hot Topic. He merely nods to us...and the audience knows: we have pleased our Lord Satan.

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