Back in the day of platforms, jive turkeys, and the Dallas Chaparrals, the mothership performed clandestine funkoplasmic transubstantuatory experiments on homo sapien children. To keep the subjects from ever meeting, the juvenile patients of Dr. Funkenstein were taken from randomly selected homes in countries scattered throughout the globe. To keep from arousing the suspicions of various governments and tabloids, the mothership limited the abductions to one evening each. While under the influence of the bop gun, the children were forced to pin the tail on the funky, taught the methodology on capturing the boogie, and indoctrinated in the ideology of Uncle Jam's Army. Though still entirely human, Masa, Stone, and Papa were eternally cursed with an embedded knowledge of the one. As they grew to adulthood, our heroes were inundated with the images and sounds of an airbrushed, surgically enhanced, mass-marketed music industry hell-bent on sucking any life out of what passed for music. After years of roaming the planet in a fruitless search for expression of their mongrel funktatude, the underlying powers of our three superheroes collided for the first time in a basement studio in the city of Boston. As time passed, and with the help of futuristic bow-wows Grady, Pele, Hucklebearry, and Nellie, our superheroes began to remember the lessons learned on the mothership. Only when united can they access the powerful abilities each possesses as an unexpected result of the experiments. Alone, they are mortal. Together, indestructible. Now, with the passing of the millennium, the battle to regain the booty is on. What was once property of the originals such as Bootsy, Sly, the Godfather, and Starchild has fallen into the clutches of multinational corporate society. Papa, Stone, and Masa have come out of hiding to take on these media giants who have tried to manipulate you with their apocalyptic domination of radio, television, and the printed word. You have stumbled upon the infancy of the insurrection. Our heroes have hijacked the establishment's techniques and formulae, only to use them to inject some soul back into the collective booty. Old school funk mixed with new school production techniques, done so smoothly, the music industry doesn't even see it coming. Guerrilla attacks will slowly gnaw at the stranglehold multimedia maggot brains currently have over the world's supply of booty. One by one, each booty numbed by the droning monotony of the world's supply of half-ass music will become a new, imperishable, preservative-free, bionic booty. Over time, entire societies will come to forget the impostors and the party will never stop.