Enter two old friends. Soul mates. Amigos. Not just joined at the hip, but sewn together at the navel.
The Reverend and The Squirrel are plowing the tarmac with the dangling muffler of a red '64 Chrysler convertible. They are both wearing enormous prosthetic Breshnev eyebrows. Additionally, the Reverend is wearing a big black pompadour with an antennae poking out to monitor the alien menace. The Squirrel is wearing a big red beehive. They call each other “Ricky” and “Lucy” and slap each other with fish and sacks of liverwurst and gravel.
These two are crazed geniuses for sure: memorizing entire crossword puzzles; beating the Russians at blindfold chess over the cell phone; driving all the way to Harmony, Illinois just to sing out of tune; pulling old notebooks out of dumpsters behind grade-schools to cut-and-paste into screenplays for post-literate Japanese media moguls. (Excerpt follows.)
The Reverend: To rant impudently explores your medium.
The Squirrel: You mean my ability to kick ass?
The Reverend: No, Lucy, your ability to eat your own pain and scream for more.
The Squirrel: But why, Ricky? In order to freak out my torturers? To make them give up for loss of pleasure?
The Reverend: No, you do it to build a damned callus on your pineal gland - A clear callus that acts as a lens to amplify information yet thick enough to insulate you from annoyance.
The Squirrel: Hmmm. [Scratches wig. Fidgets.] Oh, Ricky!
The Reverend: Don't become frustrated. Let the pins and needles of stimulation-overload work you into an ass-kicking frenzy, not a migraine. [Cut to voice-over.]
Narrator: The car speeds on, trailing angry sparks that kill nothing. Stop-motion photography turns the sun into an enormous curved tube of neon - a monochrome rainbow that burns the twin images of the amigos' prosthetic Breshnev eyebrows onto their laps.