Funk-upon-a-time, the people anointed themselves in a mighty force called The Funk — writhing under the moonlight in a great furor whenever its celestial glow blanketed the land. The ONE, the omnipresent embodiment of man’s relationship with The Funk, energized both the celebration and life-forces of the people. It was truly a great time to be alive.

The Machine, the people's overseer, witnessed the energy of the celebrations. Keepers distracted in ecstasy, The Machine’s gigantic cogs would go unturned for days as long as The ONE coursed through the people’s souls. Growing ever displeased with the immense pleasure generated by The Funk, The Machine locked the source of The ONE away — serving artificial grooves to the masses in return.

Determined to restore the balance, The Thief scaled the den of The Machine; a towering heap of iron that shadowed the tower of Babel. From within its cold depths, The Thief retrieved the funk and it was hastily concealed amongst the woolen locks that formed the thicket atop his head. To further hide it from The Machine, he disguised its form with numerous styles, increasing The Funk's omnipotence in the process. Since that day, each moonbreak The Thief and his people revel in the raw uncut funk to celebrate the return of The ONE — their buzzing bodies wrapped in silken slivers of silver moonlight — the Machine’s cogs left to rust with time.