It was a dark and stormy night under the moonlit streets of downtown Texas. In 1995, we were ready to score a notch of noise to the earholes. Embedded in the alterapunk scene of the era was a shanty bar on the dirty side of town where the smells and jive magnetized the good luck of pranksters. At once, the fog parted and the lights rose for a steely dante duo known as the Royal Trux. In goose down camo and vintage pendants, the his and her mood swingers upon the podium rang bells like reverberated invertebrates. Without a blink, the skullbutter labium of jangle doom ceased to resist while glassy bottles on the bar tipped and communion resumed. The point of another night subtracted to moot.