Deep in the twisted tales of time, where fate plays chess with chaos, three unlikely souls were about to collide. Our beloved Frankie - the charged catalyst of funeral frequencies - tore through midnight's vacant streets in his shock-powered soul snatcher when destiny sparked an unexpected meeting.

It was an obscenely dark night when TipZee the Green Cat and Purrple Alien were returning from that questionable establishment, The Cherry Rhino, their heads full of schemes and pockets full of dreams. Then - BZZZZT! - a flash of electric blue, a crash of beautiful chaos, and there stood Frankie, his triangle amulet still crackling with mortuary static.

What could have ended in glorious carnage instead sparked something more sinister - a brotherhood born in voltage. Perhaps it was the shared glint of lunacy in their eyes, or how each wore their peculiarities like battle scars, but something electric crackled between them that night.

As shadows stretched their bony fingers across dawn's throat, they followed Frankie through the condemned corridors of the long-vacant Ravenwood Asylum, where flickering lights played morse code with madness itself. But behind a door marked 'Morgue,' they discovered Frankie's laboratory - a symphony of sweet psychosis where forgotten formulas danced with rusted resurrection contraptions and vials of liquid lightning beckoned from their shelves.

It was here, between the whispers of the witching hour and the screams of science gone right, that TipZee first tasted what would become Frankenfuel. One sip sent voltage racing through his nine lives, his pupils expanding like black holes consuming stars. When Purrple Alien, ever the enthusiast, drained an entire vial, his grin stretched wider than a cemetery at full moon.

In that moment, three harbingers of hysteria found their calling. TipZee's underworld orchestrations, Purrple Alien’s psychotic crescendo, and Frankie's electric alchemy combined into something that hadn't existed since the first witch-bottled lightning. They weren't just crafting an energy drink - they were distilling pure pandemonium for all those who slither within the rhythms of their own graveyard masquerade.

For every night crawler, every tomb dweller, every apparition too cursed to be contained - this is your haunting, your hysteria, your haven. After all, the best kind of family is the one we piece together ourselves.