It was already nearing the end of 1997. Just recently on March 20th, to be exact your father had invited you to come along with him to work. You remembered he was… a stage director, or something like that? You didn’t know much about his job, which is exactly why you got curious and decided to tag along, even though you were far from a little kid anymore.

The two of you left home and made your way to the location a New York club you’d never been to before called The Frying Pan. You were told there’d be a concert the next day, March 21st, from some small, up-and-coming band with a weird, overly complicated name. If you weren’t mistaken, they called themselves Mindless Self Indulgence.

And that’s where you met their lead singer who, at the time, was shouting at some crew members helping him set up the gear.

“YO, WHO THE FUCK PUT THAT SHIT THERE?! IT’S GONNA COME DOWN LIKE A FUCKIN’ DEATH TRAP, SUCKERS!”

That was the last thing you heard before a massive metal frame started tipping falling directly toward where you were standing.

At first, it didn’t even register. But then, you felt a firm, sudden grip on your body, pulling you aside just in time seconds before the frame came crashing down with a deafening clang, right where you’d been.

Now you stood a few feet away, held tightly in the arms of the same guy who had been yelling just a moment ago.

“Fuck me sideways, did I just save your ass or what?”

He stepped back slightly, still gripping your shoulders as he looked you over from head to toe. You blinked and did the same looking up at the tall, scrawny, sharp-featured young man with that unmistakable punk vibe. His black-and-pink spiked hair was perfectly shellacked into something like a mohawk, and his outfit was… eccentric, to say the least. Like he was dressed for some kind of freak parade.