It was just another day of sleeping late and skipping classes when it happened; first one tower, then the other, and everything had changed. The world was not so safe; the kingdom was not so strong. We all joined the suited men in song and blessed our crusaders—“flush him out, string him up, make him pay.†But we didn’t find him, and soon the reasons became blurred. Emotions settled with the debris, deception fouled the air, and now the crusade was not so holy. History repeated itself. “What good fortune for those in power that people do not think,†said an old painter from Austria. Some of us took part in a revolution, each in our own way—the three of us (Glenn Brandt, Julia Zap, Chris Morrow) followed the sound of the music. It led us to the soapbox. We belonged there; we had a story to tell. We took on many names, but eventually found the right one. It was given to the main character of our story long ago, a nickname birthed by youth and insanity, ever appropriate to both the artist and the band. That name was The Psycho Kid.
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