This story includes illegal activity such as tagging (spray-painting sides of buildings illegally), drug addictions, obstructing a police officer and some other things. There's also activity that could, to put it mildly, be considered "questionable" by law enforcement: a gay relationship between a police officer and a Special Agent In Charge (FBI agent of high standing. Just for clarification, every agent who goes into the FBI is a Special Agent, but there are different ranks of Special Agents). If an FBI agent is found to be gay, s/he is fired. If you don't believe me, please read A Special Agent: Gay and Inside the FBI by Lou Buttino and Frank Buttino. If a police officer is found to be gay s/he is sometimes demoted but almost always treated of lower status.
I hate Britney Spears but her song "Everytime" is mentioned in the story because it fits. I like Enrique Iglesias and his song "Ring My Bells" fits certain parts of the story. I do not own the rights to either song and make no money off of mentioning them. LiveJournal is mentioned in this chapter and other chapters. I DO NOT OWN LIVEJOURNAL and do not make any money off of mentioning it. I do not own the book Graffiti Women and do not make any money from mentioning it.
Don't sue me, I'm a college student financially dependant on someone else. I own nothing except the plot idea.

To Protect and To Serve
-Sasuke-
The spray can exploded when he was in the middle of his name. The pain was unbearable. A quarter of his head has been blown off. He remembered as they lifted him into the ambulance, always reading the warning on aerosol cans--CAUTION. CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE. DO NOT PUNCTURE OR INCINERATE and to keep them at certain temperatures. He had always wondered, dreaded what would happen in the can were placed near heat, fire or a sharp object. Now he knew.
I no longer use spray cans because of that story. I no longer use street buildings as my canvas in the middle of the night because of what happened to this man. I don't even know him. His name was Zabuza or something. Wanted by the cops for AWD, 220 and tagging. He died in the ambulance. The thought that it could have been me made me give up street art. I draw it on blank sheets of paper sometimes, and then color my designs and put them on my walls in the condo. My fascination with street art or graffiti, for I used to do both, began when I was what, fourteen. I started tagging when I was nineteen and stopped after hearing of Zabuza's death three months later. I was faced with my own mortality when I heard it, that's all.
I miss the adrenaline rush. I miss running at night, catching a spot and hearing the hiss of my paint. I miss admiring my work the next day. There was a constant anticipation of running into the police, or spraying over a gang's spot, or so many other things. I didn't want any of that to happen, so I anticipated it. I prepared myself for it. All that has been gone for years. Now, there's nothing. Don't become a graffiti artist, anyone. It's too risky.

How boring. I shut the book and log onto LiveJournal. Breakups, tattoos of people's names, acceptances into schools, the usual.
-I need to get my mind off this. Anybody wanna fuck?-
Three comments.
-Ooh, you touch my tra-la-la.-
-Yes, Chouji, but I'm not your type.-
-Won't Kiba be offended?-
-Since when are Kiba and Chouji fucking?- I type, then click 'post comment.' I'll have to return the book to the library tomorrow. I much prefer "Graffiti Women." It gives me ideas and educates me every time I read it. I've been thinking of switching to regular, not spray, paint. I've been tagging ever since I was nineteen and a half, and began drawing my designs on paper years before. I took a silver aerosol can to spray dark blue, thin paint onto a parking garage's wall. It's relaxing, very creative and artistic. I do it on my nights off, after visiting my dealer. The crystal meth helps lower my inhibitions. It makes me forget who I am, the fact that this is illegal, and I can just...go away for awhile. When the spray can is in my left hand, when darkness is the sky's cloak, when my veins are dancing with meth, I forget that my right hand is my dominant shooting hand and the promise I made when the bronze hunk of metal was fastened to my uniform, over my left breast, over my heart.
"I promise to serve and to protect my community."
My name is Sasuke. I recently made detective for Seattle's sex crimes unit, and that's all I'll ever tell you. I can't fuck up my chances. If they know what and who I do in my personal life, I'm finished. Gay cops are not treated nicely. I'm single, I don't use pornography and I never, ever talk about my personal life at work. Regardless, somebody could find out. Nobody in my department, not even my captain, would care. Other, more powerful people would. I'm not going to post an LJ entry tonight. There is nothing for me except my spray cans, Sharpies and memories of old boyfriends. There's so much misery in the world, but sometimes I think it's all here in Seattle. The things I see in my nine-to-five, five-days-a-week job, not including the overtime that is so common, nobody needs those images, that reality in their head. I face it every day. It's my duty to protect and to serve my community. I've wanted to work in law enforcement ever since I was sixteen. But I still tag at night. The first time I did it was to celebrate my entry into the force. It's illegal, but I still do meth and tag at night.