Lieutenant Barry Baricza had heard the news early in the morning, and it wasn't good.
The officer who was involved in the chase that took place the previous night, John Forrester of LAPD, had died. Strangely enough, haunting lyrics that Baricza had heard two days before, blistering his eardrums, thundering from a young moron's Escalade, had said it all as to how this particular officer he'd heard about had met his demise, lyrics too haunting for him to remember word for word. Forrester's throat had been cut as he had been lured into foliage somewhere on the Ventura Freeway, southbound, after the person passed by, deliberately shooting at him to have him chase him there. The killer involved, Thomas Mitchum, had an accomplice, Angel Martin, who had killed Forrester from behind. The lyrics echoed this situation almost exactly, every atrocious, abominable sentence. They were arrested, and Baricza had the urge to say, "in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen", but he didn't.
Yet he thought to himself, how could youth --children and teenagers-- possibly believe that the media, music in particular, did not shape, mold and inspire souls, most especially ever vulnerable young kids and teens, in infinitely negative ways as well as positive? Ridiculous. They were children, after all, and didn't know a thing.
He pondered on... how could music artists possibly say, as these rap artists often did, that it was solely the parents who were responsible for their children and not any music artists nor any of the media? All music artists, particularly, were responsible, very much so, for they had the one power they obviously underestimated, the power to move, shape and teach through their music, to move hearts, souls and spirits, many metaphoric universes that lay within a human being, in ways indescribable. And in this case, ways utterly repulsive.
Parents never always knew that kids sneaked music past them, downloaded and shared music, had it on their MP3 players and iPods... they were practically smugglers when it came to getting past parents, some of them not always having time to watch and monitor their children's and teens' viewing and listening choices. Teenagers were going through a very rough time, particularly, and anthing rebellious or angry, they'd drink up wholeheartedly like cats did milk, and it could either be forgotten by them... or more commonly, poison them to death. Music artists, as well as many others, Baricza thought, were responsible for all the world's youth, whether they chose to realize it or not. Period.
Baricza couldn't afford to be fitful inside about it. He drove to work, desperately trying not to let his anger practically drain him of all energy. He knew that if he wasn't careful, he'd be drained of all energy trying to prevent it from doing so.
The men and women of Central gathered in the briefing room once more, under the authority of Captain Baker. He spoke of what happened the night before, and what was happening in the strikes and rallies everywhere beforehand. "Be very cautious," he instructed. "Youth is out there, unfortunately shaped and molded well by this obviously poisonous music that's out there, as well as such video games as the Grand Theft Auto series, and so on and so forth."
Meanwhile, in the nearby Orange Blossom High School, Fifteen year old Hayley Baker was listening intently to Mr. Wilson and his Honors English class. Intellectual as she was, she was enjoying the discussion of one of her favorite Shakespeare books, "A Midsummer Night's Dream". Throughout the discussion, she was unassuming... unassuming that two young fellows in the back were talking about "The Captain's little girl..." and not in good spirits when they did.
A few minutes later into the discussion, she couldn't help but notice a note underneath her desk. Ordinarily, she didn't answer to such notes. She waited until class was finally over to pick it up and quickly read. Her eyes were a surprised shade of blue, as the note, scribbled in bright pink, iridescent ink, with a heart dotting the i, read :
"Daughter of a pig!"
Hayley was insulted and shocked. Yet she was taught never to take such insults personally, for that was whoever was insulting her wanted. She dismissed the note, and whoever wrote it as, most likely, a spoiled youth who was never disciplined as a child, thus discourteous to this day.
She walked to her locker, and suddenly, much to her horror, messages were scribbled all over it in vicious, venomous permanent black ink.
"PIGLET!"
"YOU'RE GONNA BLEED!"
"WE'VE ONLY STARTED!"
Hayley, whose jaw had hit the ground, tried to keep her composure as she reluctantly opened her locker, only to find red ink, supposedly simulating blood, all over her books and notebooks. The open tubes, which came from out of ball point pens and whose ink was forced through the open end, the tubes thus shoved inside her locker vents to bleed all over her things, were found two seconds later. Laughter from distant spectators could be heard. Venomous shouts from both girls and boys...
"Piglet!"
"Serves you right!"
"Oh, lookit me," one mocked viciously, "my daddy's a fat oinker!"
Tears filled Hayley's eyes. Quietly and discreetly wiping them away, she reclaimed her dignity quickly and walked, head held high, to Biology.