You practically skip home, you're so happy. You and Freddy had an awesome time in detention, pulling pranks and annoying the teacher. You're heading back to your house, as some of your old books are there, and you want to read over them you pull out the key, and let yourself in. You walk in, and gasp. The house is trashed.
On closer inspection, that's not entirely true. Your mom and dad's expensive surround sound stereo system hasn't been touched, the plasma screen TV is spotless, and the carpet and wallpaper are fine.
In your room, however, your cheap(ish) CD player has been smashed up, your mini TV is a flaming wreck, the wallpaper's in strips on the wall, peeling away, and your carpet has been ripped up, showing the rough, unpolished boards underneath. There is black paint everywhere, and it sticks to you as you wade through it. A door creaks behind you, and you jump. There's no-one there...
Your drums. What about your drums?
You race upstairs to the music room, just about flying up the stairs. You walk in, and stifle a scream. The whole room has been covered in red paint. At least, you hope it's paint. You run over to your drum kit. The cymbals have been smashed up with a hammer; the drums have rips through them, and the bass...
Someone has put their foot through the bass drum. You run over and crouch down, to see how much damage has been done. Is it repairable? On looking closer there's a message written on around the tear, in the same paint that has been splashed around the room.
From your Number One fan...You quickly pull out your cell-phone, and dial a number you know by heart.
Ring...
Ring...
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's (You)."
"What are you doing? You know we're not allowed to contact each other!"
"Jack's back."