Hunter couldn't help shake the feeling that he had just been raped. He felt violated when two police officers aggressively searched him for something he did not have. They were searching for some evidence to arrest Hunter, whether that be a weapon, drugs, or stolen merchandise. Hunter had the "looks" of being a troublemaker. He could picture the police officers with a checklist of the "typical characteristics of a criminal" in Chicago:

Black ✓

Teenager ✓

Big Backpack (Note: Usually containing stolen goods) ✓

Well Built/Strong Frame (Note: Usually meaning he's carrying a weapon of some kind) ✓

Tattoo(s) ✓

Hoodie and Jeans ✓

Yes, Hunter did get a tattoo just recently on his right arm: it was of his mother's name: "Lisbeth," along with the date of the Baby Bomb Plot, "May 15th, 2024."

But of course the police officers weren't noting the content of the tattoo, just that he had one. Thus, Hunter met the stereotypical criminal description, and they stopped him. They pulled out their guns immediately and told him to go up against the wall of an apartment building whose first floor contained a small grocery store.

Hunter initially protested. "Why am I being stopped officer?"

The white officer noted. "Because you look suspicious, that's why."

Hunter continued. "How do I look suspicious?"

The black officer chimed in. "Hey kid, just shut up and stay up against that wall. Arms and feet spread apart."

Hunter was up against the wall, but refused to spread his arms and legs and the black officer took out his baton and smacked the inner parts of his legs and his shoulders. "You fucking deaf? I said to spread those fucking legs and arms."

Hunter had never thought that being slapped with a baton would actually hurt. He always imagined the thing was just for show. But being hit with that thing was like being hit with a bat. Hunter could feel his inner leg starting to bruise up after the smack, and his shoulder ached as if it were midterms week and he was carrying a ton of books home to study.

So yes, Hunter was scared. Here were two people that were supposed to be protecting him, but in reality they were assaulting him because he "looked suspicious." It was one thing to do a security check, it was another thing to stop and frisk someone. The former was done quickly and with little intimidation or violence. The latter was done aggressively, and with an intent to violate the victim.

And yes, Hunter cried a little bit. That didn't make the police officers stop; in fact, they relished the sight of tears. "Oh look Jones, he's crying."

"A bitch I see huh. Not so tough now are ya kid."

Hunter sniffled. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Cause you're a fucking mutt."

Hunter couldn't help yelling. "How am I a mutt? If I'm a mutt, then what does that make you?"

Suddenly, Hunter found his right arm being twisted behind his back by the black officer, Jones, who scolded him. "You heard that Sean? This little nigger is talking shit. And look at what we have here, a 'Lisbeth May 15, 2024.' Is that your baby mama? Got her pregnant yet?"

Sean added. "See kid, we can disrespect you too. Don't like it now huh kid?"

Hunter was furious, he was so angry he couldn't hold back his tears. "You were already disrespecting me!"

The black man twisted Hunter's arm tighter. The muscles in his upper arm were tensing up and stretching to a point of maximum elasticity. "You better watch your fucking mouth, or I swear I'll break your fucking arm off right now. You hear me!"

Hunter repeated. "You're going to break my arm off?"

"Yeah, I'm going to break your arm off, and then I'm going to deck you right in the fucking face you little piece of shit."

"Then you'll be the one in jail," Hunter added.

"Hey kid," Sean cut in. "You're in no position to be saying anything right now. Just stay quiet and let us do our job."

"Terrorizing innocent civilians is in your job description?" Hunter added sarcastically.

Sean fought back. "Look, just shut the fuck up, and do what we say. You hear me?"

Meanwhile Jones was using one arm to twist Hunter's right arm behind his back and another to frisk Hunter's pockets. "Mutt just got some tissues and gum in his pocket. Shit has boogers and everything on it you nasty fuck. You've been crying like a bitch recently with all these tissues?"

Hunter gulped. He's been trying not to let the death of his mother get to him. But this stop, culminated with the recent death, has left his spirit decimated.

So Hunter stayed quiet and sobbed while Jones reached around his bottom area reprimanding criminals in general. "They always try to hide drugs up their asses—these gay fuckers. AIDS will take them soon, thank God."

Hunter couldn't help thinking that God was ashamed of Jones. Not only was he ignorant, but he also betrayed his own race—then again, this wasn't the first time he's been disrespected by his own people. [23]

Now that Hunter was thinking about it, he was raped in the denotative sense. Jones basically shoved...

You get the point.

Once Jones was done inspecting Hunter he turned to Sean and said. "Damn it! Nothing. You found anything in his bag?"

Sean sighed. "Just some textbooks. I think he's clean."

Jones suddenly pulled Hunter off the wall and shoved him down to the sidewalk. Hunter fell onto the concrete and scraped his elbow and wrists on the way down. Tears mixed with blood as he cried above his open wounds. Sean subsequently tossed his backpack and books on the ground beside him.

Jones squatted down and spat at Hunter. "You ever disrespect a police officer like that again and I swear I'll fucking hurt you good; and then I'll arrest your sorry ass."

Jones then got up and walked back into his squad car. He got behind the wheel and turned the key to start the car up. Sean stuck around a minute longer to rub some salt into Hunter's wounded soul. "Stay out of trouble—nigger. And don't think of reporting this—they'll never believe you."

Sean left and got into his squad car. They were just about to drive off, but not before Sean rolled down the window and tossed some cold coffee on the curb of the sidewalk that splashed down and ricocheted towards Hunter's hoodie. Hunter laid on the ground defeated and in tears. Sean was right; he couldn't report this. Most of his friends in his old school were treated the same way and they never got any retribution. The system didn't work in favor of the oppressed civilian—it protected the law enforcers. No matter what the case—the officer was always right.

Hunter did manage to brush up after a couple of minutes of post-despair and gather his items. He did make it to school, late of course. He tried explaining what happened, but either way he was given detention. The lady who sat at the front desk didn't care why he was late—in the end he was still late.

When Hunter told her what happened she simply responded. "Next time, budget more time into your commute then."

Yes, Hunter thought, I'll budget more time for being raped, violated, and tossed around by corrupt police officers. Duly noted.

The first day of school was a blur. He didn't say anything about what happened to his mother. He didn't need anyone's pity. He was already one of the few minorities in the school—they pitied him enough to accept him in order to reach their affirmative action requirements. He didn't need extra pity for what happened. However, some people lost third cousins or great uncles in the Baby Bomb Plot, and they milked the losses in class and got everyone to feel bad for them. Hunter was not saying that their loses meant nothing, but what they did was taking advantage of the situation. Hunter felt it was an inherent evil of the worst kind to ever take advantage of death as an excuse for something.

While everyone else blamed the Baby Bomb Plot for the reason they didn't do their homework or study for a test (even if they lost no one in the attacks), Hunter did his homework, and studied for tests that were supposed to occur. His mother's death was not an excuse to slack off from his schoolwork; in fact, it made him even more determined to do better. It was a sad thing for one to seek distraction from life's sadness in work, but for Hunter, it was all he was capable of doing.

When the final bell rang, mostly everyone went home or hung out in the cafeteria after school. But not Hunter, he had to stand in Room 19, the detention room, reading a section of the student handbook that he had violated. Then he had to go to the chalkboard and copy that section 50 times, or until the 40 minutes were up. In those forty minutes trapped inside the detention room, the skies closed up and became gray. A crackle of thunder roared off in the distance. A couple of minutes later, another crackle went off—this time much closer. The roar of the thunder was like that of a beast coming closer and closer to Hunter's position. Hunter cursed himself for being late. Now he was going to be caught up in the rain.

After detention Hunter feared that he was going to be stopped again by some police officers on his way to the train station. He found himself constantly looking over his shoulder. Once he heard sirens coming from blocks away. His heart tripped inside him, scared that they were police sirens closing in on him. Once the object turned around the corner a block behind him, he realized that it was just an ambulance. He breathed a much-needed sigh of relief. His heart was beating with a limp to its rhythm.

Once he made it to the train station and got off in the south side of Chicago, he felt strangely safe now. The police officers rarely, if ever, ventured into the south side of Chicago. Even if you called them for help, they took a while to respond or simply did not respond at all. The south side was too dangerous. Police officers, tourists, and upper-class civilians alike were told not to venture towards the south side of Chicago unless you had a death wish.

That's right, the gang violence there was too much even for the police to handle. So they picked off any stragglers who ventured into the "clean neighborhoods." Funny how police officers were so tough in their own territory, where it was unnecessary, but their courage ran thin when it came to the really dangerous sections of Chicago.

Because in the south side of Chicago, the gang members didn't care whether or not you were a cop. You step foot into their territory, disrupt their drug trades, prostitution rings, or other lucrative businesses, (that the rich also use, even though they'll deny it) they'll kill you. Gangs in Chicago were known to use LMG's against police officers.

So yeah, the south side was dangerous; but after what happened today in the city, Hunter had never felt safer.

That was, until he saw and heard two white vans, stained with illegible graffiti over them, screech to a halt. They stopped besides him and opened up the side doors. Six people emerged from each van, all armed with SMG's. The screeching noise was almost like a war trumpet. Emerging from the lobby of the ruined project complex were seven other men armed with pistols and SMGs. An all out gang skirmish was about to commence...

And Hunter was sandwiched in-between.

It all happened so quick; Hunter barely had time to react. He tried to drop to the floor, but he was not fast enough. Whether it was his backpack that somehow slowed him down by unequally placing too much weight on one side of his body, or the injuries he sustained from the police rough up he had encountered earlier, he was just too late to dodge the small bullet that tore through his ear, skipped through the inter-networking of his brain, and exited through his other ear.

Within seconds Hunter had blacked out never to return to the land of the living. With what little consciousness he had left in his dying brain, he couldn't help but admit defeat, I failed you mother. I'm sorry, but here I come.

And that was the last the world heard of Hunter Jackson. The media did not cover the event on the front-page news. No popular article would be written to share his story. That is why I took the liberty of doing so. Hunter was a victim of domestic terrorism. Gangs strike as much terror in local neighborhoods as international extremists groups. In fact, I would argue that gang violence has more of an immediate effect on our local neighborhoods than the extremists groups in another country. But since it's the minorities that ended up killing each other, no one gives it the amount of attention it deserves.

In memory of Hunter Jackson: a butterfly trapped in a jar.

Footnote:

[23] See TSA incident in chapter one.