Disclaimer: I do not own the Lost Boys.
"Would you ever be a vampire, man? I mean, if you were given the choice?"
The joint was rolled too tightly. Lips pursed and tried to force air through the red-hot tip, though after a few good breaths and no smoke, the damn thing was flicked back down to the table in disgust. Malaki didn't seem to notice his dismay, he was already rolling a second and a third using even less of the precious herb than before. If there was one talent the kid had, it was making a dime bag last for over a month and Paul was sick of it. He'd hadn't had a good burn in days.
"You fucking roll these too goddamn tight. And there's not enough weed in them---let me try."
The joints were snatched up and unraveled. The kid was already stoned off his ass and put up little more than a scowl in Paul's direction before letting his eyes return to the black and white TV. It was their Sunday night ritual, the Late Show of thrills and chills from the fucking turn of the century when movies had just been invented and didn't even have sound or speech. Only creepy ass organs and piano's playing in the background as actors moved about the stage, using exaggerated movements that seemed even more ridiculous when smoking. He didn't really care for ghosts or badly comb-over, blood-sucking demons. Not when there were too many in real life.
"So would you?" asked Malaki, glancing away from the censored gore.
"Would I what?" The weed was sifted from all three joints and piled into one small, pitiful hill. They were running low these days.
"Would you become a vampire if given the choice?"
Eyes glanced up towards the set, taking in the black and white monster as he leaned over the flailing woman in white, staring deeply into her eyes and placing her into a trance before mouth found it's way to her neck and---
"Yea, it might be cool," he shrugged, looking away.
Malaki smirked from the couch, brushing a hand through long, tangled locks of black hair and resting his chin upon a pillow. "I think it'd be fucking awesome man. Turning into mist or a bat, scoring chicks and screwing with the locals, just to make them piss their pants. Fucking sweet."
The pile was spread onto a single paper and rolled gently beneath skilled fingers. Lips parted, licking the edges and tasting the sour herb before rolling it completely into a perfect cylinder. It didn't taste right. Malaki had complained that supplies were getting low since the cops had taken a stand against dealers on the Boardwalk. This shit was probably found on the side of a road.
Still, it was better than nothing.
"Well, if I ever become a vampire, I'll come back and turn you into one. Then maybe we could get some decent hash," said Paul, bringing the lighter up and lighting the tip once more.
"Or score once or twice," said Malaki, eyes glazing rapidly as he fell into the final stages of "completely stoned off his ass."
Depression… then falling asleep and leaving Paul to change the station to MTV and some decent music.
The footsteps were sudden, however, and the voice from the stares jarred the dark-haired kid from his trance.
"Malaki! Malaki, what's burning down there?"
"Oh fuck dude… my mom! Shit, put it out!" whispered as a can of air-freshener from the side of the couch was brought up and instantly sprayed around the room, attempting to disguise the smell.
Paul was slow to react. The last hit had made him dizzy and by the time he was stubbing the joint out upon the table, the woman was down the steps, staring in a combination of disbelief and horror.
"What the hell is he doing here?" she asked, without really expecting an answer.
Like Malaki she had long, dark hair and two black, threatening eyes that almost appeared like Dracula's on the TV. He would have said something if it hadn't been frozen in fear. The woman was a military wife, a single-mother while her husband was away attending to business as a General and with a hard knack for discipline, especially when it came to other people's children. Fuck, if she called him mom at this hour it would mean he'd be sleeping outside for the rest of the night.
Her gaze turned away sharply and met with Malaki's own. Like Paul, he was slow to react. Stumbling over the normal excuses of lighting incense and candles, trying to set the mood for the movie and "Christ, you're so fucking paranoid all the time!"
Paul didn't fear many things in this life, but one thing that always chilled him was the fact that his friend could say something so stupid to the charging bull. She was on him in an instant, slapping at his face and head, telling him to get upstairs to his room before turning that fiery gaze to him.
"And you… I don't ever want to see you around here again, you piece of filth. If I catch you within twenty feet of this house, I'm calling the cops!"
The joint was still clutched in a sweaty palm as he rushed for the stairs and fled out the backdoor. The night air was cool against his back, causing shudders to rush up his spine, though it might have been from the fact that he was still stunned from the woman's words. Not that he'd never been yelled at before, or called nasty names and had the cops threatened to be called. But the look on her face when she said it… as though she really meant every word. The woman that he'd known since he was five, inviting him into her house and fixing him and Malaki a sandwich while helping to sew up his torn jeans and jacket.
She'd looked at him as though he really were a monster.
Maybe he was.