Disclaimer: The Lost Boys, sadly, do not belong to me, and I don't reap any monetary benefit from this.
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Lowlives
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It is 1913.
In the entrance to a dark alleyway running beneath dilapidated houses, there is a young man waiting patiently for potential victims. After twenty minutes or half an hour, he cannot be sure, a shadow rounds the corner and moves in his direction. His knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the knife. When the dark figure is almost past him, he raises the blade, ready to strike. But faster than his eyes can see, his hand is caught in an iron hold, so strong that he hears his bones crack and lets go of his weapon with a yelp of pain.
"No good," the man who has thus disarmed him states. In regard to the circumstances, his voice is unduly calm. Then, without warning, the young man is thrown into a wall with enough force to make him crumble to the ground, the night spinning around him. His unhurt hand goes up to his head and he moans, feeling nauseous. The striking of a match sounds like thunder in his ears. A small flame appears in the dark, and then another glowing point blooms out of it as his attacker lights a cigarette.
The flame of the match dies. The man takes a drag, then blows out the smoke, slowly and with relish. He bends down to the young man who wanted to kill and rob him, who flinches and recoils, expecting another bout of violence. But the man only offers him his cigarette. In the dim glow of its point, the young man can see that his vanquisher is no older than he himself, maybe even younger by a year or two. There is a smile on his face that appears to be much too friendly and very out of place in this situation. "My name's David," he says. "What's yours?"
There will be no missing poster for the young man.
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It is 1931.
Lurking around behind the food-stalls on the Boardwalk, hungrily ogling the trashcans, there is a child, a little black girl of barely nine years of age. Out of the shadows, Dwayne watches her. She is dirty and disheveled, her clothes little more than rags. She looks starved.
Dwayne molds himself out of his dark and beckons to her. She freezes, hand on the metal lid that might hide some leftovers. Dwayne smiles at her. "You hungry?" he asks, voice soft. After a moment of hesitation, she nods, eying him warily, still ready to bolt. "Want me to buy you something?" He waves a wad of cash at her, and her eyes grow wide. She licks her lips.
"I ain't gonna hurt you," he tells her, untruthfully. "You can trust me."
Finally, she inclines her head. He holds out his hand to her, and she takes it. Her fingers are sticky and dirty.
Dwayne buys her fries and lemonade, and since she still seems to be hungry, a funnel cake as well. Then he takes her to the carousel, buying tickets for three rounds. Her eyes are sparkling, and as he lifts her unto a gray horse, she smiles.
After that night, the child will never be seen again.
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It is 1969.
In a rundown part of town, there is an elderly woman standing on the curb, her smile tired and fake as she waves at each of the few passing cars in an increasingly desperate gesture of invitation. Marko has watched her for over an hour now. All of the others have already been taken at least once, but she hasn't been lucky so far – if you chose to call it thus.
At long last, he steps out of the shadows. He smiles at her, and her hollow eyes lighten up as they process both the potential customer as well as the handsome young man. As he asks her how much, she names a ridiculously low amount of money. He nods, and tells her he wants to do it in a hotel.
They walk to the place in silence. Stolen money pays for the room, and he goes so far as to order a bottle of sparkling wine. The light from the bulb on the ceiling is even harsher on her than that of the street lamp. But still, as she drinks and giggles and flirts with him, Marko can see the ghost of the girl she once was.
In the morning, the owner of the seedy hotel will find a very unwelcome surprise in one of his rooms.
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It is 1986.
There is a boy hiding in the shadows of the backyard of a boarded-up shop. His hands are shaking as he holds a spoon. His face is illuminated by the flame of a candle. He is nineteen, but he might as well be ninety, judging by his emaciated frame and the look of world-weariness on his face. He barely manages to hold the spoon still enough to melt the gray mass on it.
"Need help?" a voice from out of the dark asks. The boy jumps and almost spills the heroin. He curses, and looks at Paul with guarded eyes. "No," he says.
Paul shrugs. "I'll help ya anyway." He calmly takes the spoon from the boy's trembling fingers, who lets go even though he really doesn't want to, afraid that his hard-earned, low-grade stuff might be stolen from him, but already too weak to fight for it. As Paul dumps the heroin onto the ground, the boy shouts out in pure, undisguised terror.
"There was rat poison in it," Paul states calmly. He pulls a little green balloon out of one pocket of his ruined dress coat, loosens the knot and drops his far better stuff onto the spoon. Humming to himself, he melts the heroin, while the boy watches him with dull eyes. Then Paul takes the strap of fabric already laid out and ties it tightly around the boy's upper arm. The boy tries to shrink away from him only briefly. Paul draws the heroin up into the well-used syringe that had been placed next to the candle and shoots the boy up expertly. The boy tilts his head back and draws in a deep breath, sighing with relief as he lets it out again.
As they both wait for the stuff to fully hit, though for very different reasons, they sit in an almost amicable silence, staring into the dancing flame of the candle.
The next day, another young man will be added to Santa Carla's list of drug deaths.
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It is 1984.
The Boys are at the Boardwalk, Paul and Marko sitting on the railing, feet dangling, while David and Dwayne are standing at their sides, flanking them. A bottle of vodka is circling between them, as is a joint.
They watch the sea of humans with keen eyes. There are quite a few people they'd like to kill just by the looks of them, like the fat businessman ogling girls that are way too young, or the lady with the icy eyes who is dragging her crying daughter along as if she were a handbag.
Unfortunately, the Boys aren't allowed to.
"Why can't we just go for the disgusting rich fuckers?" Paul had whined to Max when they had been bothering him in his store once again just a few nights ago. "I don't wanna eat junkies an' runaways an' whores an' other pitiful folks. I wanna make an impact."
Max had shaken his head. "I understand," he had replied, his voice benign, "considering where you came from, Paul. In fact, where you all came from … But I've told you multiple times already, as I've told the other boys: Fantastic as it may sound, those 'disgusting rich fuckers' would actually be missed, unlike those poor creatures your nightly diet consists of. Believe me, I would love to give you free reign in this matter, but we simply cannot risk it."
In the beginning of their undead lives, they all had wanted to do just as Paul did want to do now.
In 1912, David had stared loathingly at the nouvelle rich, snobbish young women who were just about to board a ship that would bring them to England, to be married to members of the dusty, degenerate aristocracy over there. In 1929, Dwayne had longed to change his diet to brokers and bankers with a vengeance. In 1964, Marko had been humming "Masters of War" like a mantra, desperately wanting to eat some generals.
The Boys all had been called lowlife, scum, sleaze and other nice things at various points in their lives, both prior and past to their birth into darkness.
But unlike the people insulting them, they knew who the real lowlives were, and that they were not to be found among the rubble of the streets.