Disclaimer: I obviously don't own The Lost Boys, Casablanca, or The Threepenny Opera, but some people can't figure that out on their own.

Don'tLet the Sun Go Down On Me

1942

David took a long drag on his cigarette. He was thinking of a movie he had just seen. It had Humphrey Bogart in it, and Ingrid Bergman. He wasn't sure if he'd liked the ending or not- noble self-sacrifice and all. But then, he had never been one for the whole martyr thing- it seemed an unwise way to live. He thought about how sweet Ingrid Bergman's voice was.

"Whiskey, bartender."

David realized he was not alone in the bar. A boy of about eighteen had swaggered in, his army uniform clean and pressed. The boy's hair-cut was horrible, as if it had once been long, and then been hacked off sloppily. The stranger turned to him.

"Hey, you. Want a drink?"

"Who am I to refuse."

"Whiskey?"

"No thanks. I only drink...wine."

The kid ordered a glass for him, and extended his hand. It was rough and calloused.

"Paul."

"David. Tell me, to what do I owe this generosity?"

"I'm shipping off tomorrow. Thought I'd like to spend one more night in pleasant company before butchering the krauts."

Paul was clearly drunk- he'd quite possibly been to several bars, looking for someone else who was out on Christmas Eve.

"In the army, huh? How does it feel, killing for a better world?"

"Dunno yet. Tomorrow's my first battle."

He leaned back his head and sang.

Let's all go barmy

Live off the army

See the world we never saw

If we get feeling down

We'll wander into town

And if the population should greet us with indignation

We'll chop off their bits because we like our hamburgers raw!

Paul threw back his whiskey, and grimaced.

"You know, I think I could handle killing. I used to be great at hunting. Same sort of thing, only with people."

He sighed, and David felt interested in spite of himself. He motioned for him to go on.

"The thing I don't like is the thought of being killed. Scares me."

"Welcome to the human race."

"No, I know, but I can't help it. I want to live forever."

He grinned.

"I guess I wanna be Superman. I wanna fly, and have powers, and I don't want bullets to hurt me."

"Me too."

David thought for a moment. Max would kill me for this, he thought. The hell with Max.

He bit his thumb. A drop of blood gleamed for an instant, then he held it over his wine glass. He squeezed his thumb, allowing four drops of blood to fall in and blend with the red wine.

"What the hell are you doing?"

David held out his glass.

"Drink some of this, Paul."

"I'm not that smashed. I saw what you did to it."

"Soldier, I promise you that if you drink this, the Nazi's bullets will bounce right off of you."

Paul shook his head, disgusted.

"That's one thing about Santa Carla I never could stomach. All the damn freaks."

He got up to leave. He was halfway out the door when he came back in and swallowed the wine.

"Alright, you win. I'm so scared that I'll dink some pervert's blood if he says it'll keep me alive."

Paul slung his bag over his shoulder, and David called after him.

"Look me up after the war."

"How? I don't even know your last name."

"I'll be waiting for you."

Not for the first or last time, Paul shook hi head and walked out of the bar. After he had left, David grabbed the bartender and drained him of his last drop of blood.