(Part 1 of 2) Ever wonder what really happened to David, Paul, Dwayne and Marko before the Emerson's made their fateful appearance in Santa Carla and why they ended up the way they did...or did they? Be prepared for the strange and unusual. *Side Note: It's a long one folks, so grab yourself a tub of popcorn and pull up that lazy-boy comfy chair because in truth, you're going to need it. My poor posture is the result of writing this thing.
Categories: Lost Boys
David, Dwayne, Grandpa, Laddie, Marko, Max, OC: Female, Other, Paul, Star, Widow Jonhson
Action/Adventure, Drama, Horror, Humour, Romance, SupernaturalPairing(s):
Character Death, Domestic Violence, Drug Use
11 May 2006 Updated:
25 Jun 2006
Prologue by Cat Lady
It was just another regular, hot, sultry day in Santa Carla, the Murder Capital of the World…in all actuality, that message scrawled on the back of the Welcome to Santa Carla sign on the Highway 10 exit is a mistake, but who am I to say otherwise? The true death Capital is none other than the war-torn city of Baghdad, but the number of innocent deaths was caused by humans not vampires. So the boys were partially right when they wrote the sign. Santa Carla comes second, but is first on the vampiric side of things. Ah well, what the hell do we care about such matters? Like our lives aren’t complicated enough as it is eh? But anyways…
Before I continue, allow me to introduce myself. It’s only politeness after all because heaven forbid people should start being civil to one another. If that ever happened hell just might freeze over and then we’d all be in a whole lot of trouble. The last thing I need if for Mr. Pitch-fork Wielding Goat Boy to suddenly appear demanding why the internal inferno of his private sauna is no longer working. Plus, it’ll be less confusing later on. So, the name’s Fay Prima folks and I’m just your average next-door neighbor, spinster on the block, bonafied 42nd generation Italian witch. Well, witch is just one of the categories that I fall under. Frankly, I’m just about everything and anything that you can possibly think of and then some. Let me tell you, me trying to write up a résumé is about as easy as decoding the Rosetta stone, and this is coming from a person who can read both ancient Greek and Egyptian hieroglyphics. Sometimes I wonder why I have no social life.
Anyways, the one “title” that I really like is something that Paul came up with during one of his head-banging bouts of drunkenness. Mind you, there was hardly a moment when he wasn’t drunk or high, but that was the 80’s for you. Everyone was on some kind of upper back then be it weed, booze, raunchy music or the horrible fashion sense of the decade. He called me the Crazy Cat Lady of Santa Carla. For some reason we all thought that it was the funniest thing that he ever came up with and so it stuck. The Crazy Cat Lady…ah Paul. It does have some truth to it aside from the fact that I am not a crazy loon. Yes I do have cats; about six that live with me at the moment and god knows how many more that roam the streets. They are my own personal eyes and ears of the city. Oh, and I can talk to them too. Regretting reading this yet? No? My, you are a stubborn one aren’t you?
But I’m getting off topic. So yes, I’m the neighborhood kook and no I do not spend hours talking to the plants that grow alongside my windowsill. Since I am an Italian among other things, I have a bad habit of over cooking. It has been brought to my attention that every time I whip up something for lunch, I overdo it just a little bit. I would never have believed it until the boys actually refused to step into my kitchen, least they come out thirty pounds heavier. After all, there’s only so much lasagna a person can eat before he goes down for the count. Who knew vampires could get high cholesterol? So, if you’re ever in the neighborhood, feel free to drop by sometime because I’ll probably have a vat of home-made pasta on the stove, ready to be served.
I know I talk too much, always have and always will, but what I’m trying to get at with all this ceaseless chattering is that I want to set the record straight. And you’re probably wondering what the heck I’m talking about, so what I want you to do is sit down and listen. You can do that right? Good. SIT! Now, you may or may not be familiar with the boys, but judging by the fact that you’ve read this far leads me to believe that you have some familiarity with them, hence the reason for reading this crappy introduction of mine. All you vampire lovers, monster fanatics and blood-sucking wannabes probably know the boys as the Lost Boys, a bunch of teenage nineteen-eighties, metal-head punks who lived for the thrill, didn’t give jack shit about what went on around them and ended up getting the proverbial stake because they were too stoned to see it coming. Well, I admit part of it is true, but I’m writing this memoir to tell you about the whole story, the true story. The movie that was made by Joel Schumacher solely focuses around a tiny fraction of what really went on, painting a wall-sized fresco with only one can of paint. So it’s only natural that a lot of stuff got left out, like me for example. I don’t think that Mr. Schumacher would have bought the idea that it was a witch that put foot to ass along with four head-banging vampires, but the man had to make a movie that would appeal to the younger crowd. And I don’t know about you, but I think that a 21 year-old Kiefer Sutherland would have more of an impact as the bad-ass vampire leader rather than some frizzy-hair, knife wielding, twenty-something version of stregga nonna. But then again, that’s just me.
So, I’m going to tell you the before and after of what really happened to David, Dwayne, Paul and Marko and myself. As flawed as The Lost Boys movie is, the basic outline is true. So to you the reader who has patiently put up with my ranting, grazzi tutti and here’s the story. The real story is about four guys who were dealt the joker’s card and ended up paying the price for something that they never had to get involved with and all for the sake of friendship. Whoever said that the boys were cold-blooded murdering monsters without a shred of conscience doesn’t know his ass from his forehead. And I should know because I was there.
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