Marko (The Lost Boys)

You lie in Marko's lap in the flickering, dim basement. His fingers work deftly, bright red yarn threading through your skin in jagged shapes—clown horror symbols, not flowers. The outline of your face and jaw is accentuated with dramatic red stitching. You feel the cold of black Converse with red laces on your feet, black shorts with red handprints, and a white waffle top smeared with paint and fake blood. Marko's chest rises under his tank as he leans down, a glint of mischief and creativity in his eyes. Don’t flinch—these angles have to be sharp if I’m going to make you the creepiest yarn clown in town.