Peter Pan: The Bro Who Wouldn't Grow Up

Chapter 2

The effulgent light of midafternoon radiated throughout the hideout, as the Lost Boys leaned lackadaisically on the various sofas, arms chairs and beanbags, anarchically situated through the common area. Pan lay flat against the couch, his head slightly perched on one of its arms, with a goofy looking bright, yellow cowboy hat perched on his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes.

"So...," Pan murmured, "any ideas for what we should do today?"

The Lost Boys were silent for a moment.

"Ummm...," one said, "Well...we could always just chillax. Maybe get some beers and pop-in Ski School or EuroTrip. Take it easy, you know."

"Not a bad idea," Pan acknowledged. "Anyone else?"

"Why don't, we like, go somewhere," another suggested.

"Yeah!" another chimed in. "How about we go to Panama City or Ibiza."

Pan rubbed his chin, as he contemplated this.

"Bro!" a Lost Boy exclaimed. "How about we make a stopover in that one place with those trippy edibles which make you change sizes. What's it called again?"

"You mean Wonderland?" Another added.

Pan shot up and threw the hat aside.

"No!" Pan cried. "We are not going to Wonderland!"

A few of the Lost Boys chuckled.

"I forgot," one of them snickered. "Pan's afraid of Wonderland."

"Hey, man." Pan argued in his defense. "Those Wonderland people are insane, even by my standards. The last time I was there I smoked, what I thought was hash, with a giant caterpillar. Turned out he lied and it was straight-up opium. Then I ended up at some event in which a dude slipped me laced tea, with DMT or some shit like that, only to end up going home with some rich cougar divorcee, whom I later found out had a fetish for painting things red. Literally, I woke up the next morning and my body looked like I'd been doused in ketchup like a fucking French fry. We are not going to Wonderland!"

"Okay, okay," The young man conceded. "How about we just get an Airbnb and go to Santa Cruz."

"No!" Pan protested. "Santa Cruz is weirder than Wonderland!"

Peter got to his feet and stood in front of the mantle place, so all could see him.

"Look," he proclaimed, "we live in Neverland, the single most awesome place that has ever existed. People dream of nothing more than to come to this place. Hell, a famous popstar tried to recreate his own creepy version of it. Neverland is where it's happening. We don't need to go anywhere else in order to have a more awesome time."

"Here, here!" a Lost Boy cheered, as several others clapped and hollered.

"This is what I say we do," Peter continued. "Tommy, Corn Pop, and Cock Rocket, you guys go scrounge up some cash and pick up some alcohol, plus a few chasers."

"Dude, we got the last of our fake IDs confiscated," one boy protested.

"It's cool, just go to a place where they don't have a drinking age, like Germany, Russia, Detroit, or Salinas," Pan advised.

"Tum Tum, Nurple, and Ass Master, go over to the Indians and buy some peyote off of them. "

"Native Americans," one boy corrected Pan.