Lost Boys They strut past fish trucks and women sitting on low stools selling fistfuls of dried seaweed from their laps. On leave from base, they proudly wear spangled gang colours-blood red, crip blue- unaware they are known only to each other. They swagger through vendors on congested streets, defending new turf, peach-fuzzed chins held high. They stop and sniff each other, circling, staking claim on reeking sewer grates. Babes at arms plucked from the poor have yet to see a man beg for death or a bullet put through human flesh. They stroll the streets of Seoul feeling invincible, buying black market jackets, purses for Mom, unaware they are in a holding pen, like animals at a Texas county fair, bought and paid for, waiting for the next convoy heading to a slaughterhouse in the sand.
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