“‘Sup Dawg” greeted Deyvon in his deep, gruff tone as he sauntered into the living room of the rundown beach apartment that morning, stretching his thick muscles, covered in gang and prison tattoos. The other three members of his gang, already zoned out from a serious blaze, nodded to him as the large, 22-year-old black man strutted past, his baggy Jncos most of the way off his waist, revealing his worn, faded boxers. A threadbare wife beater struggled to stretch over Deyvon’s barrel chest, revealing a bit of his brown belly, the thick abs already beginning to get lost in a layer of fat.
Deyvon yawned, growling throatily in frustration as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. This was the second week the gang had been hiding out in this seaside apartment of an Orange County beach town, far from the hood of Deyvon’s birth, and it was beginning to piss off the young thug, laying low after the botched bank robbery, to have to stay indoors all day, doing nothing but watching a snowy old TV and getting high with his homies. Ignoring their warnings, he grabbed a beer and pulled open the sliding glass door to the balcony. He stepped outside to breathe the fresh ocean air and look out over the sunny beach, watching the waves crashing onto the bright bronze sand.
Deyvon sighed, his thoughts wandering as he took a swig of the stale beer. He had a hard face, bull-like and hardly handsome, marred by a couple of scars he’d gotten in a prison fight and scraggly patches of beard beneath his wispy mustache and thick lips. He seemed to have been in trouble from the day he was born, running with gangs from age 11, constantly in and out of juvie, and in prison from 18 until just recently. Now he was risking perhaps the rest of his life behind bars, if the heat didn’t blow over soon, and who knew when that would be. He grumbled deeply, sounding like the bulldog he resembled, his thick biceps flexing. He had a hulky build formed from years doing nothing but pumping iron in prison, and not even his skinnier homies dared fuck with him. He scratched the tangle of dark hairs on his hard chest, beneath the gold chains and the tattoo of big-breasted Inez, his bitch. She’d been over just last night, and Deyvon had fucked her real good, not knowing if he’d have another chance soon. He smiled at the thought, but suddenly he didn’t feel so good. A weird feeling washed over him as he looked out over the waves, and he shifted his thick bare feet around, feeling unbalanced all of a sudden.
For unbeknownst to hard-edge Deyvon, the spirit of chill surferdude Keoni haunted this town, and it had latched onto the foreign influence to his realm, this sketchy thug, already working the changes…
“Fuuuck,” Deyvon groaned, his voice seeming to waver, grown subtly lighter. He grasped onto the railing, his dark brown eyes glazed as they remained fixed on the waves below, where surfers frolicked, laughing happily in their near-naked state. He trembled, feeling waves of a cool, chill nature undulating through him, altering his cells, his very being. Suddenly, those deep, dark eyes exploded into a vibrant green, with flecks of gold like the rays of the sun, looking utterly exotic and beautiful in his brown face. He lost grasp of his beer, and it smashed onto the balcony. The homies inside, even further blazed by now, failed to notice.
Deyvon groaned again, this time the voice more tenor, more distinct than the gruff grumble of the intimidating gangster. The thick muscle began to drain away, no longer necessary in this less than dangerous beach community, leaving behind a sleek, fitness model physique, still brown and perfect, the tattoos vanishing into the unmarred skin. The waves of heat caused Deyvon to pull off his wifebeater, which now revealed toned abs, a small golden hoop now pierced through the flat navel. The tangle of chest hairs had vanished. He threw aside the shirt, the green eyes lingering a bit on the once rough, calloused hands, now long and slender, the long fingers lean and clearly those of a dude unused to any kind of labor. So weird, man.
He was feeling confused, struggling to remember his name, anything about himself, everything seeming foreign and mixed up like in a blender in his slightly stoned brain. Even as strands of kinky dark brown hair exploded out of his once shaved, misshapen skull, twisting themselves into dreadlocks, a few blonde highlights here and there, Daven thought he never got this stoned. He rarely toked all that much, only occasionally with his buds after a good surf. Yeah, Daven, that was his name!
The realization accelerated the changes, as the once bulldog face leaned out, reshaping into a model-like visage, with a delicate, upturned nose, the facial hair falling out, leaving young Daven baby-faced, the only hair his carefully trimmed eyebrows over the large, mesmerizing emerald eyes. A pair of gold hoops in his ears complemented the navel ring. He probably had some European ancestry, way back, clearly not fully African, though he was clearly a black dude, from one of the few black families living in the beach suburban community where Devon was raised. He’d never been in trouble a day in his life, nothing but the occasional getting high of course.
The dreadlocks cascaded over those eyes, and Daven shook them out, laughing a little, giddily, as he often did when feeling dope. He flexed his lean, beach body torso, the dark flesh glistening from the surf with sculpted, tight pecs and chiseled abs. The baggy jeans had vanished, and the threadbare boxers had morphed into knee-length boardshorts with colorful, abstract patterns of an 80’s retro design. The legs under the shorts were long, lean and sculpted from constant surfing, and the once thick, stubby feet had grown svelte and well-shaped, with long toes. He stretched out his feet, longing for his board. But where the hell was he anyway?
Devon blinked, suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings. He swung around, startled, and now the gangsters inside became aware of the stranger among them. They jumped off the couch, going for their guns, no longer remembering there ever had been a fourth member of their gang. Suddenly Devon found guns pointed at him and a bunch of yelling, strange thugs lunging for him. Devon squeaked a bit, terrified. He’d never been so scared, his life always carefree and safe. He threw out the peace sign, yelling, “Chill out, dudes! I’ll vamoose, like, right now, k?”
The gangsters were just as scared to find this weird surfer-looking black kid among them, nearly naked, a 6’2” but very lanky kid with wild dreads. He sounded like one of those dudes from that old movie, “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure”. They yelled at him to make for the door and get the hell out before he got a bullet in his ass.
Devon did just that, sprinting through the apartment and out the door, running barefoot down the stairs and back to the beach. That had been a close call, being among those black thugs. He was way more used to chilling with his white and Asian surfer buds, even occasionally messing around with them, being typically bisexual like most of the dudes on the beach. He even hoped to get with that cool little twink Max tonight, down at the beach barbecue. Yeah, best to just focus on that, while his racing heart slowed down, and surfer Devon grew calmer. He had reached the sand, and there was Max coming in from the surf with his board. Devon laughed again, his dexterous dark feet pouncing through the sand, toward the blonde kid he had grown to love so much…