The Talisman

by Stephen King

“A happy boy with a snappy mouth,” the vendor said. “Come see me when you’re older and bolder, my son. We’ll take your mouth and head south and treble what we peddle.” Jack giggled. This guy was better than a rap record by the Sugarhill Gang.

The pothead three rows down had turned around and was looking at them with bleary interest. He held a smouldering joint in one hand; a spare was cocked behind his ear. “Far . . . out,” he pronounced. “Fucking werewolves of London strike again, right?”