As mentioned before this is for the Newsie Pape Selling Competition. It will be a two chapter story. The word count is 1,019.

My prompt's

-Write about your Favorite Newsie ( Spot just in case, this is acknowledged more in the Second chapter)

-Life is tough

The year was 1955 and the Vietnam War had started. Propaganda was in full swing and Spot Conlon was not going to be left out.

Being a newsboy since he was able to talk, Spot knew that life was tough. Better than anyone else, in fact. His future prospects were few and they all consisted of hard labor and Spot was not going to go down that path.

Spot was a natural leader. Everyone told him so, and, after all, they didn't call him the King of Brooklyn for nothing. His talents should not be wasted.

So while reading the morning edition he found a wonderful opportunity.

The military was looking for new recruits. Blinded by the chance to get off the streets, Spot raced down to City Hall, never once considering the risks of enlisting.

At City Hall there was a line full of boys just like him. All dressed in rags. Their fingers stained black either from coal or ink.

Looks like they all had the same idea.

Posters and fliers littered the floor and walls. Picking one up, Spot saw the perfect family. A mother, a father, two kids and a dog. Underneath the picture, in big white letters that contrasted against the dark blue background it said: "Protect your family!"

Spot had never had a family, or at least one that he remembered. If he died, which wasn't very likely because they all expected the war to be over just as soon as it started, no one would miss him. Perhaps the newsies would, but then they would find a new leader and forget about him.

The line started to move. In a swift motion, Spot folded the flier and stuffed it in his pocket.

They were directed to an open room where officials sat behind small white tables, manila folders at their sides.

After much confusion everyone was split in to six rows of five. When his turn came, the official kept scribbling away on what looked like a form.

"Name?"

"Spot Conlon."

"Age?"

"18."

Without questioning his liability, Spot was instructed towards a white door.

A woman dressed in a white lab coat sat near the door, a clipboard on her lap.

As he approached, the woman pulled a yellow card and held it out to him.

"Fill this out in there" was the only thing she said.

Opening the door, Spot was faced with an uncanny contrast. A wide hallway had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Doctors and nurses walked back and forth between green curtains. Red arrows directed him towards a larger desk. Another nurse sat behind it typing away on a typewriter. There was a line of boys using each other's back to write out their information. A short boy Spot had never seen before turned around and handed him a pen

"e're you go. You can use my back if you want."

It was hard to understand him due to what Spot guessed was an Italian accent but he got what he meant.

"That's all right. I'll use my hand." Spot said, holding out his palm in front of him and writing out his name, age, and birth date.

"Suit yourself. Name's Carlos but my friends call me Racetrack."

Spot's eye's widened. "Newsie?"

The Italian smiled, and spit in his hand holding it out to Spot.

Mirroring him, the two boys shook hands.

"Spot Conlon. Brooklyn."

The Italian stepped back, while wiping his hand on his pants.

"The Spot Conlon?" he nodded.

"I'll be darned." Racetrack said, swiping a hand over his forehead.

"We hear all sorta of stuff in Manhattan about you. Now, why on earth would someone like you give up the great throne of Brooklyn?" Racetrack crossed his arms and looked at Spot as if he had just told him he set fire to the White House and joined a traveling circus as the bearded lady.

Spot shrugged and answered, "I don't know seemed better than living on the streets."

The Italian newsie still looked unimpressed. "Yes, because enlisting in the army and risking getting shot is better than the streets."

Scowling and also crossing his arms, Spot responded. "Look, it not going to affect you in any way if I die. So, why do you care?"

Racetrack took a step back and held up his arms in surrender. "Don't get all hissy with me. I just don't see why anyone would want to leave at their prime."

With a frown, Spot relaxed. "I was getting to old to sell. You don't make the same amount of money at my age."

Racetrack nodded but Spot could tell he still wasn't convinced. "How old exactly are you?"

Almost saying sixteen, Spot corrected himself. "Eighteen, same as you."

And with that, an unspoken agreement was made. Manhattan and Brooklyn might not be on the same terms they used to be but no matter how bad relations were, no newsies ever turned on each other against the higher power.

"Yeah, and so is everybody else."

Spot turned around and saw a tall blonde boy. A bandana was tied around his neck.

"Jack? What are you doing here?"

Spot knew Jack and Jack knew Spot. Brooklyn might have nothing to do with Manhattan now but it was unavoidable for the two leaders not to know each other.

Somewhere along the line, a borough war happened between Manhattan and Brooklyn. No one knew why or how but one thing was for sure, Brooklyn and Manhattan no longer talked and they might not ever. Alliance attempts had been made but they never amounted to anything, not to mention how something would always go terribly wrong for both boroughs when they tried.

Before either boy could get another word in, the nurse called out them, asking for their cards. Spot realized that if he passed the health test, which he was sure he would, there was no going back on his decision to join the army. Leaving was better than staying. If he died, they might put his name on a memorial stone and that way he would never be forgotten.