Disclaimer: This story features characters from Disney's 1992 musical, Newsies. I do no stake any claim to them and they are used for fictional purposes only. Any other character is either the property of this author or the creator of said character.

--

Pick Your Poison

--

It was a small, dingy building at the end of a short, dingy street. Hidden between some tailor's shop and a joint with overpriced meat in the window, the room that the dirt-stained wooden door led to couldn't have been half as big as the old lodging house back in Manhattan. At first, I didn't think it was possible that this could be where I was supposed to be. It didn't look like the sort of place that Spot Conlon would work out of at all.

There was one big, fat, greasy rat sittin' on the porch, nosin' at a pile of only God knows what that was tossed off to the side. When I got near enough to the damned thing the vermin's itty bitty nose began to twitch like hell as it caught wind of me. I always heard that those vicious little shits had one hell of a sense of smell and, whether or not ol' Mush was full of it when he told me that, this rat didn't come no closer. In fact, it hopped off the porch, stubby legs carryin' it away as fast as they could.

It looked afraid. I don't blame it. I'd be afraid of me, too.

Damn smart rat. I wish I coulda followed the thing, too. Hell, anything woulda been better than steppin' through that dark, dirty door and meetin' up with the bummer who owned it. But I knew I had to. Didn't want to, but had to.

Damn it.

A large number 83 was etched into the dirty wooden door. It looked like someone with a knife and way too much time on their hands had carved it into the warped wood rather than just givin' up and buyin' some paint.

I glanced at the napkin scrap I was still clutchin' in my hand. Nervous sweat had caused the once-white napkin to curl but I could see the address that had been scrawled there: 83 Bridge St., Brooklyn, New York. I was at Spot Conlon's… accounting firm.

Yeah, accounting firm. I'm surprised that Dave could keep a straight face when he told me about it. David Jacobs may have been the most innocent of all of us back when we was kids but I doubt that now, as a grown man, he could believe that Spot Conlon could do anything as legitimate as punchin' numbers. Punchin' people, maybe, but not numbers.

But, then again, who was I to insist otherwise? I ain't been back here since, well, the beginning of the new century. Seven years since I've been gone. Hell, I was lucky enough that I ran into anyone from my past life. And, even if Dave didn't know where I needed to go, at least he knew where I could find Spot.

And Spot, I was pretty damn sure, would know where I needed to be to… yeah. Anyway—

Back in the old days, Spot used to have… what the hell did he call 'em? Birds. He had birdies. Now he has spies. Either way, they did the same thing. And Spot Conlon knew everything he needed to—wanted to—know. I sure got lucky runnin' into Dave. It was one step closer to what I had come here to do.

I shook my head. I could tell just from the outside of that dingy buildin' that I was right about what had come of Spot. This wasn't no accounting firm, I could say that.

But, hey, the address was what Dave had offered and I wasn't about to leave without checkin' it out first. So, crumpling up that napkin, I stuffed it into the back pocket of my trousers. Not the one with the gaping hole, though. The other one. Just in case.

With a hand that had a bit of the shakes, I tried to straighten up my messy, overgrown hair before givin' up, givin' in and turnin' those frantic fingers into a fist. There was no way I was going to come off looking any better than I did already. I looked like shit and I knew it and I didn't care.

The door was harder than it looked but smooth… for the most part. I knocked against it, takin' care to bang underneath the carved 83. I didn't need no splinters in my hand and whoever had done the knife job hadn't made it as clean as they could have.

Some big goon opened the door and I only had enough time to pull my fist back before it smacked into his gut. He had to have at least a head on me and weighed probably twice as much as I did. Plus, he had no hair. Scary lookin' bastard.

He glowered down at me, his head shining even with there bein' no light coming from inside of the room. "You got business here?"

He was made to intimidate any stragglers who happened to find Spot's joint but, shit, I wasn't scared. I have dealt with my fair share—and then some—of goons in my life and he wasn't as bad as he could have been. Didn't mean that I didn't choose my words carefully, though. I did. It may not be that great of a face but it's the only one I got.

"Yeah. Business. I gotta see Spot. I'm a… a old friend," I told him. Well, it wasn't a lie. "Skittery. Skittery Daniels. You go tell Spot I gotta talk to him, alright?"

Skittery. Man, did that name taste bad on my tongue. Sour, almost, like the time I drank curdled milk down at Tibby's on a nickel bet by Racetrack. A whole lifetime of memories and bad decisions came with the name of Skittery but I knew I couldn't damn well tell Spot Conlon that Benny Daniels was there. He didn't know no Benny. He knew a Skittery. So I was Skittery. Sour milk and memories and all.

I never wanted to be a Skittery, ya know. When I gave up that name, I never planned on takin' it back. And now, at twenty-five years old, I was a goddamn Skittery again.

Yeah… why the hell was I doin' this again?

I coughed just then, a violent spasm that made my chest burn and even made ol' Baldy take a careful step away from me.

Oh, yeah. That's right…

The big, bald goon—from his distance—was lookin' me over. He was sizin' me up, makin' sure that I wasn't there to do something to his boss, I figure. Like I could take on Spot Conlon – even if I wanted to. He may never have been the biggest newsie around but he sure was the most feared. What he did to that one copper back in '98… that was classic. I hadn't forgotten.

"You'll have no trouble out of me," I added, and I meant it. "I just need to see Spot."

I guess he finally believed me—that, or he wanted to leave me alone—because he nodded. "Wait here." He was gruff and rough and his shiny head damn near hit the ceiling of this small, dark room. I wasn't about to mess with this guy, though. Like I said, it's the only face I got. A fist that meaty… well, it could do plenty of damage.

God, all I wanted right then was a cigarette. Just a little something to calm my nerves and remind me again why I had left my home in Jersey to come back to the City. But I couldn't. I left all my smokes back at the boarding house, sittin' neglected in my other pair of trousers. I had wanted to make a better impression on Spot so I wore the dark ones, the ones with the least amount of holes. But, damn, I was cravin' a smoke. Rushin' out, I had forgotten them. If I live to see it, I'll never make that mistake again.

I ain't too sure how long I was standin' there, waitin' for Baldy to come back, but it didn't seem like too long. Within a couple of minutes, and wearin' a grim face that made him look three times as ugly, the goon came back, his big, bulky shape fillin' up the gap between the open door. Sausage-like fingers were pointed at my chest as he growled, "The boss says he'll see you."

I let out the breath I didn't even know I'd been holdin'. Well, that was a lot easier than I'd thought—and one obstacle out of the way, to boot. I hadn't thought about what I would have done if Spot refused to see me but, ya know, I guess I didn't have to worry about that, now.

Well, I did have to worry, I guess. I had to worry about gettin' him to tell me what I needed to know.

Not too bad, really. Things were beginnin' to look up.

Now, I'll say this. This building must have been some kind of illusion or some shit, I don't know, because it seemed a lot bigger on the inside than it did on the outside. I followed Baldy through two smaller, even darker, rooms before findin' myself before another door. This one wasn't warped and it didn't have anything carved in the top, either.

It was a fancy door, made of fancy wood. Spot Conlon was movin' up in the world. Magic building and all.

I didn't even bother knockin' this time. I think that surprised Baldy. If anything, he blinked only once at the way I seemed so darin'—I mean, this was Spot Conlon, after all—but that's all I saw before openin' the door and steppin' into the room.

The first thing I noticed was how expensive this damn room was, and how shitty the outside looked compared to it. There was a rich, shag carpet that my cracked boots sunk right into, and a couple of chairs made out up bona fide mahogany and padded with a pillow so that a visitor's ass doesn't get sore. Real ritzy, that. Spot Conlon hadn't just moved up in the world. He was thumbin' his nose down at the suckers – like me – who still rolled around in the muck.

It was then, when the novelty of starin' at Spot's office began to wear off, I wondered how the hell I could see anything at all to begin with.

Looking around, I saw that it was much brighter in there than anywhere else in the building. There were no windows but that's not where the light was coming from anyway – the light was coming from candles. Four of them. Perched carefully in the four corners of the room. It was an ingenious design, I noticed, with the most of the light bein' focused on a wide desk.

And there, sittin' behind that desk, with fancy leather shoes kicked up on the desk, lookin' like he didn't have a care in the world, was Spot Conlon. Spot fuckin' Conlon. He had grown. Damn.

If I would have run into him on the street, I ain't too sure I would have recognized him. Where my dark brown hair was gettin' longish, and there was that constant layer of dirt on my face that even the heartiest of scrubbings couldn't remove, Spot looked impressive. And tall, I couldn't get over it. Not as tall as me, and definitely not as tall as Baldy, but he had grown a couple of inches. Still short and all but no shrimp.

He had closely cropped fair hair, too, and eyes that any dame could—and had—fallen for, all stuffed into a suit that must have cost more than I made in the past three years, doin' honest work. His skin was clean and tanned—healthy—and he was smilin'. It was an all-knowing smile, an amused smile. He was goin' to enjoy this meeting. "Skittery. Long time, no see." He laughed shortly as if he had made a joke. I didn't think it was funny. "I never expected to see your ugly mug around here again."

So… he wanted to start out with niceties. I could do that. "Trust me, Spot. I never planned on bringin' my mug back to New York." With a careless wave of my hand, I gestured around the room. "You've done well, eh, Spot? And all this with… accountin', I hear?"

His answer was a mix of rich laughter and a condescending smirk. Ass. "Yes. Accounting." He patted the edge of his desk fondly. "I've done well. But you," he added, one perfectly shaped eyebrow risin' as he turned his piercing stare on me—I tried not to flinch—"you look like shit, Skittery. What the hell happened to you?"

"Life, Spot." I shrugged. I didn't want to tell him. All I wanted was an address. He didn't need to know anything more than whose address I needed. "But you know I ain't here to spitball about old times." Spot nodded, a grin stretchin' his face. He wasn't stupid. "Look. I need—"

There was a knocking sound just then, cuttin' me off. "Hey, Spot, you called for me?"

I forgot what I had been sayin' as that voice—that damn voice—ran through my head. Oh, hell no. You have got to be shittin' me. I've been back in this god-forsaken area for three days and I run into her. Damn it. This was not what I was expecting when I came back to New York.

Of course, there was a slim chance that it wasn't her. That voice could belong to any of the thousands of cheap girls in the city. Just because there was an inherent purr to that one, it didn't mean it was her.

Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba.

If it was even possible, Spot's shark-like grin grew even wider as he looked over his shoulder. There was a door back there—I don't know how I didn't see it before, especially with all the damn candles—and he nodded at it. "Come in, honey. I got a friend of mine I'd like you to meet." He looked back at me. I could see his damn teeth glintin' against the candlelight. "Or, should I say, re-meet."

This was it. My eyes, without any direction at all, slid to the side as I watched the door open. A slender hand, wearin' a lacey white glove, came out first, followed by an arm and then a head, lowered so that I couldn't see her face, as she approached Spot's grand mahogany chair. It was a blonde head, attached to one hell of a body, but it didn't mean it was her. Right?

Wrong.

She was wearin' heels, I noticed. When you're in such a state of mind you start to notice crazy shit like that. Spot, pushin' five foot six, has a dame wearin' heels. Never would have thought it'd make any sense but, then again, this is Spot Conlon. He was vicious enough, smart enough, rich enough not to have to make sense, I guess.

He was lookin' at me, those piercing blue or grey—or whatever the fuck color they are—eyes goin' right through me. He jerked up his chin while liftin' his right hand to beckon this girl closer. As if trained, she came and stood off to his right, her hand settlin' on Spot's grey suit jacket. She looked up as Spot's fingers pointed at me. "Skittery. I think you remember Sunny."

Sunny. Sunny, with her honey blonde hair always done up in loose curls and a set of brown eyes that made ya think of chocolate and crème and all sort of sweet things that a street rat could never afford but secretly wanted. Sunny Willows, my first girl. Shit, the years have been good to her.

She's filled out some, too. Grew a couple of inches, both tall-wise and in the middle. And her rack. Never had any tits before but now… what I wouldn't have given when I was seventeen for Sunny Willows to have a rack like she did now.

I was starin' at her but I didn't care. She looked good, delicious almost. I felt dirty and old, leerin' at her. I only had three years on her but, hell, I looked my age. Sunny… damn. This can't be happenin'. She's the reason I'm in this mess. She's the reason I came back. I wasn't supposed to ever see her again. Why now?

At least I know why the hell Spot was smilin' like that…

Those eyes of her—kind yet knowin', enticin' but somehow still deceivingly pure—was watchin' me but she didn't say a word. Not one single word. Her hand was still restin' lightly on Spot's hoity toity coat and, look at him, he's smirking.

He knew what he was doin'. Fuckin' bum. He was doin' it on purpose, too. I can tell. I've seen him do it to plenty other guys when we was kids. Always got that same cocky look in his eyes when he did it, that same curl of his thin upper lip. Bastard.

That's alright. Two can play this game, I guess. Besides, I didn't come here to find Sunny. It's been almost eight years—seven years and five months, but who's countin'?—since… since the last time I saw her. I hadn't never wanted to see her again and, as far as I'm concerned, that still stands. So what if she's with Spot Conlon now? She's had everyone else and their brother, why not Spot?

And, so what if I'd bed her in an instant, should she even give me the chance? It didn't mean I'd forgive her for what she'd done to me. It didn't mean that I still loved her. Not at all.

I nodded. "Yeah, Spot. I remember." I tried to sound aloof, like I wasn't bothered by her reappearance in my pitiful existence. Sure, I would have felt a bit better about it if she had bloated up like a whale, or lost a couple of teeth. Perhaps her hair could have fallen out instead of settlin' on her hair in those prim, innocent—innocent, my ass—curls. Maybe she could have popped out a couple of kids or married a drunk or something… but no.

No.

There she was, little Mary Willows, lookin' just as good as she always had. But this time she wasn't with… wasn't with me. She was with Spot Conlon. Spot Conlon, whose one hand was patting her dainty, pale one possessively. Spot fuckin' Conlon, whose second hand had reached behind Sunny and was pattin' her on the ass.

Shit.

This was gonna be harder than I thought.

Author's Note: Well, I couldn't help it. After opening up each of my word documents in a row and trying to come up with something to write, I realized that I still haven't gotten over my writer's block. However, inspiration comes in the strangest forms and, when I was showering this morning, this idea popped in my head. It fleshed itself out quite nicely and I realized that, if I didn't get this out, it would haunt me. So, here it is, a new story. It's going to be a multi-chapter fic but (hopefully) not too long.

This is more of an exercise than anything. It's in the first person point of view and, as such, is limited. Plus, it features a character I rarely use. And it will help me (in later chapters) work with dialogue. So, yeah. I'd really appreciate any feedback on this.