A/N: I'm not dead! Hooray!
Disclaimer: I can't think of a funny one right now, but I don't own newsies, believe it or not.
I do, however, own the plot, other characters, etc, etc, etc, etc.
Etc.
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Before you ask, folks, this is not slash. It's just a story.
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The crowd was huge but that was good. David didn't like it, of course—the way they pushed, shoved, and smelled of smoke was something he didn't want to experience a lot—but that was okay because it was a good selling spot. A newsie always prayed for a crowd, a good number of people all at the same place.
Dave wiped his brow and held his papers in the air, shouting the headlines. Jack was here too, forcing his way through the people, but David had lost him long ago, too intent on his selling. That was good too. He had made nearly enough money to eat for a week, and all because of a large, willing-to-pay crowd.
"Extra, extra!" He yelled. "Get your papers here!"
The people had started slowing down on their buying, now. At first, many had gotten their attention drawn away by David's "selling tactics " (and what he hoped, his good looks) but now they were staring at the large platform erected on the corner. The platform was large and grand, with purple lettering on the sides and gold on the front, and looked just as impressive as Pulitzer's mansion. No wonder everyone was staring.
Dave patted his pockets and felt the jingle of coins. He looked around for Jack once more—there was no sign of the Cowboy—and then glanced upwards. He could afford to be laid back, to listen to what this person had to say.
"—and I can assure ya, ladies and gents, that this wond'ful, most magnificent bottle, is proven to reduce aches and pains and sore and bumps and all sorts of …things like that!"
David watched the speaker with a curious fascination. The guy was short and fat, with a long, gray, whiskery beard and curly mustache. He had raggedy clothes—brown suspenders and a beat up white shirt—and stood with the confidence of a wet mop, but still, the crowd was drawn to him.
The little man hopped about on the stage, holding his tonic in the air like a prize. He waved his hands about frantically, trying to prove his point--the people circling underneath him were gabbling disbelievingly, almost turkey-like.
"See, folks? That is the miracle of Captain Kelly's Miracle Elixir!" The man cried. He bent down on his knees. "Look, see how nimble Mr. Kelly's made me! Me! An old man!"
Dave frowned. He knew it was all a hoax, but the underwashed masses (sometimes, David was a little bit snooty) didn't. He checked all around him. The man next to him, a grubby person who smoked cigars, seemed to be buying it pretty good.
"You do know--" Dave started, but the guy onstage cut him off.
"And it's only a penny, too, folks! Only a penny! Think of how little that is!"
That really got the crowds going. Oh, boy. They were all murmuring to each other, nudging and poking. This was good stuff, of course it was (why would the gentleman lie?) and didn't even cost half a day's work of pay! A real gem, this tonic!
Dave, of course, being educated, knew exactly what was going on. This was crowd brainwashing, getting people to spend their money on something that didn't work. It was against the law—some people would call it fraud. And Dave was going to put a stop to this mischief once and for all.
"I bet it doesn't work at all!" David yelled, surprising himself. A whole block of people had turned to him, and he blushed. The man onstage looked more embarrassed than he, like he had been caught in a lie.
Which, of course, he had.
"That's just a combination of ink and cat's piss!" Dave continued, now rather enjoying the attention. He looked for Jack in the audience and wondered if he was proud of him, the walkin' mouth, for speaking up. "Check for yourself!"
The showman tried to cover it up. "That kid's crazy," he told the audience, sweating visibly. "Why would I lie? It's saved many a life from death, many a child from disease, many a--"
"Prove it!" screamed Dave. He raised his fist in the air. "Prove it! Show us! I bet you've never even got someone to try it!"
"Prove it!" he cried again, and soon the other people had taken up on the chant too, always ready to discredit someone. "Prove it! Prove it! Prove it! Prove it!"
"B-b-b-ut ladies and gentlemen, I don't need to pro…" stammered the old man. Dave almost felt sorry for him, and wondered if ratting him out was the right thing to do. "I...mean…witnesses…I—"
"You're an old fraud! That liquid probably just gives you boils!" Dave said. "You've got no witnesses at all!"
"Get down from there!" jeered someone else in the crowd. "Old man!"
"Now, really," the old man in question said. "I don't have witnesses, but—"
"You've got one," a voice in the crowd stated loudly, and as soon as the voice spoke Dave, swore, because he knew exactly who that person was.
It was Jack.
There he was, the goddamned fool, wearing that bandana and cowboy hat and looking as cool as you please. Jack was smirking, and he twisted the lasso between two fingers, as if longing to take it out and swing it around.
"Folks," said Jack conversationally, walking slowly up the purple and gold stairs. His arms were hanging loosely by his sides, but as they got to the old man they slipped around the fraud's shoulders easily. "I know how difficult it must be to believe Mister Kelly, but lemme tell ya, this guy ain't no joke."
Dave snorted. "He's a fraud."
Jack gave no sign he had heard his friend. He let of Mister Kelly and bounded to the front of the stage, hands above his heart.
"Once," the cowboy said, softly-but-loudly, so that the audience had to draw in to hear. "I was near death, my poor body wasted to shreds, coughin' and dyin' from some sort of foreign disease."
Was that tears in Jack's eyes? If they were, they were crocodile tears, and Dave didn't trust them one bit. The loud mob, though, was silenced, and Dave suddenly felt very alone.
"You should've seen me," Jack went on. "My poor mudda was cryin' all the time—I was gonna die for sure—when suddenly, as if by miracle, this Mister Kelly showed up out of the blue!"
"That's a lie!" Dave cried. "You're a liar!"
"He gave me this tonic and I took it twice a day," Jack's voice rose and rose and rose, until now he was screaming, the veins popping out visibly on his throat. "And by Jesus Almighty, it woiked! This elixir woiked! I was good as new in less than two weeks!"
His voice dropped again. "So," Jack whispered, hair falling in his face, looking at the ground as if shamed. "Don't you ever accuse this man of…of fraud. You'll never find a man as true as him, save for Christ himself!"
"But it… smells…like…piss!" Dave protested. No one listened.
"Buy Captain Kelly's tonic!" Jack finished, taking a much-deserved bow.
The crowd roared their approval, and pelted Jack with coins. It was a job well done on the cowboy's part.
And boy, was the walkin' mouth pissed off.
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After the people had cleared the area, Dave rushed up to the platform with malice in his heart. Head down, eyes blazing, he looked like a man possessed, and so he couldn't really blame Jack for backing up slightly when David had made it up the purple and gold stairs.
"Now Davy," Jack said quickly, nearly tripping as Dave advanced on him. "Lemme explai—"
That was when Dave swung for him. The walkin' mouth actually put up his fists and tried to hit Jack, aiming for his nose but really only landing a hard blow to the earlobe. Jack swore, then, and fell backwards onto his ass, holding his ear and looking up at Dave with a hurt expression on his face. "Ouch!"
David felt ashamed. He was painfully aware of the sweaty older man next to him, watching the battle between the two boys with interest, fiddling with the money he had made and not saying anything. Dave shifted uncomfortably, now embarrassed, and gave out a hand to help Jack up.
"Sorry," he said, as Jack grasped his hand and raised himself to his feet. "I just got really--"
"Yeah, okay," Jack said coldly. He was irritated now, frowning at David and tilting his cowboy hat back with an offended air.
"But-"
"But nothin'!" The other man said suddenly, coming out of his money-induced trance and coming over, popping open the buttons on his waistcoat. He had a really fantastic potbelly. "This boy made me richer than I've ever been in a long time! You've got no right to hit him, kid!"
"But-"
"I thank ye," the man went on, pointing at Jack. 'Mister…?"
"Kelly," said Jack. He looked disappointed, for some reason. "Jack Kelly."
"Kelly," repeated the elder. He looked thoughtful, and then blinked, flipping a coin up in the air and grabbing it out of midair. "Kelly?"
"Hi, Pops," Jack said dully.
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Bet you weren't expecting that, were you?
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Dave couldn't believe it. He just couldn't. It was impossible, unbelievable—the two looked nothing alike. The older Kelly was short, Jack was tall. Jack had brown eyes; the other had a clear gray. They didn't stand the same, didn't act alike, share the same laugh or quirks—it wasn't plausible. And the way Jack had found the man was silly, like something out of a book or a dime novel.
Besides, Dave had always pictured Jack's dad as a horrible fellow who whipped puppies and drank only beer and was always drunk and ate small children for breakfast. This man seemed nicer. And shorter.
He watched as the two embraced. Jack's father had gone into some wild frenzy, hugging Jack so tight Dave could almost see his eyes bulging out of his sockets. Jack, on the other hand, was gently patting his "pop" on the shoulder, looking less than tearful. His face was blank of emotion, really, not happy or sad or angry. He simply stood there, not moving as his father squeezed the life out of him.
"Let me look at you," the other said finally, letting Jack go and pushing him backwards, spanning Jack's waist with his hands. "Why, you're as skinny as a beanpole, kid!"
"Yeah, well," said Jack, embarrassed. He caught Dave's eyes and rolled his own upwards to the heavens. "I—"
"Handsome, though," his dad noted thoughtfully. Dave had to admit this was true: Jack's skin was clear and he was strong and his hair was only half greasy today. "You must get lotsa goils."
"Sure I do," Jack didn't sound sure of himself. "Listen, Pop—"
"I can't believe I didn't notice you before," went on the older man. "I guess I've just been in the pen so long, I—"
"Pop." Jack shouted. His father stopped, surprised. "This isn't really a good time. I've got to get back, make a livin', ya know."
"And what do you do for a livin', son?" Mister Kelly asked politely, curious, but either Jack didn't hear or he ignored the question for he replied:
"How about we meet up at somewhere later?"
His father nodded. "Shamrock's pub, about six-ish?"
"Sure," said Jack. He grabbed Dave's arm, startling the Mouth, and led him down the stairs. Dave followed hesitantly, not liking the gleam in Jack's brown eyes.
"See ya at dinner!" Jack's pop called.
Jack didn't answer.
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Mush
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Mush on a bench outside the Distribution Office with a sort of causal patience, lying down, his arms behind his head. It was Blink's turn to collect their papers today for the afternoon edition, and Mush had time to relax. He lay there lazily, watching passerby and newsies that had already bought their papes cross the street. This was the life, he decided, the life he wanted: just to sit there, and watch people. He wished a newsie's daily routine was more like this all the time.
Maybe, if he saved enough money, he could…he could…
He heard footsteps pound across the street, now, running quickly on the cement. He glanced up, and was not surprised to see Blink there, carrying two stacks of papers—one for Mush, and one for himself.
Mush raised a hand to greet him, waving him over but not bothering to sit up. He waited patiently as Blink hurried to him, panting heavily. "Hey, Kid. Get our papes yet?"
"Yeah," said Blink. He stood over Mush, trembling slightly, and Mush sat up, then, sensing something was wrong.
"What's up?"
Blink wordlessly handed him a wrinkled-looking afternoon paper. His muscles were tense—he was agitated, worried. Mush was starting to get scared.
"What'm I lookin' for?" said Mush, ruffling the paper and flipping to the offending number. He scanned the page, trained eye looking for the headline that Blink was so nervous about. There was an article about beer production being cut, but that wasn't it, was it? Blink never got that drunk.
He flipped over the page again, going over the headlines, wondering. Blink's heavy breathing was starting to make him nervous. Mush's brown eyes flicked from side to side, glancing for the words. He couldn't find them, but that was not surprising, considering he had no idea what he was looking for.
"Blink…" Mush said quietly, looking up at his friend. He was shaking, shaking, shaking, and as he saw Mush looking at him Blink leaned forward and pointed at a small section in the back corner of the newspaper.
Mush looked at it. It said:
Boy thought to be Suspect in Cruel Alley Killing
"Witness recounts young man running from the scene"
Blink was trembling harder now as Mush looked back up, not bothering to read any further. "Blinky…did you…"
"I killed a guy last night, Mush," Blink said, before promptly bursting into tears.
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Wait.
What?
Mush couldn't believe it. He couldn't. This was Blink. Blink—his friend, his brother, his family. The guy he'd palled around with since they were just becoming newsies, the kid with the eyepatch who liked to yell really loud when it wasn't necessary, the person who had an overwhelming sense of right and wrong and claimed he wasn't prejudiced because he hated everyone equally.
Blink would never hurt anyone.
Would he?
Because Blink had a really bad temper and sometimes that got him into trouble…
"I did it," Blink muttered. His face was turning red and he shut his eyes tight to hide from Mush that he was crying. "It was me. Last night."
Last night?
Mush remembered last night.
He had checked into the dormitory after he had finished selling, collapsing onto his bunk as soon as he had gotten up the stairs. Mush hadn't bothered to wait for Blink because that night was Wednesday, and Wednesday was when Blink went drinking and Mush didn't drink. Normally he would stay downstairs and play craps or poker or marbles with the other boys, but it had been a long selling day and he was tired. He had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, snoring and dreaming about something that he could never remember when he woke up.
That had been around nine.
But Blink hadn't come in until later, when it was officially lights out and everyone was in their beds and sleeping. He had barged in, swinging the door behind him and slamming it shut. That night Mush's bunk had been next to the door, and so he had woken up with a start. He remembered that he had rubbed his eyes sleepily and climbed out of his bunk, walking over to Blink and poking him in the shoulder.
"So how drunk are ya tonight?" he remembered asking. Normally Blink spent Wednesday in alley because most of the time he couldn't even stand up straight when he was drunk. But today he was walking up the stairs and making it past Kloppman and staring at Mush calmly.
"I'm not drunk," Blink had replied, and had turned, then, to walk to a spare bunk. "Go back to sleep."
Mush had nodded—he was sleepy—but then he had picked out something interesting on Blink in the dark. His vest lining was wrong. "How come your shirt's inside out, Blink?"
"Huh?" Blink had spun around, and then looked at Mush, reading his face carefully. "Oh. Um. I…"
"Didja meet with a goil?" Mush asked. Blink's face flooded with relief, then, and he had burst into a wide smile, illuminating his entire face. The moonlight gave it a slightly sadistic edge, and Mush had shivered.
"Yeah, Mushy," Blink had grinned at him. The smile had a trace of hysteria in it. "I met a goil. We had a great time."
"Oh," said Mush. "Okay."
"Now go back to sleep."
Mush followed orders.
…
Mush looked back up at Blink, remembering. Blink's face was streaked with tears now, running down his face in trails. Snot was coming out of his nose and he kept wiping his face with his hand, trying to clear it away.
"The vest last night was inside out because I got the guy's blood all over it," Blink said, his voice surprising calm for someone who was crying that hard. "I threw it in a dumpster this mornin'."
"Oh," said Mush.
"I need a new one, now, that was the only one I had," Blink wiped his nose again, sounding calmer now, not as scared. He sat down on the bench next to Mush, his knees creaking heavily as he did so. "I'm gonna ask Kloppman to get me one later."
"Oh," said Mush.
He couldn't say anything else. Here Blink was, still crying over killing somebody, and he was going on and on about a damn vest.
"I hope it'll be blue to match my eyes," Blink went on. "Dave's got a real nice vest and I'd really like one that—"
"Blink, what're ya gonna do?" Mush cut in abruptly. Blink stared at him in surprise, his mouth forming an "o". Normally, Mush didn't interrupt him and let him rant, but today Blink was scaring him and he couldn't take the idle chatter. This was important. Incredibly important.
"I don't know," Blink admitted finally. "They're gonna catch me eventually."
Mush suddenly got a mental image in his mind of a jailer and a hangman and a scaffold with a rope made into a noose and trapdoor and Blink, his hands behind his back, walking slowly up the wooden stairs and a large crowd silently waiting for the hangman to fasten the rope around Blink's neck and pull the lever, letting his body dangle down and choke—
No. No, he mustn't think that.
"I'll help ya, Blink," exhaled Mush. "I'll hide ya if the bulls come lookin'. We can tell Jack and the others too, if you'd like."
Blink shook his head. "Nah. I don't want to get them involved."
But what about me? Mush wondered.
"—And anyway," Blink clapped a hand over Mush's shoulder. His eye(s?) were almost completely dry now—a little red, but mostly dry. "They wouldn't want to help a killer."
But that wasn't true. Jack and the other newsies wouldn't care what happened—Blink was one of their own and besides he probably only killed a drunk and felt bad about it. They would want to help hide him if the bulls came sniffing. Blink knew that.
Mush didn't understand why Blink wouldn't want to tell anyone.
Unless….
"I'se thinkin' we should make plans," Blink suggested. He was starting to sound like his own self now and Mush was glad. The other Blink was scary. "Like an escape route or somethin', ya know?"
Mush nodded. "Yeah."
"Y'wanna help?"
"Sure," said Mush.
Blink hugged him then, drifting his arm around Mush's shoulder. He squeezed him hard, muttering quietly into his ear.
"Gee, Mush, I'se scared. I'se real scared."
"I know," said Mush.
He was scared too.
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Hmm. Well, that was fun.
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