Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, me no own, so you no sue.
AN: Aight, folks, if you couldn't tell by the disclaimer, it's me, Gypsy!! But this time I'm back with two of my buds, Sing-Sing and Alley Cat. This is a story we're working on together………..Enjoy!!!!
Chapter One
*King O' Brooklyn My Arse*
"Love her as in childhood,
Though feeble, old, and gray,
For you'll never miss a mother's love,
Till she's buried beneath the clay."
The song filled the cold night air as four drunken newsies made their way down the street.
"Kevin Ba-ARR-ee gave 'is young life, fer te proice o' libert-EE..." Sing- Sing belted out.
She threw her empty shot glass to the ground as Jem hit her over the head.
"Yer off key," she muttered, and Sing-Sing rubbed the sore spot on the back of her head.
"It's a fine life, carryin' da sumthin' through da slums... whups." Gypsy fell over on her
hands and kness, and Spot tripped over the stooped figure.
"Hey, what da hell was dat foah?" he yelled.
"Ah, feck off Conlon. Ye aren't te leadah o' Brooklyn 'ere. Oi, Gypsy!" Sing-Sing called.
"What?"
"Ye alright?"
"Ise is fine..."
"Yeah, well youse had bettah sod off before Ise soaks ya!" Spot shouted in anger, standing up and brushing his shirt off.
"Would ya ever jes 'ave a good shit fer yeerself, Conlon?" Jem spat.
"Don't talk ta me like dat! Ise is da King o' Brooklyn!"
"Och, aye. On te ground pukin' yer eyes out, ye are," Jem replied.
"Gypsy, tell yoah friends dat Ise won't be spoken ta like dat!"
"Tell us yeerself! King o' Brooklyn my arse!" shouted Sing-Sing.
"Yeah, well at least Ise ain't some Irish trash like youse!"
"That's it Conlon!" Sing-Sing yelled before tackling him to the ground, ready to pound the living daylights out of him.
"Ye went a wee bit far," Jem said before giving him a good kick in the ribs.
Sing-Sing grabbed his collar and bashed her head against his. She looked up, but all she could see were flashing lights and polka dots.
"Get offa him. Dough Ise won't say he din't desoive dat, callin' da Irish trash an' all," Gypsy said, dragging Sing-Sing off of Spot's chest.
"Gypsy, ye never told me ye had a twin..." she mumbled.
"What? A twin? Ise ain't got no twin, Sing."
"Then why in te name of te Virgin Mary are there two o' ye?" she asked before passing out.
AN: Well…… not much so far……. But more's to come soon!!!! REVIEW!!!!!!
AN: Aight, folks, if you couldn't tell by the disclaimer, it's me, Gypsy!! But this time I'm back with two of my buds, Sing-Sing and Alley Cat. This is a story we're working on together………..Enjoy!!!!
Chapter One
*King O' Brooklyn My Arse*
"Love her as in childhood,
Though feeble, old, and gray,
For you'll never miss a mother's love,
Till she's buried beneath the clay."
The song filled the cold night air as four drunken newsies made their way down the street.
"Kevin Ba-ARR-ee gave 'is young life, fer te proice o' libert-EE..." Sing- Sing belted out.
She threw her empty shot glass to the ground as Jem hit her over the head.
"Yer off key," she muttered, and Sing-Sing rubbed the sore spot on the back of her head.
"It's a fine life, carryin' da sumthin' through da slums... whups." Gypsy fell over on her
hands and kness, and Spot tripped over the stooped figure.
"Hey, what da hell was dat foah?" he yelled.
"Ah, feck off Conlon. Ye aren't te leadah o' Brooklyn 'ere. Oi, Gypsy!" Sing-Sing called.
"What?"
"Ye alright?"
"Ise is fine..."
"Yeah, well youse had bettah sod off before Ise soaks ya!" Spot shouted in anger, standing up and brushing his shirt off.
"Would ya ever jes 'ave a good shit fer yeerself, Conlon?" Jem spat.
"Don't talk ta me like dat! Ise is da King o' Brooklyn!"
"Och, aye. On te ground pukin' yer eyes out, ye are," Jem replied.
"Gypsy, tell yoah friends dat Ise won't be spoken ta like dat!"
"Tell us yeerself! King o' Brooklyn my arse!" shouted Sing-Sing.
"Yeah, well at least Ise ain't some Irish trash like youse!"
"That's it Conlon!" Sing-Sing yelled before tackling him to the ground, ready to pound the living daylights out of him.
"Ye went a wee bit far," Jem said before giving him a good kick in the ribs.
Sing-Sing grabbed his collar and bashed her head against his. She looked up, but all she could see were flashing lights and polka dots.
"Get offa him. Dough Ise won't say he din't desoive dat, callin' da Irish trash an' all," Gypsy said, dragging Sing-Sing off of Spot's chest.
"Gypsy, ye never told me ye had a twin..." she mumbled.
"What? A twin? Ise ain't got no twin, Sing."
"Then why in te name of te Virgin Mary are there two o' ye?" she asked before passing out.
AN: Well…… not much so far……. But more's to come soon!!!! REVIEW!!!!!!