Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters or the places mentioned in the story. All that is Disney's is Disney's, and all that is mine is mine. This disclaimer holds true for all chapters posted, or to be posted of this story.

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A/N: This is a one piece angst fiction that really just kind of wrote itself. Honestly! It wrote itself! If you don't like it, blame the muses. Ha, Ha, no don't blame them, if you do they might strike me with writers block! -Gasp- Enjoy! Oh yeah, for all of those reading Blind Spot and or Frostbitten, updates are coming soon. ^_^

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Warning: This is angst, it isn't going to be happy, but I think I kept it at a PG rating. ^_^

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Title: The Greatest Thrill

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Sometimes, you are picked out of the masses to shine like a single brazen star. Sometimes, you are put in just the right place at the right time. Sometimes, you are able to reach out and grasp that last shred of glory and hold it tight. Sometimes, you get lucky. Sometimes, the moment doesn't last.

There are moments like that where I believe that I can run as fast as the wind. In those moments I feel that I am flying, because I honestly believe that I can. Before I crash and burn, I try to savor those moments. Sadly, dreams are for rookies.

A newsies' life is volatile, very few guarantees. You aren't promised a good meal or a place to sleep; there are no constants besides the facts that if you don't wake up and sell you starve. If you don't get up and sell, you are kicked out of lodging house. Some days, it isn't even guaranteed that you'll wake up the next morning.

Some of the boys seem to thrive on this life. The constant risk of living on the street, trying not to get caught by who ever you were running from, everyone here is running from something. Me? I don't know what I am running from, but I know that they are out there somewhere. I don't have parents trying to find me, and I don't have a reason to hide from the refuge anymore. Pulitzer can't touch me, Snyder can't get me, the bulls can't catch me, and the DeLanceys can't beat me. I have no reason to be so unhappy, right? Wrong.

It all happened one day, I don't know why, it just did. I was walking around the streets of Manhattan when I was suddenly struck. An epiphany if you will. An understanding of it all struck me as I sold a paper to a man. In truth he was only a few years older than I was, but he was dressed for business, his air was professional and his manners were urbane. Then it struck me, I couldn't sell papers for the rest of my life, but what else could I do?

I didn't have any other skills, no education except for learning how not to starve and how to improve the truth. In short, lying and stealing were my only professions. The idea made my insides twist, the only places for people like me were the factories or the jails, and that was just what happened to my father. There was no way that I would be like my father.

The strike was over, whatever glory and fame I had then was just a flicker of a memory, a shadow of the past. All of the savings I had were spent, my chances were slimming, Sarah was gone, and my future was limited, so I turned to thieving. It was my only chance to get to Santa Fe.

I didn't steal much at first, a couple coins here, a bill or two there. I got a rush from it that I hadn't felt in a long time. For those few instants after a successful 'borrowing' I would feel alive again. The elation and the adrenaline making me feel as though I could fly again. Those were the moments I began to live for. Each time I stole, I stole a little more, and then a little more. It mattered not from whom, or from what, it was my high and I was addicted.

Again and again I would find myself making up fantasies about robbing whole stores, banks, a carriage or two. Making a big scene out of it instead of just swiping someone's wallet on the street. The delusions and dreams of my nights soon seeped into my day. I found myself spotting potential 'customers' or 'targets' and plotting out the scenarios as the day went along.

Day after day I would make up these outrageous stories. The game enthralled me, it captured me, sucking me into its lust and greed. Selling my papers was no longer a priority, if I only sold ten of my one hundred it didn't matter. I was stealing more every day that I had ever made selling papers. At night I would discard the left over papers somewhere, anywhere, it didn't matter, and go back to the lodging house.

At lunch I stopped going to Tibby's. I had found that lunch was a prime time for people to be out and about with money in their pockets. It made me feel powerful to take their money without them knowing, the woman and men a like. Finally my depravity was full when I stole from a child.

My mental sanity was slipping quickly. This altered reality that I lived in was much more comfortable than my real life. Suddenly it wasn't about going to Santa Fe anymore, it was simply about making more, more, and more. Pressing the limits a little more, seeing how far I could go. Sometimes I would steal their money and then follow directly behind them, almost asking them to take it back from me, but I never did, and they never caught me.

I was an animal out there on the streets. Taking from anyone who looked like they would have the slightest amount of money. When I got back to the lodging house, I would go upstairs and sit on my bunk, not thinking about anything else but the time when everyone else would go to sleep. That was when I would be able to count my newest additions. My wealth grew and grew until it wasn't about the money now either, it wasn't about getting more, and it was about the rush.

Like everything, when you have done it long enough, it gets dull. The thrill from stealing off of different people was now no longer enough, so I had to move onto bigger things, but what? I'd stolen from my friends, from strangers, from children, from the DeLanceys, and even from the bulls. Nothing thrilled me anymore, I was jaded, and this is where it came for the desperate measures.

If I couldn't get a high from mere pick pocketing, it was time for something else. Thus, one late night, I sneaked into an apartment of a tenement building near the lodging house and I just walked around inside. The thrill of simply breaking into a place was enough for now, I didn't need anything else.

This thrill wore off much faster than the pick pocketing high, and I was soon was taking things from the house, or even going as far as to rearrange their belongings. Moving a vase to the other side of the table, switching the dishes onto the other side of the cupboard. It was all a game to simply see how far I could go.

The houses faded and so I moved onto stores. I never took anything from the stores, I would just browse the aisles and change price tags. There was something very delicious about being able to have this power, even if was concealed. The problem was there was no end to my want for a bigger challenge, a different risk, for new ground. That is what got me in here.

Now as I sit in this small room, telling my story to the crowd, I think back to all the times I had stolen things. Maybe I had even stolen from these people as they sit in my trial. The judge looking down at me with disgust, the people I don't know out in the crowd looking at me with an offended air. The people I know out in the audience looking at me with disbelief, and my friends with a look of betrayal.

The sad thing about all of this, is through this all I have felt no guilt, and no regret for my actions. I, Jack Kelly, Francis Sullivan, Cowboy of Manhattan, thief of the streets, have been caught, and I feel no remorse. For getting caught is the greatest thrill of them all.

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A/N: Okay… that story just kind of came out of nowhere. I do9n't like to make Jack look bad, my poor sweet baby, but I just felt the urge to write this story. (Can anyone tell me what movie I watched before writing this?) I started typing and this is what came out. Man, this is depressing. Why the heck can't I write a happy story? Just once, I want to write something with a happy ending and no angst. -sigh- Brutally honest reviews welcome. ^_^