Hello. This is Mad 'atter. This is actually not my first story, but I deleted my old stories off my account because they were mediocre. So, with that, I decided to restart with a new penname and make new stories. With that, I worked on my Newsies story, which is… Gasp! The one you're reading right now! Imagine that! –Insert random surprised smiley face here- With that random note, here is my first –new– fanfiction on Newsies.
Also, anyone who wants characters from Queens in the story, email me, Ok? I love mail.
Disclaimer: I don' own nothin'! I ain' got any righ's ta these charahctahs! I wish I did, but I don'! All I own is Mary and Hatter, okay? Okay.
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Unless you've actually lived in New York City at one point in your pitiful life, you have no idea how horrid the place is. The city reeks of horses, sewers, people, idiots and tourists. But, worst of all, it reeks of the cruelty people inflict upon other people. You see it all the time. You see it in Harlem and Little Italy, in Chinatown and even on the streets in midtown. People reek of cruelty, whether they're the ones inflicting it or the ones being stepped upon. That part is where I squeeze in, as the victim of our 'fair' city's perverted and tainted society. I'm at the bottom of the food chain here. Gangsters look at me with disgust. Even petty thieves and beggars think I'm nothing. Everyone in the big apple looks down upon my insignificant excuse for an existence. After all this being said, you're probably thinking 'What are you? Why does everyone hate you?'
"Extra! Extra! Man survives deadly skyscraper fall! Window wiper falls from thirty-second floor and lives to tell the tale! Read ALL about it!"
Yeah. That's right. I'm a Newsie. Newsboy. Mud. Whatever you people call us.
Notice I don't have the cheap, sleazy, and downright annoying accent? That could possibly be the reason why I don't sell papers that well. I'm cranking out thirty-five papers a day, which is pretty bad since I've been selling 'papes' for over a year now. Usually, people can get 60 papers a day by this point. But I wasn't that good, apparently.
I watched people walk on by, oblivious or ignoring my yells of headlines, strange happenings, and 'breaking news'. I was at the end of my rope, finally shouting out my giant headline that would attract people, though I still had fifteen papes left.
"Gang war in Brooklyn! Ten left dead! Police have no leads!" Suddenly, people flocked to me, holding out pennies. I snatched them all up and gave out the papers right and left.
"Thank you, page four. Thanks, page four! Thank ya' sir, page four!" The people grunted at me, not even caring enough to give me a thank you. It was as if they had taken the papers from a machine or something invisible. It was as if I wasn't even here. I exhaled hard and looked to the ground. Two papers. Figures. I picked them up, and with one under my arm and one waving above me, I called out to the public, begging for their attention.
Gang wars! Come on! Read about it! Look at me! Buy my papes! Pleaaaase!
Half an hour later, two people finally bit on the '32nd floor fall' story and bought my last papers. I was done. About time, it was already noon. Most newsies bought papes at eight and were done at ten. I, on the other hand, was not a good seller, as stated before. I sighed, cracked my back, and trotted back to the Lodging House with suppressed glee. Very suppressed glee.
My name? None of your business. If anybody needs to call me anything, I am called 'Hatter'. As in Lewis Carroll's 'Mad Hatter'. But I'm female. No disguising that fact. I have inky raven black hair, donated to me from my father's Italian side of the family. But, I have pale white skin and sky blue eyes, donated by my Mother's German side of the family. I'm skinny, like every newsie. A fat newsie is nigh impossible these days, unless they're cheating with their food intake somehow. I'm also lanky and tall, probably five foot four? I don't know or care. My outfit is also simple, a white shirt and grey cotton pants; both were rolled up because they were to long. No suspenders to hold the pants up, but I had a grey tam hat and a dark green vest with brown shoes and socks. These shoes were trudging though Queens, anxiously trying to get me back home as fast as possible.
Home. Psh, this is home? No. Home was in England, in the green fields north of London, with our horses and wheat. I moved to this hole when I was eight, and after that, my parents…
Wait, what am I saying? You don't care about my troubles, so why am I spitting then out to you? I don't even KNOW you. You want to hear the story of my England life, or do you want to hear the story of my newsie life? Newsie life, right? Thought so. So then, let's get back to the stupid story, okay? All right then.
Where was I then? Oh, right. Anyway, I was trudging through Queens, back to the good ol' Lodging House. The building was actually a warehouse that was converted for the numerous nonsensical newsies in East Queens. Queens doesn't have many good buildings anymore, so we all found this big warehouse and had it converted. We got a huge open building and three floors of beds, food, tables, and kids. Lots of kids. I opened the warehouse door and watched the spread before my eyes. There were kids rushing around everywhere. They were eating food, drinking, smoking cigars, gambling with their daily wages, telling stories… And in the middle of it all was Mary.
Mary was East Queens's newsie leader. See, Queens is the biggest part of the city, to big to have one ruler over it, like Brooklyn. So, it's split in somewhat uneven halves. Mary was leader of the bigger half, of eastern Queens. West Queens, the smaller half, was ruled by someone else. East Queens was also dominant over West, much to West Queens's loathing.
East Queens was what would be called a 'training center' for newsies. Most new kids come here for 'training'; then other Boroughs took what they thought were the best without a fuss. This little 'deal' Mary came up with kept East Queens on good terms with everybody, and even on shaky terms with West Queens.
Mary herself was a spunky and busty Irish redhead with a temper to match 'The King of Brooklyn', Spot Conlon. It has been said she trained Conlon, but neither of them admitted (or denied) it.
There I go off again, rambling. I ought to watch my mouth sometimes. Do I talk to much? Am I giving you too much info? Hope not.
Mary flashed me a bright smile and her freckles twinkled all across her face. She beckoned me over with her hand as I walked in. I strolled through the mayhem to the middle of the room. She stood on her table with a captain's chair behind her back. I pulled myself up onto the table next to her and watched the chaos surrounding us.
She watched her boys (and few girls) like a hawk, her piercing green eyes scouring her newsies as they played cards, bet, drank, and smoked cigars. Her baseball bat was slung over her shoulder at an awkward angle only she could accomplish. She finally was reminded of my inferior presence and ruffled my already-untidy hair absently.
"So, Hatta', ya gonna stay or go?" Usually, newsies were picked by other Boroughs within a year of training. I hadn't been, even though Mary thought I was good enough.
"I don't know, Mary."
Mary sighed up to the ceiling. A small scuffle broke out on the second floor and we watched curiously as it died after a few curse words were uttered and a blow was exchanged. Mary snapped her fingers, reminded of something, before digging around in her pockets and producing a note. She handed it to me, then burrowed some more random pockets and produced two others. She pulled the one I was holding out of my hand and held it in front of my face like a wanted poster.
"This goes ta Spot Conlon. See? Name's right on it. Brooklyn. You' find him at da docks. Don' give it to nobody but Conlon." I nodded and she patted my head. With that she handed me another. "Jack Kelly." I nodded. "He'll be in da Manhattan Lodgin' House. Ya know where dat is, righ'? Only let him see it." I bobbed my head again. She gave me the third note carelessly. "Give dat one ta Racetrack Higgins in Manhattan. If ya' can't find 'im, just pass it to another newsie and tell 'em Mary needs it ta get ta 'im. If ya DO find Race, tell da bastahd he owes me a Havana too." Mary chuckled to herself. "But, fah yoah sake, I'd try and find 'im." She slapped me on the back and pushed me off the table, grinning almost knowingly. "Hop to it Hatta'."
With that, I trotted off to do my errand. I went off to Brooklyn first because I had to. See, Queens is right across the river from Manhattan, but there was no bridge built yet over the Hudson. Therefore, the only way to get to Manhattan was to go through Brooklyn and over the viaduct there. As I sauntered over the Queens/Brooklyn border, I realized a fatal error and swore so loud that the seagulls nearby took flight.
"SHIT!"
Brooklyn was surrounded on three sides by water. All three of those sides had docks on them. It would take me at least two hours to find the right dock! I cussed bloody murder in the street and panicked loudly and aggressively. I couldn't go back to Mary and ask 'which dock', or she'd hit me with her bat, cuss at me, and give the notes to someone more 'competent' enough to deliver. Moreover, if word got out I couldn't do a simple errand; I would never be picked out for another borough. I cussed violently, my Italian temper flaring to full speed. I'm so dumb! I stomped off, looking for the nearest strip of ocean. Now, if I was the King of Brooklyn, where would I be? North? East? South? Southwest?
"This is Conlon terratoiry." I silently thanked God repeatedly in my head as I pivoted impassively and held up my fists, just in case. The boy talking to me had black stains on his hands, a sign that he was a newsie. His dark hair curled on top of his head. I spat on the ground to the side.
"I have a note for the 'King'." I held it up between my fingertips.
"Give it ta me." He snatched for it, but I pulled my hand back and smacked his with my left. He drew back instantaneously with a glower in his eyes.
"Mary said Conlon eyes only."
"I won' read it."
"Will so."
"You with East Queens?"
"Yeah, and I got two more notes to deliver. Take me to Spot." The boy rolled his eyes and grabbed my collar, dragging me off behind him. I yelped and thrashed around angrily. He dragged me for a few blocks until I saw the bridge and heard shouts accompanied with splashes and crashing sounds. The boy pushed me onto the dock where Spot was settled, shooting beer bottles with his slingshot in an attempt to keep himself occupied. Why doesn't he just go swimming? Spot acknowledged my presence and the boy left, hopping into the icy Hudson water. I was suddenly reminded about how hot it was outside and how dry my mouth felt.
Spot turned his stony grey blue eyes toward me and stared impassively. His gaze was powerful, to say the least. I couldn't hold his stare and looked at my feet, ashamed. He hopped off his crate and I gave him the note.
"From Mary." I muttered. He smirked.
"Really? Aw damn, I though' it was a note proclaimin' yoa deep love for me." His newsies hooted and snickered behind him, making kissing noises. My face flushed and burned as I pivoted and started walking away.
"Stop." I turned back slowly, dread on my face. Spot was no longer bemused; instead, he was reading the note, his face looking puzzled and slightly angry. He pulled a pencil from one of his subordinate's pockets and scribbled something onto it before folding it up and depositing it into my waiting hand.
"There. That oughta satisfy Mary."
I took the note back and rolled my eyes. Spot smirked again and waved me off without another word. The last thing I heard was a crashing sound of a beer bottle breaking on a post next to me before I was breaking out into a full run, snorting laughter following me.
I made it up to the Brooklyn Bridge and saw the boys splashing around below in the bay. One saw me from the water and pointed me out to Spot, who was back on his crate, playing with his cane. I could see Conlon turn from his position on the dock and stare at me. My brain suddenly turned out and I smiled wickedly before taking action. I sucked in a deep breath and leaned far over the side of the bridge and screamed at the top of my lungs:
"AREN'T KINGS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BETTER MANNERS!?"
And I swore I heard him laughing out loud from the pier as I took off running.
