Hey all! So I was really hyper and really in a Newsies mood, and this spilled out on my page:) Hope it's enjoyed!
Please note that this story DOES contain some fun-poking at Spot...But it's all in good fun! Though Jack's my Newsie home-boi, Spot is also cool and I wouldn't dare diss him TOO much for fear my Spot-loving cousin would whack me with a large trout. So, no. This is NOT Spot-bashing:)
Disclaimer: Don't own Newsies.
~Rosey
The Day The Cane Died
It all started on a day much like today, around five-forty-two-ish in the afternoon, on Brooklyn Bridge. Two boys were making their way along said bridge, one tall and handsome, sporting a red bandanna; the other shorter and almost as handsome (A/N: Just my opinion!), wielding his beloved and precious gold-tipped cane.
"I'm tellin' ya, Jacky Boy," the shorter boy was saying. "I'd take Brooklyn ovah Santa Fe any day."
"Well fine, den!" the older boy huffed with a wounded soul. "I'll just have Santa Fe all to myself! Except...ya know...for da other people who live dere."
Suddenly the world turned upside down. For right at that moment, Spot Conlon tripped over a largeish rock and fell flat on his face. A loud, terrible crack followed, joined by an anguished cry from the King of Brooklyn. "Spot!" Jack cried in terror, looking down at his friend in worry. "Speak to me, pal! What'd ya break?"
"Da...most...important...ting," Spot whimpered from the ground, not moving a muscle.
"What? Ya neck? Ya back? Ya nose?" (For it was well known through all of New York that Spot Conlon did indeed have a nice nose.)
"No," Spot whimpered for a second time. "Woise." And he held up his cane-now split into two cracked pieces-one half in either of his hands.
Jack paused for a moment, looking at his friend with wide eyes, before the older newsie let out a breath of relief. "Oh, ya scared me, Spot! I thought that snap was one-a your bones-"
"DIS IS FAR WOISE!" Spot wailed, tears Jack didn't think Spot's eyes were capable of making running down his face. "JUANITA IS DEAD!"
"Juanita?" Jack blinked. "Ya named ya stick Juanita?"
But Spot was too busy monologing to hear. "I AM SO ALONE IN DIS COLD, CRUEL WOILD NOW! MY LIFE IS FOREVAH OVAH! I AM WIDOWED-AT DA MERE AGE OF FOURTEEN AND THREE QUARTERS! MY POOR JUANITA...GONE FROM DA WOILD FROM NOW 'TIL DOOMS DAY! I AM SO LONELY NOW...HERE ALONE AND LONELY!" Spot then faced Jack again, who was watching him blankly. "We will be havin' da funeral soivice tomorrow."
"A funeral. For a stick," Jack rose an eyebrow.
"It would be like you rippin' your bandanna," Spot said, wide-eyed.
It clicked just like that for Jack, and he looked at his friend with new-found pity. "Do ya need me ta do anyting for ya? Get ya anything?"
"Just come wid ya boys to da soivice tomorrow. And bring a cake," the King of Brooklyn commanded.
xxxxx
Jack arrived at the News Boys Lodging House around six-o-twelve-ish, and gathered all the boys around somberly.
"Boys," Jack tried to keep his voice as serious as he could. "We will be attending a funeral for Spot tomorrow."
"WHAT? THE KING OF BROOKLYN IS DEAD?" The cry rose from all the newsies.
"No. His cane Juanita is dead," Jack replied.
The other newsies looked at him for a brief moment before they all cracked up, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes. "Oh, you're funny, Cowboy!" they chuckled. "A funeral for a stick!"
"It would be like you breakin' your crutch, Crutchey. Or you rippin' your hat, Race. Or you losin' your binkie, Snitch."
That's when it hit them and they stopped laughing, their faces sobering. "Should someone be with him tonight, Cowboy?" Race asked worriedly. "In case he tries ta do somethin' stupid?"
"He got his boys with him," Jack replied. "And I told 'em to come get me if he gets too bad." Jack paused for a moment, clearing his throat. "And...um...do any of youse know how to bake? I told him I'd bring a cake."
A long, empty silence followed before Jack sighed. "Fine. I'll do it myself. Can't be that hard." He paused again before asking "Where's da kitchen? Do we even have one?"
xxxx
It was, fittingly, raining during the funeral. When Jack finally found Spot among the crowd, the younger newsie was dressed in black and was looking quite saddish.
"Dis is for ya," Jack said, handing him the cake he had baked the last night. It was quite black and lumpy and had WE WILL MISS YOU WANEETA iced sloppily across it.
"Tank ya, Jacky Boy," Spot sniffed. He then noticed Jack's hands were wrapped up in something that looked rather medicalish and he asked what happened.
"Boined my hands gettin' dat ting offa da stove," Jack replied dryly.
"I don't tink ya make a cake on a-"
"Spot," Jack sighed. "I was up all night tryin' ta make ya dat ting. Don't complain."
"BUT I AM SO ALONE IN DA-"
Luckily for Jack, a clap of thunder made Spot and Jack both jump slightly and made Spot quite forget his monologue.
"Let's begin da soivice," Spot said solomnely, gathering the others around the small, hand-made coffin that held his broken cane. "Jacky Boy, please give da foist speech."
Jack blinked. "A speech. For ya cane." But Spot's face was so very sad and pathetic at the moment that our poor Jacky Boy caved and began slowly. "Um. Yes. Well...Juanita was a good stick. Cane. A good cane. Um...I mean...wherevah Spot went...sure enough, dere was Juanita. Err...Spot and Juanita were...quite the couple. Dey...completed each othah. Um. Juanita was a...good friend. Err...helped wid da strike. Umm...it...she? She... was most likely cheap. Since Spot managed to get his hands on it. Umm...probably stolen. Maybe. I don't know. He didn't tell me. Um...She was...black? Wid a gold tip. And uh...she was... Spot'sbestfriendandnoIwasn'tjealoustheend." And with that, Jack took his seat.
After some sniffing from Spot and some chuckles from the other newsies, the King of Brooklyn went up to the coffin himself, and began a speech of his own. "Oh, my beautiful Juanita. You were my very best friend in da whole entire woild. Yes, more dan Jack or Race or Freddy my sling-shot. And I shall miss you greatly. Tank you for everyting ya did for me, my beloved. I shall never love another. You are da only cane for me in da woild and I will never get another, I swear it. Farethewell, my darlin' Juanita. Save a pair of wings for me up dere in Heaven."
Jack glared at Spot when he sat back next to him. "I'm glad I rank undah ya stick, ya chump," the older newsie grumbled sadly.
"Do I rank undah your bandanna?"
Jack opened his mouth to protest but then thought better of it.
xxxxx
"AHHHHH!" Spot Conlon woke up in a cold terror, his heart pounding. He reached out a hand and grabbed Juanita to his side, holding her close, in all her one-piece glory. "I had another nightmare, baby. YOU DIED!"
Juanita wasn't very comforting.
"I'M SO SORRY BABY! I PROMISE YOU'LL NEVAH LEAVE MY SIDE AGAIN!"
Juanita didn't really respond.
But Spot didn't seem to mind as he held his cane close, drifting off into a now-peaceful sleep.
So? What did you guys think? Again, it's NOT Spot-bashing! Just playful banter:) And his cane Juanita is okay:)
So.
REVIEW?
~Rosey