The rain punched at his slight frame, enhancing his lack of muscles. He cursed the relentless moisture, his Irish temper taking control of him as usual. He had always hated thunderstorms. Once upon a time, it had been because they frightened him into submission, as his mother told him that they were God punishing him for not obeying her. Now, all it meant was that he was going to get the shakes after sleeping in pouring rain for an entire night.
There had only been one time in his life when he hadn't minded thunderstorms, and that was when he was the leader. Back when the entirety of the street kids in the five boroughs had thought him a god. At that point in time, he would let the rain's pounding lull him to sleep as he lay beside a fire that was kept going all night by one of his minions.
But now, Spot Conlon was back to hating it. He despised the way it seemed to mock him, hurtling vulgar insults along with its icy spray; even Mother Nature thought him a coward. She punished him anew by sending down a loud, sizzling lightning bolt of fire that he swore singed a few strands of his hair. Glaring up at the endless night, he only succeeded in getting angry, fat drops of moisture in his eyes and up his nostrils. He flailed his arms and cursed as loudly as he dared.
Since his highly publicized fall from glory to infamy, he had been able to avoid scorn by hiding. Spending nights behind trashcans and stealing food whenever he dared, it was lucky that he had spent so much time on the streets, since he knew how to survive, however minimally. His frame, which had always been spindly, was now appearing skeletal. How he longed for a piece of bread, for a taste of fresh fruit! And yet, now, since his borough's being sabotaged and seized by that damn arrogant asshole, the mighty Spot Conlon was eating rotten vegetables and spoiled meat to stay alive, food so disgusting that it often just made him vomit whatever he had been able to stomach thus far that day.
If Spot Conlon were a lesser person, he would cry.
However, the one thing that Jack Kelly could never steal from him was his pride.
Pausing under an awning, he chanced a look upward and was rewarded by the sight of one of his favorite undercreatures, a big fat spider sitting squat and proud in the midst of an elaborate castle of a web. He smiled up at it, admiring the artwork that the small creature had used in its architectural design. Then, with an even larger grin, he reached up and squashed the arachnid against the awning.
"You can't trust nobody," he told its corpse, wiping its innards off his hand with the aid of his soaked trousers. "Not even street kids like yourself."
Had he really once been friends with that idiot Kelly? He tried to tell himself no, that it was all a game that he had forever been playing in attempts to trick Jack, but his heart knew that he had trusted Jack as he trusted few other people. After what he had pulled, it would be amazing if Spot Conlon ever trusted another human being again.
Anger coursed through him for about the thirtieth time in the last hour. "Why does he get to rule my borough now, anyway?" he muttered to himself. "Wasn't Manhattan enough, Jacky-boy? I guess a little power's too much for some people, huh?" Angrily, he spit onto the ground, narrowly missing a homeless person, who snarled at his action.
He went to the back of a restaurant and rummaged through their trash, hoping for salvageable scraps. What he found, however, was even more useful.
An old knife, still sharp, but with the blade broken clean from its handle.
Jack's minions had stripped Spot of his weapons, even his stupid little slingshot, when they had manhandled him from his hideout. This was the first instrument that could cause serious damage that Spot had held since his embarrassing loss of power.
And his humility, his wounded pride, his chagrin surged through him as he looked at that blade. Oh, he knew how to use this. He certainly did.
He knew for a fact that Jack was sleeping in the same place that he had made his own bed, probably even on Spot's bed. That thought got his adrenaline pumping, and before he knew it, he was hunched beneath the window. He delicately peered inside.
Jack Kelly's minions were idiotic enough not to keep watch from inside the room.
Cheeseheads.
Spot slipped in through the window wordlessly, and crept to Jack's bedside.
"Kelly... Kelly... wake up, little Jacky-boy," he sang, coming deliciously close.
Jack suddenly sat straight up in bed, and thrust out his arms. Caught unaware, for the second time at the hands of Jack Kelly, Spot fumbled and fell, the blade landing a second before him and lodging half of itself into his stomach.
Spot didn't feel any pain, just surprise. "You jackass!" he gasped, pulling the blade out and feeling his blood seep and gush from him. Heavy, crimson floods flowed out, a tide of anger and betrayal and beauty, and he stared in disbelief at it. He had never seen so much blood coming from himself, and was suddenly hit with the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, the infallible Spot Conlon would be downed. At the hands of damn Jack Kelly. The annoyance of this realization was even more intense than his past hatred. Wasn't it just like Jack to get the final word? Every fucking time?
Jack was rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Spot?" he asked, incredulously, giving a start upon seeing the sandy-haired boy, who hadn't been glimpsed since he had run.
Spot didn't answer, just thrust the heavy blade into Jack's upper chest, cutting short any conversation that the two might have had.
When Jack's two best minions, Pie Eater and Bumlets, entered the room the next morning, both gasped at the sight of two dead bodies and the wash of red blood that had enveloped the small shack.
The rain outside raged on.
[disclaimer: newsies=disney's.]
[story written: july 21, 2004]