So there I was, getting ready to write the third chapter of Prima Donna, when all of a sudden a random angst muse attacked me from behind. I had to write this, and so I did, in a period of two to three days. XD I think it's really good. And short.
Enjoy, and don't forget to review!
…
"Oh, so what's bein' a newsie but a dime a day and a few black eyes?"
--Jack Kelly, leader of the Manhattan newsie district, co-creator of the newsies strike, and big fat liar--
---
You know you're wrong, Jack. You know you are, you know your boys know, and hell, you're pretty sure Weasel knows you know.
I can tell.
You, Mister Francis Sullivan, The Cowboy Formally Known As Jack, know that as you utter those words with no conscience at all, not only David can hear you. You're aware that the dead silent newsies around you can pick up on it as quickly as a hungry beggar can pick up a scrap of bread, that they'll hate you for your words forever, and from your expression on your scab face, you don't care.
As you speak to David-
-David, who isn't even a real newsie and has everything you ain't got and then some--
- the crowd shifts and murmurs disbelievingly.
"I must be dreamin'," I hear Snitch mutter, his voice shaking. "Did he just say what I t'ink he said?"
"What'd he say?" asks Tumbler. Poor little guy can't hear so well, not since his pop tried to drown him in the river after a few too many beers.
"He's sayin' he's a filthy hip-o-crite, is what," Dutchy murmurs, getting an approving glance from Specs as the blonde tries the new word out. "Ain't he the one always goin' on about stickin' up for each other?"
Yeah, Jack, what about that?
You've just stated, plain and clear, that you don't care for us—for any of us. We ain't friends, ain't brothers, we're just acquaintances that you've known for six or seven years.
That can't be us who's stayed with you when times was tough, can't be. It must've been some other friends who've paid for you when you was too drunk to walk through the door, some other kids who voted you leader, somebody else who let you lie through your teeth about your ma and da.
We couldn't have let you cry on our shoulders when you got the letter that said your mama died, or offered you your first smoke. When you finally spilled the beans about what exactly happened in the Refuge, what Snyder did to you, we wasn't there to sympathize or let you know that we'd have your back, right?
It must've been some other group.
We didn't have no part in it, did we, Jack?
According to you, being a newsie ain't worth nothin'. You ain't got no blood family, and so you ain't got no one at all.
Right?
…
But as you relay these words to David, Jack-Be-Nimble, Jack-Be-Quick, Jack-Who-Ain't-Nothin'-But-A-Great-Big-Prick, I glance around the crowd of Newsies.
There's Blink, the most easily angered guy in the whole state of New York, who stays up at night worrying about Mush when he comes in late from a date with a dame and yells when Boots shows up covered in bruises from the racist Delancy Brothers.
Bumlets, the happy, smiling newsie who dances secretly in alleyways and plays swordfight with the little boys, and who would never hurt a fly…until he runs to your rescue when a mugger's got you stuck in an alley, helpless.
Hell, even Race has our backs some of the time, when he can afford it and in a relatively good mood. Once or twice, when he knows Snipes ain't had that good a sellin' day, he'll even let him get away with stealing his cigars.
We'll never be like David, Cowboy, and neither will you. We ain't got no ma, no pa, and no nice warm beds. But we got each other, and don't that count for something?
Christ, Jack.
And they call me glum and dumb.