Author's Note:

My first story on Fanfiction!

Disclaimer: the characters and storyline are copyrighted by John R. Dilworth and Cartoon Network. Although I did make up some parts of the story and some characterizations.

(By the way, I drew the cover art. X3)

:::Please remember that this is an AU where all the characters are human and the events are realistic.:::


The business crept up on me. I didn't really ask for it, but when the time presented itself, I seemed to have fit the bill. I'd blame my upbringing, if you can call it that, but I'm not stupid; I know my own character is the problem. Well, since I couldn't escape it, I decided to embrace it. Seemed simple enough.

Now the dang business is my life. Always working, always waiting, always pretending. Lurking behind this old theater, known as "that shady guy..." Ah, it's time. I've been watching an old couple and what looks to be their grandson outside the entrance to the theater for a little while. I hear them talking about finding the entrance or something, and snatch the opportunity.

I flick out a cigarette and light it, with one hand still in my pocket. I shove it to the corner of my mouth, and after breathing in deep, I exhale a puff of smoke into the already murky city air.

"Hey," I whisper, beckoning to the old lady, who, I now realize, is holding the case of some instrument. The three turn to look at me; I'm hiding behind the corner of the theater. I let out another puff of smoke and my lips curl up in a friendly smile.

"Come 'ere," I say nicely. They come nearer, the idiots. The grandma looks completely naïve, and the grandpa lingers behind grumpily. The little kid is practically being dragged from his wrist by the old lady; he looks terrified and cautious of me. Smart kid.

I can tell by the clothing underneath their coats that they're from the country. Perfect. When they stop next to my corner I step out and greet them with a small bow.

"Ya lookin' ta get in?" I ask, blowing my smoke through the corner of my mouth and away from their faces. "The show don't go on for hours, but I can get you in real quick-like..." I glance at the back door behind me on the side wall of the theater labeled, "Back Door."

They talk between themselves and I wait patiently. I try not to look at the kid, who's huge, scared eyes are staring right at me. I wonder if they'll fall for it... I overhear "won a contest" and pounce all over it.

"You won a contest?" I butt in, faking surprise and excitement. The old lady lifts her instrument case slightly.

"Yes, the sitar contest!" She says, with some Scottish accent, happy to be recognized.

"Then you can come through the special artists entrance," I say, smiling, and motion toward the back door with one hand.

"I ain't going through any door I don't know what's on the other side," the old man states angrily.

I frown. Maybe I need to rethink my choice of victim... I try one last trick to reel them in.

"I got hotdogs!" I say, removing my cigarette for a moment and shrugging.

"Works for me!" says the grandpa immediately. I take it back—these may be my easiest targets yet. I step back and open the back door wide, politely, or rather precautiously, letting them go first. The door closes behind me and we walk down the scarcely-lit hallway behind the theater. I think I see the kid shiver under the dim lamp light; he glances around nervously.

As we walk, my phone vibrates. They don't notice, and I fall behind for a moment as I pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and hold my cigarette in my other hand. There's only one guy with my number—the boss. I do my best to gulp down my anxiety and flip open my phone. Walking very slowly behind them, I hold my phone to my ear.

"Aye," I greet the boss.

"Where the heck are you, Buschwick." The boss is angry with me, as usual.

"I'm at the theater," I say, but he interrupts.

"You know how many times you've messed things up for me, Michael?"

"No, sir—"

"Well hurry your ugly hide up. We have that job tonight." The boss' tone is slow and dangerous. "You remember, right, Mike?"

For the love of—I forgot all about it... I curse my scattered brain.

"Yeah, of course, boss," I lie. I run my fingers through my choppy hair and shut my eyes.

"You better be ready, you lousy..." he hangs up.

I realized I've stopped in hallway. I put my phone away and quickly jump to catch up with the couple and the boy, who were blankly walking along. They hear my heavy footfalls and look over their shoulders at me. The kid startles. I see the elevator ahead; good, they didn't pass it.

I reach the elevator door before they do and pull the lever to open the doors. We all get inside and the doors rattle closed. It's an old-style elevator; it has a metal sort of trap outside the glass doors that looks like a fence. You can see the dirty wall in front of you rise as the elevator descends to the basement. As we go down, I feel I should break the silence and maybe make myself forget my worry over tonight.

"By the way," I say coolly; I stick the cigarette back in my mouth and breathe a few times to get it warm again. "The name's Michael Buschwick." I inform the next important information to anyone I meet: "But don't ever call me that. Just call me Schwick. Not Michael, not Buschwick, just Schwick." I scratch the short hairs on my jaw and examine the ceiling of the elevator.

"Where are you from?" The Scottish lady asks.

"Bushwick," I say. You can call that Bushwick, but not me. Me, you call Schwick. Just Schwick." I'm about to say, "you got it? Schwick!" To get my point across, but I remember what I'm doing and who they are, and immediately regretting what I already said, I shut my mouth.

The elevator screeches to a stop and after a moment of effort, the doors wiggle open and the fence clinks together as it folds. We step out into a separate hallway two floors underneath the stage, even darker and damper and the last. On the right side is my door. It has a sign on it—"Rehearsal Room."

"This here's the rehearsal room," I say as I unlock the door and open it for them to walk in. "It's where you can rehearse. Just rehearse."

We all enter, me in the back. The cold penetrates the fabric of our clothes and the same smell of smoke that's clinging to me lingers in the air; I breathe it in. There's a chair with all kinds of holes and patches, sitting in front of the old television hanging from the ceiling. There's holes in the walls, too, scattered around chains that are hooked to the walls and dangling down sadly, in still columns. I glance at the mouse hole—all blocked and chained up, just as I'd left it. The whole room is lit with a dim light bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling, therefore concealing the corners of the room—and the bone piles in them—in darkness.

I walk over to the little green table set up near the back wall with my almost-empty liquor bottle, shot glasses, small notebook, and ashtray. I take the cigarette from my mouth and crush it into the tray. Refraining from lighting another, I turn to face my new guests.

The grandma seems excited, and doesn't go to any length to hide it. She sits down and starts to pull her sitar out of the case. The kid sticks close by her, his eyes darting around the room frantically, but doesn't seem to acknowledge when the grandpa meanders over and plops into the rickety chair.

"Wow! A T.V.!" He said, now much more excited than grumpy. "You got a remote?"

"Two thousand channels," I tell him as I hand him the remote from the chair arm. "Go ahead, knock ye'self out!"

"Make that hotdog a footlong!" He added. I ignore him now.

As they settle in, I sit at my green table. I keep remembering how I'm not prepared for tonight... but I need to act calm in front of these people. I pour myself a shot and gulp it down.

I've been watching the kid for a time, out of the corner of my eye. He seems terrified. I don't know how to feel about that.

The sitar lady starts practicing. The odd strumming sounds ring through the musty air and echoes from dark corners. The kid sits next to her and clings to her arm. The old man is flipping through channels. I lean back on my green chair, wishing I had time to prepare properly. If only I could get the package at the apartment...

The grandchild's eyes catch mine. He stares at me and I stare back. I can see him shiver from across the room. Suddenly I have a solution.

I get up and walk towards him, bringing the notebook. I pull him away from the sitar lady by his arm; the lady continues to play. He jumps as I speak.

"I got an errand that needs some runnin'," I say, as nicely as I know how to a child. But still he must sense a tone of urgency in me that, even for me, is hard to disguise. I rip a page out of the notebook and dig around in my jacket for a pen. I kneel down, turn him around, and write the note with his back as a flat surface. He lets me, but I wish he'd stop shaking. I stop myself from yelling at him to stand still, and finish the note. "3956 W 2374 N." He turns back around.

"I can't leave the premises," I tell him, thinking of a quick excuse, "because I've got sweepin' to do." I continue slowly. "Go to this address. There will be a package waiting for you there." He takes the note hesitantly and looks up at me with frightened eyes.

"Be back here with that package by curtain time," I lower my voice; "or it's curtains for the sitar lady."

He nods vigorously, but I want to make sure he truly understands.

I stay on one knee to be level with him. Even there I'm a bit too tall, so I lower my head, resting one arm on my propped-up knee and the other around the kid's shoulders. He feels cold, and he shakes under my embrace.

"You see that door?" I whisper, pointing at the mouse hole in the wall, sealed with a wooden door and a padlock. "You wanna know what's behind that door?" I answer before he can: "You don't wanna know what's behind that door. And you see those bones?" Now I can barely hear my own voice being drowned out by sitar chords. But judging by the kid's widening eyes, I'd say he could. Just to be sure, though, I lean in closer to his ear.

"You wanna know what made those bones?" I ask. This time I pause. The kid is frozen for a moment, then nods hesitantly, not taking his eyes from the bones that lay in the corner near the tiny door.

"You don't wanna know what made those bones..." I whisper into his ear. He starts to shake his head side to side in order to agree with me. I rise quickly and shove the kid toward the door.

"I'm sendin' your kid out for some coffee," I say loudly so the old couple will hear me. "Go!" I tell the kid.

Just as the boy reaches for the door handle, I remember something extremely important. I catch up to him in a couple of steps and, as he starts to open the door inward, I shut it again, holding it down with my hand. He stops and looks up at me. I look down at him as well, my arm rigid and my palm against the door.

"And no cops," I say. My voice is low, and purposefully menacing. I glare down at the terrified boy for a moment, letting the threatening silence finish my point: "or else."

I take my hand away from the door and open it for him, smiling. As he leaves I whisper "curtain time."

A moment later, my phone vibrates again. The fake smile drops from my face. Before I answer, I step outside and lean against the door with my back.

Once I lift my phone to my ear I almost forget to say something.

"...Aye."

"Listen, Michael," my boss says.

"Listening, boss."

"Shut up."

"Yessir."

"Why do I get the feeling your not ready for tonight, Buschwick?" he asks; his voice is angry and low.

"I don't know, boss," I say with fake innocence. "Why do you think—"

"Don't you dare lie to me, you homeless scum! Meet me at the place in an hour, got it?"

"Actually boss... I'm working on a job right now but I promise I'll be there tonight—"

"Don't give that crap to me!" The boss shouts. "You will be here in an hour, and if yo're not, you're going to regret it big time later! You understand?"

"...Yeah, boss."

"Yeah? Well you better! I may even fire you anyway, you rotten insect!"

I say nothing.

"Mike!"

"Yeah?"

"One. Hour."

"Yeah."

I hear the line hang up with a quiet, static click. I feel like that kid, now. I rub my eyes with my thumb and forefinger as I put my phone away. Instead of sulking or hiding or yelling, like I felt like doing, I take the smoke packet out of my other pocket and open the top. There are two cigarettes left. I take the left one.

"Listen," I say to the old couple, as I walk into the room and close the door. The sitar lady looks up and stops playing, but the old man keep his eyes fixed on the television. I don't see any reason to conceal myself any longer, and my patience is running thin.

"Aye!" I yell. The old man jerks his grumpy head in my direction. Now that I have their attention, I puff a few times on my new cigarette.

"I got an important meeting comin' up now," I say. My voice is harder and louder and... more real. "You two are going to stay here. Don't sweat, gramma, the performance isn't for hours. Imma get you that hotdog, grampa." I lie to both of them. "But for right now I need you to stay here."

The reaction is not what I expect.

"Sure thing, Mr. Schwick," says the old lady.

"Eh," says the man. He continues to flip through channels. The lady starts again to play her sitar.

I smile for real this time. First time I been called "Mr. Schwick." I like it.

I lock the door from the outside; that's the only way it can lock. I wait for the elevator to come back down, and and fear creeps into my mind again. The next puff of smoke I exhale floats upward and almost conceals my vision.


The boss tightens his grip on the front of my collar, and his knuckles press into my neck. My cigarette is flickering out on the ground.

"Mikey," he says angrily.

I hate that name, although I would have answered him. But all I could get out was a grunt.

"Sadly, I'm starting to rethink my decision to hire you for the business in the first place." My heart skips a terrifying beat. "Frankly, Buschwick," he continues. "You suck!" He thrusts me against the wall and lets go of my collar. I grasp my neck and slump down, but I stay on my feet. After coughing a couple times, I raise my head and plead,

"You know I need this job boss, please!"

"Don't you dare beg!" he shouts. "I should kick you out right now, if I had sense!"

"But..." I start hesitantly. "...you won't?" Now I'm hopeful.

He's tall enough to grab the hair on the top of my head and pull, lifting me up and closer to his face. I wince.

"No," he says. Relief fills me—but too soon. "I am." he punches me right below the ribs. The blow causes me to fold, but that only increases the pain on my head by wrenching my hair away from the boss' fist; he holds on, and before I can retaliate, he pulls me back up.

"You're a joke, Buschwick. Just a sad joke."

He lets go of my hair, and as I drop, he kicks my ribs; my back and head hit the wall. I try to stand, but my legs won't move and I drop to a sitting position. I let out a groan as the pain fogs my brain. I hear,

"Good riddance, Michael Buschwick."

My head lowers and I twist my face, trying to keep back the blood.


Well, my important meeting turned out to only take half an hour. I walk slowly to the "rehearsal room" door and fumble with the lock, finally getting it open. I walk in; the old couple is still there, and the kid is still gone.

"Oh my!" the sitar lady says. "What ever's the matter?" She's asking me, I realize. She can probably see the blood on my teeth. I stare at her for a moment... I don't know what to feel... sadness, gratefulness, shock, anger...?

I go with anger.

"None o' your businesses," I snap.

"See, none of our business," echoes the old man.

I walk across the room and sit painfully at the green table. I cover my face with one hand. The truth was, I was horrible. Not only am I in physical pain, but I was just fired. Now I don't have no source of income... no place to go... no one to turn to... criminal record won't get me nowhere... I even ran out of cigarettes.

I hear a knock at the door followed by a voice announcing,

"Curtain time in ten minutes."

Curtain time... the kid!

"Your kid better be back here soon with my—coffee," I say, impatient. I need that package...

As if on cue, the timid kid opens the door slowly. He was holding my package! I get up and rush toward him. He shrinks back, but I grab the package with a swipe of my arm. This could be my chance!

I open the package eagerly and look inside.

Rage builds up inside me. Partly for this incident, but mostly for all the incidents of today, and even of my life. All this effort, all this despair, everything... ruined by a stupid kid. I can't hide it any longer. I don't want to.

"You broke it!" I exclaim. Nothing is holding my anger back. I curse at him, I curse at myself, I curse at the broken mess in the package. The old couple stares at me, shocked. The kid hides behind the grandma, petrified.

"Now it's curtains for the sitar lady!" I yell at the boy. I lunge at them both, but the boy pulls at the lady's arm and they escape through the partly open door with the sitar, leaving the old man and me behind.

"Nobody double crosses Schwick!" I swing the door open and pursue them to the elevator. I see the elevator doors start to close—they shut just as I skid to a stop in front of them. I snarl at the wide-eyed child through the bars, furious. The elevator rises past the ceiling and out of sight.

It's torturous waiting for it to come back down. My anger festers inside me, heating me up, making me impatient, all the while concealing my despair. Finally it comes down—I squeeze past the cage doors as they start to open and furiously yank the lever to tell the stupid machine to go up. It stops at the first floor, the floor we entered on. The hallway was empty. I want to jump out and run outside, but cops would see me for sure, and besides, I have a hunch the kid went a floor above me—the elevator had taken twice as long to come down. I heard applause up there, too.

I get out of the elevator on the second floor, the floor the stage is on. The applause is much louder now. I walk around the corner and see the audience cheering in darkness. I look to the spotlighted stage—it's the sitar lady. The boy is up there too, standing in front of front row, neck bent back, waiting for his gramma to perform. I walk quickly down the sloped, carpeted sidelines next to the seats, passing the ushers with rushed, heavy steps.

I near where the kid is standing, ready to seize him. But before I get there, a hand grabs the back of my jacket and yanks me back through an open doorway behind me. Through the backwards stumbling of my feet, I spin around and angrily face my obstacle.

It's a cop. He doesn't release his grip on my jacket. Our eyes lock for a moment, his are reflecting determination; mine are probably revealing anger, that changes into realization, that morphs into frantic fear.

"I said no cops!" I shout, my voice shakes a little. I meant to address the kid, but I knew he couldn't hear me. I slip my arms out of my jacket, escaping the policeman's grip, and race out of the doorway. I stop abruptly—there are two more cop in front of me. The ushers stand far away, watching me, afraid of the pathetic, but intimidating and furious, mess I am. A couple of the audience members have noticed the scene as well.

My arms are grabbed and snatched backwards.

"On your knees," I'm commanded. I drop to my knees; fear is starting to overcome my anger. I feel hard, sharp cuffs being snapped to my wrists and my shoulders are pushed down toward the floor.

"You're under arrest," a gruff voice informs me. I would try to escape, but there's no point anymore. Where would I go? At least in prison I'll have food and a bed.

I'm lifted to my feet. I glance over and see both the lady and the kid staring at me. I scowl and look away, angry, but almost ashamed.

"Looks like we finally gotcha, Buschwick," said a cop, satisfied. That sparks a final burst of anger in me. Of all people at all times, a cop calls me Buschwick as he's arresting me.

"Schwick!" I yell in his face. "It's JUST SCHWICK!"