The challenge is to write a one-shot about a newsy, who is not one of our beloved boys. This newsy cannot be female, nor can any supporting characters be female. It can however be about one of those nameless newsies from the film if you would like. The story must take place in 1899. It must be written in the third person. No limit on the number of words in one-shot.

Please nothing M-rated.

VERMIN

(for Laelyn24's Fall challenge)

Sometimes, when he thought long and hard about it, he got pissed. Sure, life could be easy if you wanted it to be. Damn Jack Kelly waltzed around the streets of New York nearly clicking his heels because he was going to Santa Fe and leaving the dirty streets with all their memories and pain etched deep in the walls. And then, on the other side of the spectrum, was Skittery. Good old glum and dumb, he was. You could count on him rather intensely, not just because he was a good friend – which he was – but but because he was a constant. His moods didn't fluctuate, and you could always count on him to supply a sarcastic comment, especially when you were in the mood for one. Because, really, sometimes the best response to situations is a well-timed sarcastic comment.

For street rats, it was about survival. Praying today wouldn't be the day you got carted off to jail because you played craps on the streets with your buddies, hoping that one day soon, you'd get adopted from that orphanage and finally eat at a table with a man who called you 'son,' finally becoming that doctorlawyerjudge you always wanted to be, but never believed in yourself at all because you couldn't even spell your own name.

Sure, the newsies were all friends, or sorts, but which one of them would stand in front of a bullet for you? Which one would stay outside in the cold with you because you couldn't afford to pay for the night at the Lodging House? Sure, it was nice to tell yourself "yeah, my buds will always have my back. They'll look out for me." But what self-respecting kid is going to sacrifice something they have for you? Us kids were selfish; if we have it, to hell with you, they say. And it was true. If they had money to pay their way for a bunk in a Lodging House, they'd tip their hat at you and duck inside, while you were left freezing and rocking back and forth in a box fort deep in a nearby alley.

Then there was the actual act of being a newsie. Jack Kelly seemed to romanticize everything in his life. Jack made it seem as if there was no better profession than being a newsie. And maybe, to some of these kids, it is. Better than sleeping on the streets, pickpocketing, or being stuck in the Refuge. But really, selling newspapers was not all it was cracked up to be. Nobody respected newsies. Never. Not once. And they didn't get many girls clamoring up to be newsies, either. Well, they had one girl, who pretended to be a boy and wanted to sell papes, but then the police found out and dragged her back home. Turns out she was from Jersey and had run away from home on a fickle notion that she wanted to sell papes. Yeah, not too many girls. The only girls that seemed to want to talk is the scarlet girls, but then again, that ain't much company, is it?

It was going to be a harsh wake-up call to those starry-eyed kids that couldn't wait to sell their first papers. Boy, were those kids in for a rude awakening.

Now, he didn't feel that way all the time. Honestly, he was one of those guys that would pay for you to sleep a night in the Lodging House if you're his pal. Just because he knew what it's like to sleep outside in the cold. It's no fun.

Then there was the families left behind when they decided to become newsies. Some of them didn't leave their families – like Dave – but some of them did. Like him.

Thirteen was the age of adulthood. And for his family, that meant all the girls going to the factory that Mama worked at. He knew what they did at those places, to his sisters and to Mama. The week before he ran away, Mama came home to tell him that his older sister Julia's dress had been caught up in one of the machines, and she was pulled in. Mama was covered in blood, because they had made her clean it up.

They didn't eat that night, because Mama said that they shouldn't be able to eat when Julia couldn't. Not like they ever ate at normal intervals. There was no breakfast, lunch and dinner in their house. There was simply food whenever they could scrape money together to get it.

Sometimes Mama would cry deep into the night in her room, and he knew why. If she didn't do her work in a certain amount of time, she got raped, because that was what you were supposed to do. And his father could do nothing, because he was 'lost at sea.' He wasn't that naïve of a boy, however. He wasn't lost at sea. He was eight, and it was Christmas Eve. Papa left Mama a note that simply said 'I've gone out.' That was last time they saw him. He wasn't lost at sea. He had simply left. Left my mother and his three children.

He took up working in the factory Mama worked at, since he didn't know any better. Worked from five A.M. to five P.M., and returned home dog tired only to do the same thing over again the next day. It was not a way to live, that's for sure.

So when he was thirteen,heI was supposed to move into adulthood, and at the sweatshop, that meant rape some girl. They had her set up for him and everything; she was eleven, malnourished and shaking when they shoved her at him. She'd lost three fingers on her left hand and her hair looked like it had been sawed off by a rusty switchblade, the oily spindles of her hair jagged and uneven, making her look a little silly, but mostly terrible. And the worst part of it was, he couldn't do it.

So he didn't, told them he couldn't. Got his kneecap shattered for that, had to go to the doctor because they'd cracked his kneecap right in half. Think you got it bad? Try limping all the way from Trinity to Midtown so you could get your knee fixed. He was still working on paying off my debt to that guy, which is why he became a newsie. Not the best job, but it was better than being forced to rape girls at some sweatshop.

He left after that day. Became a newsie after running in Jack Kelly, the bum. Not that he had room to complain. At least the newsies aren't required to rape girls.

He didn't go back to his house since he ran away when he was thirteen. Three years ago, that was, and still he hasn't been back, to make sure they were all right, to see if they were still alive. And that didn't bother him much. He didn't want to return to the sadness, the pain, hearing Mama crying into the night.

He looked up, though, hearing someone walking up beside him. It was Snoddy, and he looked a little worried. Snoddy offered a hand and he hoisted himself up from the curb, with his help.

"Whaddya say, Snoddy?" he asked his pal.

"It's almost curfew; just thought I'd tell ya," Snoddy said simply.

"Thanks," he said, glancing out over the dark street, frowning.

"Oh, and Swifty?" He turned at his name. "Quit thinkin' about your family. It pisses you off."

Swifty nodded, took his advice, and followed him into the Lodging House. He was right, of course. Because, when he thought long and hard about it, he got pissed.