Author's Note: Well, now that the fan fiction awards are over and done with, I should have some more time to continue working on my stories. First up… Sin City (which tied for Best Drama, woot). I hope you guys like this chapter. Two more to go of the shorter ones, yay.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor stake any claim, to any of the original characters shamelessly borrowed from Newsies – they are the property of Disney, © 1992. Any other character, when noted, is the property of this author.
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Sin City
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Before Las Vegas, there was New York City...
One day in the life of five newsboys in 1899 Manhattan.
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That tells you something about your state of mind, don't it? It's got you hearing things.
It's got your nerves shot… It's got you smoking. You know it's true…
Nobody ever really quits.
A smoker's a smoker when the chips are down…
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3:14 am
Racetrack is dreaming but it ain't a pleasant dream. In fact, it's more like a nightmare. A crazy nightmare that frightens him even more so because it's only a hint of what could be.
In his dream, Race is running but it's not the way he normally runs. He's not on two feet, arms pumping at his side but, instead, he's going forward on all fours. The sound of his hands and feet as the scurry on annoys him; it's almost as if they are clicking against the cobblestone floor and, with each space taken, his head echoes with the noise.
There's someone running behind him. There's something running behind him, too. He doesn't have the desire to see what it is – he knows only to run – but, when the something hits him in the side, he slides his eyes over.
It takes a second for him to process the sight he is seeing. It's a tail – a real, goddamn tail – that just smacked him… a tail that is stuck to him. It's Racetrack's tail.
He stumbles over himself in his surprise, tripping over a foot that looks nothing like it's supposed to. He falls and slides a few feet forward, his earlier momentum propelling him onward. He slams into a box that's gotta be at least eight feet high – or, at least, it seems that way to Race. There's a frightened squeak and he wonders for a second where it came from before he realizes that it came from him.
Him…
There's a wicked laugh looming somewhere above him. Race only has enough time to look up and see a gigantic boot that is crashing down upon him before he knows only darkness…
Race wakes up, a slick sheen of sweat coating his forehead. The fear is so palpable that he can taste it – it reminds him of spoiled milk or rotten eggs… maybe even an unholy mixture of the two. It disturbs him and he feels violently ill but he does not move. Or, he does, but only to remove the sweat-soaked pillow from his face. Despite his earlier precaution, the nightmares found him.
His heart is beating so rapidly that he imagines it beating out a rhythm. It is a gay tune, he believes, and, as he listens to it, he can almost see Medda Larkson belting out a song to it's melody as she tapped her heeled shoes along to the beat. But, then, reality sits in and Medda's beautiful face is replaced by Mouse McGuire's. The tapping grows frantic – it is stomping. Stomp… stomp… stomp… just like that heavy boot.
Nothing can take his mind off of Mouse's threat – if only because Race is well aware that it's no mere threat. It is a promise. And, at that moment, as he stares up at the bunk above him – seeing but not seeing – Race wishes that he had never met Mouse or any of his goons.
But wishing never got nobody anywhere. Only a man's own two feet can do that.
He's dressed in his full body union suit. Even though it is the middle of August, Race isn't comfortable enough to walk around the lodging house half-naked like some of the other boys. There's some things a fella has to keep private, Race figures, and the shape of his body is one of them. That's for the dames to see and the dames only.
But the weight of the cloth is stifling to him – even if it's is own thoughts that are really to blame for the suffocation and not his clothes. He exhales and inhales as quickly as he can, trying to get the images out of his head. It doesn't work as well as he would have liked and he knows that if he tries to go back asleep, only more nightmares will be waiting for him.
Rather than face that, Race sits up in his bunk. He can barely make out the bulge of the body lying above him, sleeping all peaceful-like, and he wonders what he wouldn't give to be resting. He exhales again and swivels his body. His bare feet are pressing against the sticky lodging house floor.
Normally the feel of the floor is enough to settle his many anxieties and insecurities. He's been in this lodging house so long now that it's hard to imagine a time when he was anywhere else – the floor tells him that he is home. But not this time. All it does is reminds Race about shoes. Goddamn shoes. Shoes that remind him of Mush and of seven dollars and of Mouse McGuire. Of squish and squeaks and nothingness.
He sighs. He has the vague sensation that he wants to be sick but there's really no strength left for that… so he sighs. Race knows he ain't going back to sleep anytime soon. It was a waste of a good nickel to pay for lodging fare – he would have been better off on the street.
Race stands up and pulls on the top drawer of the dresser that separates his bunk from Snipeshooter's. He had shoved his trousers and his shirt in there before going to bed; he could almost hear the garments whispering his name. Giving into the unheard temptation – even though more layers will only serve to heighten his sense of asphyxiation – he pulls on the slacks, right over the union suit.
The shirt is next and his hands are slightly shakings as he does up the buttons. He neglects that familiar vest of his and leaves his hat behind. Hell, he doesn't even put shoes on. But, of course, that's for a different reason, entirely.
Vaguely, he wonders if Mush's thick feet would fit into his shoes. Maybe propose a trade – his shoes for the seven dollars. Everyone would be happy – everyone would win. If it wasn't for the fact that Mush was bigger than him… that his feet would never squeeze into Race's smaller shoes…
Trying to get his mind off of a myriad of unpleasantries, Race begins to talk to himself.
"I gotta take a little time," Race mumbles to himself, alone – but not alone – in the darkness. He begins to search the top of the dresser for the dented tin he knows is there. His stubby fingers find the box and quickly pry the top off. It makes a slight popping noise. His nose meets the strong aroma of seven half-smoked cigars and he savors the scent.
Snipeshooter sniffles in his sleep and turns over. Race can barely make out the younger boy's face but he sees that Snipes is asleep. That's a good thing.
He scoops his hand into the tin and draws out three of the larger stems. He doesn't know how long he's going to sit out on the porch. He shoves them into the pockets of his trousers and gently settles the tin's lid back in place. "I gotta think things over," he says to himself before putting the box back in its place.
Without the stale, but damn near intoxicating scent of an old stogie, Snipes unwittingly turns away from Race. The boy is still asleep.
Racetrack Higgins wishes he could be that lucky. And he wonders if Snipeshooter's shoes would fit Mush.
