Disclaimer: This story features characters from Disney's 1992 musical, Newsies. I do no stake any claim to them and they are used for fictional purposes only. Any other character is either the property of this author or the creator of said character.

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Pick Your Poison

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"C'mon, boys, up and at 'em! Sell a paper, sell the papes!"

It was too early for this shit and, to be honest, while Kloppman was yellin' his early mornin' wake-up calls, I wished I coulda thrown one of my old boots at the man. Yeah, I know its his job and all to make sure that us newsies do our jobs but… jeez, did he have to yell so loud? That was one rough night I'd had... well, what I could remember of it was.

My eyes were closed but I can't really say that I was sleepin'. Still, when ol' Kloppman stopped right at the edge of my bunk and slapped at my foot, I wasn't about to let him know that. I've never been a mornin' person—early mornings always seem to put me in a bad mood—and a headache like the one I felt comin' on wasn't helpin' me at all.

"Skittery? Hey, Skittery. Time to get up, boy!"

The old man wasn't takin' the hint. Damn it.

Almost mumblin' to myself, I offered a weak soundin', "I didn't do it," before blearily openin' up my left eye. Seein' as it was still January, there wasn't any sunlight comin' into the bunkroom but Kloppman had a candle in his hand. The shock of the bright flame sent a sharp pain through my head and I groaned once before shuttin' my eye again.

That fuckin' hurt.

And, ya know what? That wasn't the worst of it. Yeah, my head hurt, and my eyes felt so scratchy and dry, like they was filled with dirt and grit, but my stomach felt like I swallowed one of them fancy jumpin' beans from Mexico that I saw this two-bit peddler tryin' to sell over on Bottle Alley.

I was thirsty, too. Real thirsty, so thirsty that I probably woulda taken a mouthful off of the old water pump straight if none of the other fellas woulda stopped me. Funny, that, me bein' so thirsty—I might not remember much about last night, but I'm pretty sure I'd had more than enough to drink. 'Cause, otherwise, I don't know where the hell this feelin' came from.

I guess Kloppman gave up on me—that, or he knew that the others had to get up, too—'cause I heard him hollerin' for Bumlets next. It ain't like it's not my choice, if I want to sell or if I want to do nothin'. It's my money, right? So I won't be able to eat any supper or pay for lodgin' later… I don't plan on stickin' around that long, anyway.

'Sides, I really needed to sleep this off before I leave the lodgin' house for good. It just won't do to start my new life sufferin' from yesterday's liquor.

Now, I've never been a real big drinker. Sure, whenever the headlines were good and I could afford it, it was always a treat to have a nice cup of somethin' with a cigarette, but that's it. Alcohol was a vice that I just couldn't pay for, ya know?

But, shit, there's just some things that a guy sees and feels that can only be dulled by a coupla glasses of something thick, strong and wet…

It's been over a week since I went down to Sunshine's and walked in on Cowboy and Sunny… together. And, 'sides from spendin' a good chunk of my earnin's all week down at the pub on 25th street, I haven't done nothin' about what I seen. True, I ain't gone back to that fuckin' burlesque joint since then but at least every time I've seen Jack I've kept my hands off of his dirty neck. And it ain't because I'm such a nice guy, either.

I got a plan, a good one, too. All I needed was to get up the nerve to cross the Brooklyn Bridge and visit a pal of mine for some help. And, from the goddamn headache and all together shitty feeling I had—that, plus some hazy memories from last night—I'm pretty sure that that's all said and done.

Ya see, I know this guy. Louie. He's a coupla years younger than me, lives over in Brooklyn. He's got this older brother, Sammy, a good guy who got an alright job in Jersey. It's hard work, yeah, long hours and all but it gives him three squares a day and a coupla dollars a week.

And I can't be a newsie forever, can I?

Anyway, Louie used to live around these parts, hawkin' headlines for the Sun—that's how I met him, ya know—before he moved on over the Bridge to join Spot Conlon and his boys. He still comes around here, though, and the last time I ran into him at Tibby's, he was tellin' me all about this job his brother's got.

I've been thinkin' about it a lot lately—I don't think I've really done nothin' this past week but think—and my mind kept bringin' up Sammy over in Jersey. There ain't nothin' left for me here in New York; why shouldn't I start fresh in a new state?

But, seein' as how I've never found the nerve to cross the Bridge before, it was tough. I couldn't do it on my own and I sure as hell couldn't do it sober. And then, yesterday mornin', I'd remembered all about Racetrack and that poker game he had goin' on in Brooklyn. All it took was agreein' to help him out before stoppin' down at that joint on 25th street and presto!

He may have had to nearly carry my sorry ass over that stupid Bridge, but I made it over to Brooklyn. I did it—it may have been one of the last things I did before leavin' this place, but I did it. And then, in the haze and fumes of yesterday's liquor, I forgot all about it.

Speakin' of Race…

"Skittery, get up!"

Ah, jeez, what the hell does he want from me? I thought everyone was leavin' me behind.

I could feel his hand shakin' my shoulder and, for a good second, I thought about just keepin' my eyes shut and pretendin' that I couldn't hear his voice. I doubted it would work—Race can be a stubborn bastard sometimes—but, really, I didn't have it in me to talk to him just yet.

"C'mon, Skitts. I know you were out of it last night, but it's mornin' now, you mook!"

He was insultin' me, too. He's lucky that my head felt the way it did—I mighta punched him in the mouth for that.

"What do you want, Race?" I said, my voice soundin' scratchy and low. I was still fuckin' thirsty and my throat was too dry for my voice to sound normal. I slowly opened my eyes and, I'll tell ya this, gettin' an eyeful of Racetrack Higgins first thing in the mornin' isn't good when you feel like hurlin' already.

"He's alive," Race cracked, the stub of one of his cigars clamped between his yellow teeth. "I thought that shit ya drank last night mighta killed ya."

I didn't really remember much of what happened last night and I guess it showed on my face 'cause Race rolled his eyes before explainin', "Last night? The poker game over in Brooklyn? Don't you remember?"

I remembered Brooklyn, sure, and I remember drinkin' enough that I'm surprised I didn't piss myself while I was sleepin' but a poker game?

Oh, yeah… that's right. Race had that poker game with Spot Conlon and his boys—he told me that, if I went with him, he'd buy me a drink. Besides, after everything that happened with Sunny and… yeah. I never told none of the others but Race, he kinda knew and he all but dragged me over the damn Bridge himself last night.

After I drank one cup too many of some real strong whiskey.

Shit.

I started to nod but it made my head feel like it was gonna roll right off my shoulders so I stopped. "Yeah, Race. I remember. Good game, huh?"

"Good game? Well, for me, yeah. Spot and his cronies were watchin' you make a drunken ass out of yourself, Skitts, and none of 'em noticed that I marked the deck."

His words were helpin' me remember—and it wasn't nothin' I wanted to remember. I could just imagine what the hell I did after stumblin' into the Brooklyn lodgin' house. And, thinkin' back, I'm pretty sure that I ended up losin' all the money I had, too.

"It was just a damn game. It didn't mean nothin'."

Snortin', and almost spittin' his unlit stogie onto my head, Race said, "A poker game, not mean nothin'? If you say so, buddy." Then, shakin' his head and pokin' me in the arm, he added, "Let's go. I'm sure you've got one hell of a hangover, the way you downed glass after glass last night, but ya gotta eat. Here," he said, reachin' one of his thick, little fingers into one of the pockets in his vest and pullin' out a quarter, "I know you ended up short last night. I'll get your papes for you today, on account of you helpin' me out in Brooklyn. What do you say to that?"

Even feelin' as crummy and foggy as I did, I could tell that Race was itchin' to follow the rest of the guys. Sometimes, if a fella takes too long to make it to the distribution center, there ain't enough papes left to buy and, just 'cause I was headin' out, I didn't want to mess with Race. Even from my place on my bunk I could see that almost all of the other boys had woken up—out of the corner of my eye I watched as Jack tied his damn neckerchief on before hurryin' out of the room—and were already gone.

In fact, there were really only two people who weren't ready: me and Race. Race was waitin' for me… plus, he was givin' me money.

Damn, I was gonna miss that bum.

"Thanks, Race. I owe ya," I said, takin' the coin he offered and givin' him a lopsided grin.

He shoulda known something was up. I was sick, I was tired and I was broke—I had nothin' to grin about, but I was grinnin'. But, then again, that's Race. If he can't make a couple cents profit off of it, or offer it some smart ass remark, it don't mean much to him. And, shit, I wouldn't have him any other way.

"Sure thing, Skitts," he said, chewin' the stub of his cigar as he nodded at me. "Listen, you go and get ready and I'll catch ya down at the window, yeah?"

I nodded. It was low, lyin' to Race, but, hey, at least it wasn't Mush. I don't think I could go on and do what I was plannin' on doin' if it was Mush who stayed behind to talk to me…

"See ya."

I watched as Race ran his damn comb through his greasy black hair before stowin' it in the pocket of his vest. I had the sudden urge to reach out, grab that comb and snap it in half—I remembered the last time I borrowed it and, trust me, I didn't need the sight of the stupid comb to remind me—but I didn't. I couldn't.

Leavin' the sappy, un-Skittery grin on my sloppy face, I watched as Race's short, stubby legs carried him out of the bunkroom and down the steps. I wasn't used to bein' the last of the boys out of the bunkroom and, silently, I looked around. This was how I was gonna remember this place, all quiet and empty and lonely.

I shook my head, ignorin' that little bit of me—the sense I had left, I figure—that told me to grow up and give up. Was it worth it, doin' all of this, just cause my pride got a little hurt? Cause my heart got a little broke?

You bet it was.

Gettin' ready didn't take long. A quick splash of water at the pump and a half-hearted rub with someone's dirty towel and I was set. There wasn't much that I really owned so I wrapped up the little bit that was into one of the sheets I stole off of someone's bed and slung the pack over my shoulder.

I was good to go.

No. Wait…

There was one last thing I wanted to do before leavin' Duane Street behind. With a smirk on my face that could rival any that Spot Conlon wore, I tiptoed over to Jack's bunk. Only steppin' up two rungs on that ladder, enough that I could reach his bed, I glared down at the place where that bummer usually slept. I didn't breath just then, just in case I caught a whiff of that honey smell I knew was Sunny; I didn't think I could stand it if her scent mixed with Jack's stink and lingered in the bunkroom.

And then, hockin' the biggest glob of spit I could manage, I spat on Jack Kelly's damn pillow. If everything went like I wanted it to, he wouldn't be needed it longer but… that felt good.

I needed that.

Now that that petty act of revenge was out of my way, it was time to head off to the Jacobs' apartment. I'm sure Sarah is just dyin' to see me.

Jack Kelly's gotta learn. By fuckin' my girl behind my back, he fucked me. All I'm doin' is repayin' the favor.

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I'd only ever been to Davey Jacobs' place one time before this. I don't really remember what brought me there, except that I was out walkin' with Race one night last fall—killin' time, I'd wager, until I could see Sunny again, shit—and Jack Kelly got him to take a message over to Sarah for him.

Lookin' back on it now, I just wonder what whore he was sleepin' with then that he couldn't talk to his own damn girl himself. With my luck, it probably was Sunny then, too…

Now, I may not be the smartest guy around, but I got a way with directions. I'd follow my feet anywhere, and not just cause they're attached to the rest of me, ya know? So, though I may have gotten confused for a coupla blocks, it didn't take me that long to remember where the Jacobs' apartment was.

The problem was, when it came down to it, actually knockin' on that front door.

There I was, a bitter kid whose dame had turned on him. Could I do that to someone else?

Didn't really matter, did it? I was gonna do it anyway.

So I knocked.

I ain't too sure that she recognized me when she opened the door but I knew who exactly she was. Sarah was pretty in her own way, with her long brown hair and fair skin but, if I'm bein' honest, she wasn't no Sunny. Maybe I've always been a sucker for a flashy dame but Sarah seemed too… nice for me.

For a second, I'd felt guilty about what I was gonna do. But then I thought better about it. Nice, that's what I thought she was—didn't a nice girl deserve to know what a lousy bum Jack Kelly was?

I introduced myself and said that I was lookin' for her and not her brothers, and she told me she remembered who I was. I guess we'd met once or twice—Jack had a knack for tryin' to show her off when she was on his arm—and she said that David spoke highly of me. Called me one of his friends and I almost wanted to call her out for lyin' to make me feel important.

Nice, just too fuckin' nice, ya know?

But I didn't. I waited until she did all the little niceties, includin' invitin' me into the apartment—I'm sure her mother woulda loved that—before shakin' my head and frownin'. I didn't want her to think I was enjoyin' doin' this to her, even if it did make me feel a bit better, ya know?

"Sarah," I said, my voice comin' out a little smoother now than it had this mornin', "I'm sure you're wonderin' what I'm doin' here, especially since I came to see you," and then, before she could interrupt me or I could lose my nerve, "and, I gotta tell you, it's got something to do with your Jack."

"Jack?" she asked, one of her clean, pale hands rising to her chest as her brown eyes narrowed in worry. "Is he all right?"

I really didn't want to answer that but, the way she looked horrified, I realized that she thought something was wrong with Jack. Well, there would be, but, by then, I doubted she'd be worried for him.

I shook my head. "It's… it's not that. He's—he's fine, okay. It's just that…"

I sounded like a fuckin' idiot and I knew that. But what was I supposed to do? I ain't never had to do something like this before, especially to a buddy—

No. Jack Kelly ain't no friend of mine. Friends don't do to each other what he did to me.

And Sunny…

The anger hit me at once and I couldn't help it. I'm just lucky that, at the last minute, I remembered that Sarah was a lady and that it wasn't right to use such language in front of her.

"…Jack's been steppin' out on ya, Sarah. He's seein' other girls."

I don't think that I coulda put it any easier than that, or any nicer, really. I mean, I don't think it was worth the way she got all teared up. There was a minute of silent, when I wondered if she heard me and she stood there, not sayin' nothin', even though her eyes were startin' to get all damp.

And then…

"Excuse me? Wha—"

Oh, damn it. Why can't tellin' news like this ever be easy? No, ya gotta repeat yourself like a fuckin' bird.

"You ain't the only one he's with, Sarah. He's cheatin', do ya understand?"

Alright, maybe I did get a bit nasty but, c'mon? She was already tearin' up, maybe a good cry would be good for her.

Right?

"How? I… how do you know?" she asked me, not so much whisperin' as talkin' real quiet-like. I don't know, I kinda think those tears of hers weren't cause she was sad or surprised, because how could she really be surprised—but 'cause she was hurt. Betrayed. But there were still tears and, deep down, I felt like a bastard for makin' her cry.

I felt like a bastard because I know exactly how she felt.

I shrugged and, with that one gesture, I tried to tell her more with my shoulders than with I could with my mouth. "Cause he was with my girl."

Nothin' else had to be said. Even if there was anythin' else, neither one of us could do it. She was still too surprised, and I still wasn't over it the pain of seein' Sunny and Jack together.

I didn't know if I ever would be… but this was a start.

I mumbled some sort of incoherent, unimpressive apology—I ain't too good at sayin' sorry—before stickin' my hands in my pockets and shufflin' away from her. She was cryin', I could hear the snifflin', and I didn't want to see it. I did what I had to do—what I wanted to do—and I didn't need to hang around.

Besides, I still had one more thing left to do before takin' off.

Now, what's a guy gotta do to get hold of a copper?


Author's Note: Only one last chapter to go, now. I hope this last flashback kinda sheds some light on what happened seven years ago - and why Skittery is apologizing to Jack. However, even though this is the last flashback, the backstory is not complete. Thank goodness that there's one more bit to this story left, eh?