Star Crossed Lovers - by Crunch
Hey all! Disclaimer- is this really nessesary? We all know I don't own the newsies, do you have to rub it in?
You've all heard THE story, but I'm bettin' not like this. You know how this goes- review it's good, flame if it sucks. *Crunch crosses her fingers*
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ACT I
"Read all about it, familly killed in buggy crash!"
The sun that beamed down through a crystal clear, mid-winter sky warmed Swivel's body and spirit as he strolled through Newsie Square, rough housing with his selling partner Manca along the way. The two Brooklyn newsboys laughed and chatted merrily, pausing occasionaly only to shove a pape in the face of an unsuspecting passerby with a dime to spare. Baron, a stooped and menacing figure dragging on his ever-presant cigarette, lagged behind under the burden of his paper load.
"Mornin' miss!" Swivel tipped his cap to a passing lady, flashing her a rougish smile. He felt like leaping, dancing, drinking- everything there was to do on a fine morning like this, he wanted to do it. His euphoria was too great to be contained; after all, this was the life!
"Hey, Swiv," Manca brushed a hand through the untamed mop of dirty blonde locks spilling from beneath a checkered cap, his sapphire eyes sparkling with pride. "Swiv, I ever tell ya how me 'an Baron beat down one a' dem Manhatten punks d'other day?" Rivalries between the two burroughs had been steadily mounting in the past few months since that first infamous brawl. Not a soul could remember who'd thrown the first punch; just that Spot Conlon had thirsted for more power then the great Jack Kelley was willing to give. Bonds formed during the strike had been severed; friendships torn apart at the seams. It was a dangerous time to be a newsie on either side of the line.
"Only one? Aww, dat aint nothin', Manca. Me an' da boys took out two a' dose Manhatten chumps last week, easy as pie."
"Tell me about it. Da only thing easier den Manhatten newsies is da Manhatten goils." The friends shared a laugh at their enemies expense. "Ey, speaken of da devil, aint those a couple a' Kelley's punks?"
From across the square, Manca gestured towards the three approaching newsies. They were indeed Manhattenites. "Just lemme handle this, boys." Baron stepped forwards, his pulse racing at the prospect of a good fight. "Ey, if it aint da one eyed wonder an' is goilfriend! Is dat you I sees, Skittery? Shouldn't you be off holdin' your Boss's hand or somethin'?" Eyes narrowed and fists clenched across the board.
"Easy, boys." Skittery whistled through gritted teeth. It seemed like he was forever keeping the peace in this town, to know avail.
Swivel stepped forward, the jocular smile never leaving his lips as he politely relieved Mush of his pape stack. "Any good headlines taday, chumps?" Hate buzzed through the air like electricity, poised to explode. Skittery could feel the trainwreck coming from a mile away.
"Carefull, fella's." The boy's coffee colored eyes, wide with apprehention, pleaded for calm. "Let's not do anything we'se gonna regret- "
Swivel snickered and dropped Mush's stolen papers, grinding them into the dirt beneath his water stained loafers. "Oh I aint gonna regret dis in da slightest, t'anks." With a snarl Mush lunged.
"'Ey - BUMMERS!" Skittery hand tremored slightly as he reached inside his frayed, dust streaked pink shirt and withdrew the gun. A cold, blood- chilling black lump of metal; it glittered dangerously in the sunlight as Skittery's index finger rested nervously against the trigger. "I said, cheese it! Whatsa matta wid youse? You all wanna get thrown in da refuge? Now let's all BACK OFF!"
"MANHATTEN!" In the blink of an eye, Skittery found himself looking down the barrel of another pistol, this one clutched in Baron's steady hand and aimed at his head. In the deadly silence that followed, settling over the streets like a blanket of tension, you could have heard the drop of a pin. Skittery swollowed the nervous lump in his throat; this was going too far too fast. "You should throw down, Manhatten. Clear out before me n' me boys really get angry."
He held his ground. "Baron, I don't wanna fight, not wid you or anyone. We'se had enough a' fighting for a lifetime. I'se just tryin' ta keep the peace.."
"Peace?" Baron's grin, the trademark smirk plastered to his face when ever the smell of violence was in the air, twisted into a sneer. Skittery looked on with discust as a wad of saliva flew from the bully's mouth, dropping distainfully between his own feet. "Screw peace. All dat truce stuff you'se always preachin'- dat's for jerks. Jerks like you, Skittery. You, all your Manhatten street rats, an' Jack Kelley." Skittery hit the dust just in time to miss the bullet slicing through the air above his head. Coughing up grit right and left, he wiped the trickle of blood from his lip and threw himself into a roll, narrowly missing a fresh volley of flying shots. "Damn it!" the newsie swore under his breath before drawing his own weapon.
"Skittery, move!" Blink started towards his friend, only to be jerked into the tangle of limbs that was Mush and Swivel. Crowds parted for the brawlers as they made there way across the square, battle cries mingling with the panic-stricken screams of women and children. Fists flew; bullets ricoched off the sunwarmed brick walls; everywhere there was chaos.
"You shoulda never messed wid us, Baron!"
"All kill ya for dat, you CHUMP!" Mush dropped down behind the bronzed statue dead center of Newsie Square, gasping for breath. Hastily, he fumbled for the pistol still tucked inside his own wasteband, ready to leap out and be rid of that tyrant Baron and his dumb ass friends once and for all.
At that moment something very strange occurred; so strange you might be tempted to call it fate. The imfamous leader of Manhatten, the one and only Jack Kelley, happened onto the scene of the brawl just as Brooklyn Boss Spot Conlon himself came running into the square, drawn by the echo of gunshots.
"Let me at him! I'll soak the BUM!" the 16 year old fighter strained against his girlfriend's arms, murder blazing in his cobalt-grey eyes.
"Oh no ya don't, Spot." Across from his mortal enemy, Jack found himself similarly hampered.
"Jack Kelley, don't you DARE move! I told you, it's this Gawd Damn rivalry or me!"
But Jack never had to choose, and Mush never had to fire, because suddenly a whistle peirced the air.
"Baron! Baron it's da bulls!"
"Comeon, guys, scram!"
As the Newsie's took off in a flurry of dust and panic, they heard the cries of the police chief at their backs:
"LISTEN UP STREETRATS! I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, AND IF I CATCH ANY OF YOU BOY'S MAKING TROUBLE, I DON'T CARE IF YOUR FROM BROOKLYN OR MANHATTEN OR MY OWN BACKYARD, I'T'S STRAIT TO THE REFUGE FOR YOU!"
Sadly, the Chief turned his back to the now vacant clearing, mopping the sweat from his worry-lined forehead with one pristine sleeve. "I tell you, Daniels." He sighed as his deputy bent to retreive an abandoned revolver, glaring up from the dust. "This has gone too far. Every week I'm breaking up another public brawl, between children! CHILDREN, for God's sake! I can't let this go on."
"What do we do, Chief?"
The man shrugged and scanned the horizon, where the blood-red sun melted into another winter night. "We put a stop to this war, once and for all. Any disturbance, and the perpetrators go strait to the pen. Let Snyder and his tactics deal with them."
*.*.*.*
Jack Kelley gazed sullenly towards the western horizon, oblivious to the touch of his girl, Blackee, as well as the last fading rays of sunlight stretched across a picture perfect sky. Baron has come into HIS territory today, HIS home, and pulled a gun on HIS boys. It was unbeleivable; inexcusable.
"Jack, I swears, Baron aint nevah gonna back down. We wasn't hurtin' noone, an' I had da situation under control, till dat Son of a Bitch pulled out his pistol! It was all I could do not ta get me head blown off." Anxiously, he passed Jack his near stub of a cigarette, and breathed a sigh of releif as his leader took the peace offering.
"It aint your fault, Skitt. Baron, he's Spot's second hand guy, so he's doin' what he's told. Dey both got it comin'. . ."
"Skittery, 'ave youse seen Racetrack around?" Blackee twisted a fat strand of chocolatey hair around her finger, a nervous habit, as she changed the subject.
"Yeah, matter a fact I has." Skittery grabbed the bait, thankful for any distraction. "I saw 'im as I was passing by Sheapshead on me route today. Ya know, I was gonna talk ta him, but 'e seemed real glum, so I left da guy alone."
"Race aint been at da top a' his game for a while now." Jack tugged at the trademark red bandanna fixed aroung his neck, cutting off his breath just now. "What am I supposed ta do about it? 'E's me second in command, after all, an' he's nevah around when deres a fight! 'E just mopes all day an' gambles all night. I dunno what's wrong wid him."
Skittery peered over Jack's shoulder towards the lodging house, where the masses of newsies, pockets emptied and spirits hightened by another rousing evening at Tibby's, stumbled into their quarters. Amoung them was Racetrack. Even from this distance he could see the darkened shadows ringing his friend's wary eyes.
"I dunno either Jack, but I'll find out for youse by da end of da night. Come hell or high watah."
* * * * * * * * * *
Oh man, I should stop starting new stories, but I just keep spittin' them out like. . .well, spit. So, didja figure out who's who yet? Didja? Didja?
You know how it works, if you want more, review review REVIEW! If it sucks, well, avert your eyes and pretend you don't know me.
[pic] [pic]
Hey all! Disclaimer- is this really nessesary? We all know I don't own the newsies, do you have to rub it in?
You've all heard THE story, but I'm bettin' not like this. You know how this goes- review it's good, flame if it sucks. *Crunch crosses her fingers*
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ACT I
"Read all about it, familly killed in buggy crash!"
The sun that beamed down through a crystal clear, mid-winter sky warmed Swivel's body and spirit as he strolled through Newsie Square, rough housing with his selling partner Manca along the way. The two Brooklyn newsboys laughed and chatted merrily, pausing occasionaly only to shove a pape in the face of an unsuspecting passerby with a dime to spare. Baron, a stooped and menacing figure dragging on his ever-presant cigarette, lagged behind under the burden of his paper load.
"Mornin' miss!" Swivel tipped his cap to a passing lady, flashing her a rougish smile. He felt like leaping, dancing, drinking- everything there was to do on a fine morning like this, he wanted to do it. His euphoria was too great to be contained; after all, this was the life!
"Hey, Swiv," Manca brushed a hand through the untamed mop of dirty blonde locks spilling from beneath a checkered cap, his sapphire eyes sparkling with pride. "Swiv, I ever tell ya how me 'an Baron beat down one a' dem Manhatten punks d'other day?" Rivalries between the two burroughs had been steadily mounting in the past few months since that first infamous brawl. Not a soul could remember who'd thrown the first punch; just that Spot Conlon had thirsted for more power then the great Jack Kelley was willing to give. Bonds formed during the strike had been severed; friendships torn apart at the seams. It was a dangerous time to be a newsie on either side of the line.
"Only one? Aww, dat aint nothin', Manca. Me an' da boys took out two a' dose Manhatten chumps last week, easy as pie."
"Tell me about it. Da only thing easier den Manhatten newsies is da Manhatten goils." The friends shared a laugh at their enemies expense. "Ey, speaken of da devil, aint those a couple a' Kelley's punks?"
From across the square, Manca gestured towards the three approaching newsies. They were indeed Manhattenites. "Just lemme handle this, boys." Baron stepped forwards, his pulse racing at the prospect of a good fight. "Ey, if it aint da one eyed wonder an' is goilfriend! Is dat you I sees, Skittery? Shouldn't you be off holdin' your Boss's hand or somethin'?" Eyes narrowed and fists clenched across the board.
"Easy, boys." Skittery whistled through gritted teeth. It seemed like he was forever keeping the peace in this town, to know avail.
Swivel stepped forward, the jocular smile never leaving his lips as he politely relieved Mush of his pape stack. "Any good headlines taday, chumps?" Hate buzzed through the air like electricity, poised to explode. Skittery could feel the trainwreck coming from a mile away.
"Carefull, fella's." The boy's coffee colored eyes, wide with apprehention, pleaded for calm. "Let's not do anything we'se gonna regret- "
Swivel snickered and dropped Mush's stolen papers, grinding them into the dirt beneath his water stained loafers. "Oh I aint gonna regret dis in da slightest, t'anks." With a snarl Mush lunged.
"'Ey - BUMMERS!" Skittery hand tremored slightly as he reached inside his frayed, dust streaked pink shirt and withdrew the gun. A cold, blood- chilling black lump of metal; it glittered dangerously in the sunlight as Skittery's index finger rested nervously against the trigger. "I said, cheese it! Whatsa matta wid youse? You all wanna get thrown in da refuge? Now let's all BACK OFF!"
"MANHATTEN!" In the blink of an eye, Skittery found himself looking down the barrel of another pistol, this one clutched in Baron's steady hand and aimed at his head. In the deadly silence that followed, settling over the streets like a blanket of tension, you could have heard the drop of a pin. Skittery swollowed the nervous lump in his throat; this was going too far too fast. "You should throw down, Manhatten. Clear out before me n' me boys really get angry."
He held his ground. "Baron, I don't wanna fight, not wid you or anyone. We'se had enough a' fighting for a lifetime. I'se just tryin' ta keep the peace.."
"Peace?" Baron's grin, the trademark smirk plastered to his face when ever the smell of violence was in the air, twisted into a sneer. Skittery looked on with discust as a wad of saliva flew from the bully's mouth, dropping distainfully between his own feet. "Screw peace. All dat truce stuff you'se always preachin'- dat's for jerks. Jerks like you, Skittery. You, all your Manhatten street rats, an' Jack Kelley." Skittery hit the dust just in time to miss the bullet slicing through the air above his head. Coughing up grit right and left, he wiped the trickle of blood from his lip and threw himself into a roll, narrowly missing a fresh volley of flying shots. "Damn it!" the newsie swore under his breath before drawing his own weapon.
"Skittery, move!" Blink started towards his friend, only to be jerked into the tangle of limbs that was Mush and Swivel. Crowds parted for the brawlers as they made there way across the square, battle cries mingling with the panic-stricken screams of women and children. Fists flew; bullets ricoched off the sunwarmed brick walls; everywhere there was chaos.
"You shoulda never messed wid us, Baron!"
"All kill ya for dat, you CHUMP!" Mush dropped down behind the bronzed statue dead center of Newsie Square, gasping for breath. Hastily, he fumbled for the pistol still tucked inside his own wasteband, ready to leap out and be rid of that tyrant Baron and his dumb ass friends once and for all.
At that moment something very strange occurred; so strange you might be tempted to call it fate. The imfamous leader of Manhatten, the one and only Jack Kelley, happened onto the scene of the brawl just as Brooklyn Boss Spot Conlon himself came running into the square, drawn by the echo of gunshots.
"Let me at him! I'll soak the BUM!" the 16 year old fighter strained against his girlfriend's arms, murder blazing in his cobalt-grey eyes.
"Oh no ya don't, Spot." Across from his mortal enemy, Jack found himself similarly hampered.
"Jack Kelley, don't you DARE move! I told you, it's this Gawd Damn rivalry or me!"
But Jack never had to choose, and Mush never had to fire, because suddenly a whistle peirced the air.
"Baron! Baron it's da bulls!"
"Comeon, guys, scram!"
As the Newsie's took off in a flurry of dust and panic, they heard the cries of the police chief at their backs:
"LISTEN UP STREETRATS! I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, AND IF I CATCH ANY OF YOU BOY'S MAKING TROUBLE, I DON'T CARE IF YOUR FROM BROOKLYN OR MANHATTEN OR MY OWN BACKYARD, I'T'S STRAIT TO THE REFUGE FOR YOU!"
Sadly, the Chief turned his back to the now vacant clearing, mopping the sweat from his worry-lined forehead with one pristine sleeve. "I tell you, Daniels." He sighed as his deputy bent to retreive an abandoned revolver, glaring up from the dust. "This has gone too far. Every week I'm breaking up another public brawl, between children! CHILDREN, for God's sake! I can't let this go on."
"What do we do, Chief?"
The man shrugged and scanned the horizon, where the blood-red sun melted into another winter night. "We put a stop to this war, once and for all. Any disturbance, and the perpetrators go strait to the pen. Let Snyder and his tactics deal with them."
*.*.*.*
Jack Kelley gazed sullenly towards the western horizon, oblivious to the touch of his girl, Blackee, as well as the last fading rays of sunlight stretched across a picture perfect sky. Baron has come into HIS territory today, HIS home, and pulled a gun on HIS boys. It was unbeleivable; inexcusable.
"Jack, I swears, Baron aint nevah gonna back down. We wasn't hurtin' noone, an' I had da situation under control, till dat Son of a Bitch pulled out his pistol! It was all I could do not ta get me head blown off." Anxiously, he passed Jack his near stub of a cigarette, and breathed a sigh of releif as his leader took the peace offering.
"It aint your fault, Skitt. Baron, he's Spot's second hand guy, so he's doin' what he's told. Dey both got it comin'. . ."
"Skittery, 'ave youse seen Racetrack around?" Blackee twisted a fat strand of chocolatey hair around her finger, a nervous habit, as she changed the subject.
"Yeah, matter a fact I has." Skittery grabbed the bait, thankful for any distraction. "I saw 'im as I was passing by Sheapshead on me route today. Ya know, I was gonna talk ta him, but 'e seemed real glum, so I left da guy alone."
"Race aint been at da top a' his game for a while now." Jack tugged at the trademark red bandanna fixed aroung his neck, cutting off his breath just now. "What am I supposed ta do about it? 'E's me second in command, after all, an' he's nevah around when deres a fight! 'E just mopes all day an' gambles all night. I dunno what's wrong wid him."
Skittery peered over Jack's shoulder towards the lodging house, where the masses of newsies, pockets emptied and spirits hightened by another rousing evening at Tibby's, stumbled into their quarters. Amoung them was Racetrack. Even from this distance he could see the darkened shadows ringing his friend's wary eyes.
"I dunno either Jack, but I'll find out for youse by da end of da night. Come hell or high watah."
* * * * * * * * * *
Oh man, I should stop starting new stories, but I just keep spittin' them out like. . .well, spit. So, didja figure out who's who yet? Didja? Didja?
You know how it works, if you want more, review review REVIEW! If it sucks, well, avert your eyes and pretend you don't know me.
[pic] [pic]