Disclaimer: Okay, I don't own newsies (so sad…) or Tom Waits (*cries*) ah well… anyway, this is the first fic I've posted on FF.net, so be proud! And send me lots of fanTASTIC feedback, because you all love me so very, very much. MWAHA!
The Headline is Rotten, but not so as you'd Notice
Even as the streets of Brooklyn darkened, and the last circulation bell rang, Spot stood on the corner of his street, held a newspaper in front of him and hawked one last stretched headline to be rid of his papers. A sarcastic grin stole his face as he watched the tough son of a bitch who had bought his last few papers walk down the street, but the smirk on his face dropped as he began to grasp how long it had taken to sell his papers.
'Shit,' thought Spot as a realized he was supposed to meet his friends at the docks that night. He lit up a cigarette he had stuffed in his pocket and started walking in the same direction as the man who had bought his last few papers. He checked his pocket watch, looking to see exactly how late he was going to be, and then he scoffed at the idea. 'If someone wants to see Spot Conlon, they see'im on Spot's terms, an' if they gotta wait, then let'em wait.' Spot then continued walking, going more slowly then before. He had been feeling so self-satisfied that he hardly noticed the attacker that followed behind him, but worse then that, he didn't notice the one in front of him at all. Before Spot could realize what was happening, the assailant before Spot pulled back and jabbed him with such a force that he was thrown back into the man behind him. He felt a sudden up roar of blazing pain, as the man slid a long cold knife into the side of his torso. Spot almost cried out, but held back, not wanting to show any ache to the men preceding him. He hit the cold ground beneath him and looked up as the two attackers walked away quickly leaving him on the ground.
"Lousy newsies, third one this week to sell me a paper without a story good'nuff to read…" the large figures disappeared from sight, but not before Spot caught a glance at the face of the man with the knife. He then looked at the ground next to him and saw his last three papers that lay strewn across the ground.
"Assholes!" yelled Spot. He grabbed at his side, in the moonlight he could not make out the severity of the wound, but he convinced himself to believe it to be little more then a scratch. Spot hauled himself from the cobblestone and walked down a few blocks, stumbling every now and then, telling himself that his tripping was only due to nerves. He walked a little further until he had reached the edge of pier 59 thankful that he had decided to meet his friends in Brooklyn that day, knowing in the back of his mind that he might not have been able to make the walk to Manhattan that night. As he stepped onto the wooden planked dock, his friends suddenly detected him.
"Spot!" he heard someone call to him. Spot straightened up and walked towards his buddies.
"Spot, 'bout time you showed up, we was about to send out a search party for ya'," the short boy next to Spot smiled and playfully punched him in the arm. Spot grabbed onto the newsie that stood on his other side to stop him from tumbling to the floor.
"Woah, Spot, you okay?" the same boy that had hit him moved to put an arm around Spot's shoulders.
"Christ Race, I'm fine!" Spot glared at his friend and then turned to face the rest. "I need a smoke." He watched as the newsies fumbled through their pockets looking for a cigarette.
"Here ya' go Spot."
"Thanks Jacky-boy," Spot put the cigarette in his mouth and Jack lit it for him. Spot folded his arms around himself and felt the damp side of his shirt, but rejected the idea of being hurt and continued talking with his friends. The covert black night blinded Spot's wound from the newsies eyes and other then the occasional blank stare that crept over Spot's face, no one noticed any change in his behavior. As the night coursed on, Spot found that it was getting harder for him to continue standing with his friends. He decided to make his way to the end of the dock where he could be alone. Spot walked passed his friends and came slowly to the edge of the pier. He leaned against a crate and lowered himself to a sitting position and looked on at his friends but paid no attention to them. Spots mind was slowing, and he was feeling tired. Forgetting where he was, Spot put his hands on his stomach and his eyes closed a bit. He was so drained, he couldn't think of doing anything else but to let go and sleep. To the newsies, it looked as if Spot were taking a well deserved rest, and as they stood around trying to talk like Spot, stand like Spot and smoke their cigarettes like Spot, Spot was bleeding, but not so as you'd notice.