You think you know- by Crunch
Eh, I decided to give it a go, and we'll just see what pops out of my head, okies? Ohh, shout outs! I got your shout outs right here!
*Doll Face- WHEEEE!!! Oh good ta know! You're my FIRST review for this story, whoo hoo! You get the FIRST REVIEW PRIZE! Hmm, not sure if a goil is coming up, but hey it couldn't hurt to be prepared, so type up your profile and I promise, ya get first dibs!
*Sparks da Newsie- ok, here ya are, and whats a glomp?
*Shortie- IDOOOOOOOOOOOOL YOU BACK!!!!!!!!!! *mouths hangs open in shock* a. . .solid. . .gold. . .? Oh, damn strait I want it! Course I'm evil, that's why I work for you, aint it? Hee hee, thanks for the confidence, pal, yes I know what you mean. Come to think of it it DOES sound a bit like that. . .This is the diary of Spot Conlon. You think you know, but you have no idea. Ah well, these things happen. Thanks muchly, keep reading!
*Mondie- a blue ribbon, ey? Oh, I get it, first place! *taps head* not just a hatrack my friend. No nono nonono, it was a VERY appreciated review, I wasn't sure whether to keep goin or not, so thanks muchly! Luffle you back, as always!
*Raeghann- well ok then, if you insist! Thanks for the review!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Manca studied his reflection in the grimy, filth splattered glass of the distribution center, fussing as his fellow newsies shuffled in the morning chill and struggled to wipe the sleep from their still-bleary eyes. From the checkered cap resting jauntily on a bed of wild raven hair, to the chocolate eyes wide with a permanent and misleading look of purity, to the dimpled Italian cheeks, scuffed and patchy overcoat and frayed brown trousers, he looked every inch the immigrant, fresh off the boat and naïve in the ways of the world. Looks could be deceiving.
"Hey, guys, do my teeth look crooked ta youse?" He traced a soiled finger across the curve of his lips.
"Naw, ya teeth look fine." The boy behind him in line yawned distractedly, reaching across his front to pound on the still darkened office window. Damn pape wagons were always late on Sundays.
"What about my head? I t'ink me heads too big."
"Dat's cause it's so full a dreams, Manca." Spot grinned wryly as he shoved his way into the front of the line, without objection. Had any other newsie tried such a bold move, they'd be eating dirt by now. But not Spot Conlon, the respected Brooklyn leader- loyal to his friends, and adept at making his enemies. . .er. . .disappear. Manca turned to him, flashing a not-so-crooked grin as his best friend nudged in front of him.
"Slept late dis mornin', Spotty?"
"Eh, no later den usual." Spot shrugged, pounding irately on the window. "Come on, Red, what's da hold up?" He yelled, striking a match against the crumbling brick wall as a random newsie offered up one of his cigarettes. Spot barely noticed him. "I got papes ta sell, goils ta do, ya know?" He muttered.
"Where was ya last night, Spot? Dere was a brawl ovah in Dikah Heights. Could a used your help."
Spot snorted good-naturedly. "You mean ya could a used me right hook."
"Yeah, dat would a come in handy." Manca chuckled, rubbing his swollen knuckles unconsciously.
Spot sucked in a healthy dose of nicotine, reveling in it's filthy taste before letting the smoke curl from his lips towards the pale winter sky above them. "Against who?"
"Some a Wrench's boys from da Bronx, ofcourse."
"You win?"
"Damn strait."
"Really?"
"Well, dey left first."
Spot nodded suspiciously. "Dey left cause dey couldn't take no more?"
"Well, no, dey left cause da bulls showed up."
"Right as you was about ta pound em inta da earth, right?"
"Well. . ." Manca turned all his attention to the Distribution office as it's window finally slid open. "Looks like da papes got heah all right!" He grinned, a bit too eagerly.
Spot shook his head in dismay. So many fights in the past few weeks. . .so many newsies stumbling home at the break of dawn, bruised and bloody. So many newsies never stumbling home at all - though to be fair, those boys could've frozen or starved in the gutter. However, it was most likely this damn fued with the Bronx. Yes, trouble was coming; Spot could feel it baring down on them like a monstrous tidle wave, ready to sweep them all into Hell. But then, that was nothing new, he reflected. Trouble was always coming.
Inside the office, a wizened and bent old man, scowling heavily around a face so scarlet it could have been painted, leaned over the counter, mumbling his exasperation. "Hold ya horses, boys, I'm movin as fast as I can wid dese old legs a mine. . ."
Spot rolled his eyes. Red's old legs were old news, and he had money to make. "Aww, quit it, will ya Red? Jus' give me fifty papes."
"Hey, Spot, how come you only get fifty papes a day?" Manca nudged him from behind as old Red turned crankily to retrieve the stack. "You could be pushin over a hundred, ya know."
"Yeah, well, noone likes an overacheivah." The Brooklyn leader shrugged and shouldered his papers. With a last drag on the cigarette, and a last deep breath to wake himself fully, Spot headed out to whatever remote corner of the borough he chose to work that day, for his own reasons. It never payed to question Spot.
Manca tagged close behind, still scouring the line of his teeth absent mindedly as he let his mind wander to the evening ahead. Get rid of his papes. . .have his nightly drink with Spot and the boys at the red hook. . .meet Netty behind the factory for a little late night rough and tum-
"Ya think dere scared a me?"
Manca jerked to a stop, half to keep from walking strait into Spot's backside, and half from the shock of being spoken to this early in the morning. "Whatsdat?"
"I said, do ya t'ink dere scared of me. Da boys." Manca shrugged. As Spot's closest pal and only confident, these questions weren't unusual, though they were always delicate.
"Prolly. But who cares? Let em be scared- it keeps em in line."
"Dats true." Spot considered this for a moment, then turned his peircing gray eyes on Manca, who figited uncomfortabley under his gaze. "Are you scared of me?"
"I don't think I'm gonna answer dat one." Spot shrank back, slightly hurt.
"Why? You t'ink I'll soak ya if I don't like da answer?"
"No, Spot." He shook his head truthfully. "Your me best friend in da world. I know ya'd nevah hurt me."
"But your still scared a me?"
Manca shrugged, whiping a sweaty hand beneath the brim of his cap. "Well, you can be a scary guy, Spot."
The Brooklyn leader nodded, not quite sure whether to be proud of this, or frightened of this. In either case, he knew it was true. He could be a hell of a scary guy.
After a final drag, he paused to crush the last stub of his smoke into the snow seeped cobblestones beneath his scuffed heel, reflecting on his reputation as it was. Spot had fought tooth and nail to get where he was, wherever THAT was. Sure, he'd done things he wasn't too proud of, but that was the way the world worked. After all, he was all he had, so why shouldn't he look after himself?
"Spot. . .SPOT!!" A sudden commotion behind them interrupted Conlon's rare moment of reflection. He turned slowly, small shoulders squared, chin high, eyes glaring menacingly, and hands curled into stone-like fists, ready for trouble. He always had to be ready.
But instead of trouble, he found Piper.
"Whatsa mattah, Pipah? You loose ya milk money or somethin'?" Manca scoffed at the runt of a boy, huffing and puffing towards them as fast as his stubby legs could carry his 9 year old frame. Bent nearly in half, his tiny chest heaving sith exersion, Piper raked the straw colored locks from his pale eyes, now glistening with unspilled tears.
"What is it now, Pipah?" Spot shifted anxiously.
"Wrench's boys. . . Swivel. . .dey. . .all messed up. . . come see!" Piper sobbed for breath inbetween words, shrinking as Spot's whole body hardened before him.
"What happened ta Swivel?"
"Dey took his. . .sellin' spot. . .left im in da cold. . .head's all messed up. . . not breathin' so good."
Spot nodded, glancing back and forth between the distant, decrepid lodging house and his fresh stack of newspapers. He really should go see, but his papes-
"Spot," Manca nudged him anxiously. "Spot, we gotta go check im out!"
But his papes. . . Spot sighed resignedly and let his papers flutter to the sidewalk, wishing not for the first time that this sort of responcibility was an uncommon occurance in his life. Nodding, he turned and jogged towards the dormitory as fast as his lithe, 16 year old limbs would carry him.
Such were the duties of a Leader.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Eh, slow start I know, but I promise it will increase in goodness. So whadya think? Did it live up to all your expectations? REVIEW!! And thanks for feeding Race!muse, though I think he's getting a big head about it. . .
Eh, I decided to give it a go, and we'll just see what pops out of my head, okies? Ohh, shout outs! I got your shout outs right here!
*Doll Face- WHEEEE!!! Oh good ta know! You're my FIRST review for this story, whoo hoo! You get the FIRST REVIEW PRIZE! Hmm, not sure if a goil is coming up, but hey it couldn't hurt to be prepared, so type up your profile and I promise, ya get first dibs!
*Sparks da Newsie- ok, here ya are, and whats a glomp?
*Shortie- IDOOOOOOOOOOOOL YOU BACK!!!!!!!!!! *mouths hangs open in shock* a. . .solid. . .gold. . .? Oh, damn strait I want it! Course I'm evil, that's why I work for you, aint it? Hee hee, thanks for the confidence, pal, yes I know what you mean. Come to think of it it DOES sound a bit like that. . .This is the diary of Spot Conlon. You think you know, but you have no idea. Ah well, these things happen. Thanks muchly, keep reading!
*Mondie- a blue ribbon, ey? Oh, I get it, first place! *taps head* not just a hatrack my friend. No nono nonono, it was a VERY appreciated review, I wasn't sure whether to keep goin or not, so thanks muchly! Luffle you back, as always!
*Raeghann- well ok then, if you insist! Thanks for the review!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Manca studied his reflection in the grimy, filth splattered glass of the distribution center, fussing as his fellow newsies shuffled in the morning chill and struggled to wipe the sleep from their still-bleary eyes. From the checkered cap resting jauntily on a bed of wild raven hair, to the chocolate eyes wide with a permanent and misleading look of purity, to the dimpled Italian cheeks, scuffed and patchy overcoat and frayed brown trousers, he looked every inch the immigrant, fresh off the boat and naïve in the ways of the world. Looks could be deceiving.
"Hey, guys, do my teeth look crooked ta youse?" He traced a soiled finger across the curve of his lips.
"Naw, ya teeth look fine." The boy behind him in line yawned distractedly, reaching across his front to pound on the still darkened office window. Damn pape wagons were always late on Sundays.
"What about my head? I t'ink me heads too big."
"Dat's cause it's so full a dreams, Manca." Spot grinned wryly as he shoved his way into the front of the line, without objection. Had any other newsie tried such a bold move, they'd be eating dirt by now. But not Spot Conlon, the respected Brooklyn leader- loyal to his friends, and adept at making his enemies. . .er. . .disappear. Manca turned to him, flashing a not-so-crooked grin as his best friend nudged in front of him.
"Slept late dis mornin', Spotty?"
"Eh, no later den usual." Spot shrugged, pounding irately on the window. "Come on, Red, what's da hold up?" He yelled, striking a match against the crumbling brick wall as a random newsie offered up one of his cigarettes. Spot barely noticed him. "I got papes ta sell, goils ta do, ya know?" He muttered.
"Where was ya last night, Spot? Dere was a brawl ovah in Dikah Heights. Could a used your help."
Spot snorted good-naturedly. "You mean ya could a used me right hook."
"Yeah, dat would a come in handy." Manca chuckled, rubbing his swollen knuckles unconsciously.
Spot sucked in a healthy dose of nicotine, reveling in it's filthy taste before letting the smoke curl from his lips towards the pale winter sky above them. "Against who?"
"Some a Wrench's boys from da Bronx, ofcourse."
"You win?"
"Damn strait."
"Really?"
"Well, dey left first."
Spot nodded suspiciously. "Dey left cause dey couldn't take no more?"
"Well, no, dey left cause da bulls showed up."
"Right as you was about ta pound em inta da earth, right?"
"Well. . ." Manca turned all his attention to the Distribution office as it's window finally slid open. "Looks like da papes got heah all right!" He grinned, a bit too eagerly.
Spot shook his head in dismay. So many fights in the past few weeks. . .so many newsies stumbling home at the break of dawn, bruised and bloody. So many newsies never stumbling home at all - though to be fair, those boys could've frozen or starved in the gutter. However, it was most likely this damn fued with the Bronx. Yes, trouble was coming; Spot could feel it baring down on them like a monstrous tidle wave, ready to sweep them all into Hell. But then, that was nothing new, he reflected. Trouble was always coming.
Inside the office, a wizened and bent old man, scowling heavily around a face so scarlet it could have been painted, leaned over the counter, mumbling his exasperation. "Hold ya horses, boys, I'm movin as fast as I can wid dese old legs a mine. . ."
Spot rolled his eyes. Red's old legs were old news, and he had money to make. "Aww, quit it, will ya Red? Jus' give me fifty papes."
"Hey, Spot, how come you only get fifty papes a day?" Manca nudged him from behind as old Red turned crankily to retrieve the stack. "You could be pushin over a hundred, ya know."
"Yeah, well, noone likes an overacheivah." The Brooklyn leader shrugged and shouldered his papers. With a last drag on the cigarette, and a last deep breath to wake himself fully, Spot headed out to whatever remote corner of the borough he chose to work that day, for his own reasons. It never payed to question Spot.
Manca tagged close behind, still scouring the line of his teeth absent mindedly as he let his mind wander to the evening ahead. Get rid of his papes. . .have his nightly drink with Spot and the boys at the red hook. . .meet Netty behind the factory for a little late night rough and tum-
"Ya think dere scared a me?"
Manca jerked to a stop, half to keep from walking strait into Spot's backside, and half from the shock of being spoken to this early in the morning. "Whatsdat?"
"I said, do ya t'ink dere scared of me. Da boys." Manca shrugged. As Spot's closest pal and only confident, these questions weren't unusual, though they were always delicate.
"Prolly. But who cares? Let em be scared- it keeps em in line."
"Dats true." Spot considered this for a moment, then turned his peircing gray eyes on Manca, who figited uncomfortabley under his gaze. "Are you scared of me?"
"I don't think I'm gonna answer dat one." Spot shrank back, slightly hurt.
"Why? You t'ink I'll soak ya if I don't like da answer?"
"No, Spot." He shook his head truthfully. "Your me best friend in da world. I know ya'd nevah hurt me."
"But your still scared a me?"
Manca shrugged, whiping a sweaty hand beneath the brim of his cap. "Well, you can be a scary guy, Spot."
The Brooklyn leader nodded, not quite sure whether to be proud of this, or frightened of this. In either case, he knew it was true. He could be a hell of a scary guy.
After a final drag, he paused to crush the last stub of his smoke into the snow seeped cobblestones beneath his scuffed heel, reflecting on his reputation as it was. Spot had fought tooth and nail to get where he was, wherever THAT was. Sure, he'd done things he wasn't too proud of, but that was the way the world worked. After all, he was all he had, so why shouldn't he look after himself?
"Spot. . .SPOT!!" A sudden commotion behind them interrupted Conlon's rare moment of reflection. He turned slowly, small shoulders squared, chin high, eyes glaring menacingly, and hands curled into stone-like fists, ready for trouble. He always had to be ready.
But instead of trouble, he found Piper.
"Whatsa mattah, Pipah? You loose ya milk money or somethin'?" Manca scoffed at the runt of a boy, huffing and puffing towards them as fast as his stubby legs could carry his 9 year old frame. Bent nearly in half, his tiny chest heaving sith exersion, Piper raked the straw colored locks from his pale eyes, now glistening with unspilled tears.
"What is it now, Pipah?" Spot shifted anxiously.
"Wrench's boys. . . Swivel. . .dey. . .all messed up. . . come see!" Piper sobbed for breath inbetween words, shrinking as Spot's whole body hardened before him.
"What happened ta Swivel?"
"Dey took his. . .sellin' spot. . .left im in da cold. . .head's all messed up. . . not breathin' so good."
Spot nodded, glancing back and forth between the distant, decrepid lodging house and his fresh stack of newspapers. He really should go see, but his papes-
"Spot," Manca nudged him anxiously. "Spot, we gotta go check im out!"
But his papes. . . Spot sighed resignedly and let his papers flutter to the sidewalk, wishing not for the first time that this sort of responcibility was an uncommon occurance in his life. Nodding, he turned and jogged towards the dormitory as fast as his lithe, 16 year old limbs would carry him.
Such were the duties of a Leader.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Eh, slow start I know, but I promise it will increase in goodness. So whadya think? Did it live up to all your expectations? REVIEW!! And thanks for feeding Race!muse, though I think he's getting a big head about it. . .