If I should Fall From Grace~ by Crunch
Keza~ mmm. . . kielbasa. . . not on Passover, though. *arg matzo* If you're unfamiliar with matzo- count your blessings. Ooh, sound effect- filled review! My fave-o-rite kind! Thanks so much- this chapter. . . not so cool, but trust, they should get much cooler, and soon. And while we're waiting for inspiration to re- strike, how about a "Gods" update, ey? *offers newsie bribes*
Sparker~ Sparker! She-who-writes-Angie! *Dies of ego-inflation* Thanks so much, hope I live up to the expectations! *hands sparker chocolate newsie* See? See how good I treat my hungry reviewers?
Dreamer~ Thanks muchly! Ah, yes, inspiration is a beautiful thing! Though my inspiration tank is running on fumes of late. . . oh, I'm not worried in the slightest! I'm sure it will be chalk-full of brilliant newsie goodness. And rest assured, it did make sence. I too speak the language of reviewer-ese.
Shimmerwings~ GAH! It's my goddess-of-slashy-goodness idol Shimmerwings! Your review is met with much hardy revelry, so *nudge poke nudge* do it again! Feel free to keep me in line if I defile the fic to much, ey? Thanks again!
Klover~ Tee hee- thanks muchly! I hope this chapter lives up to your word!
Doll Face~ DOOOLLL FAAACEEE! Missed ya, kiddo! And btw, when ARE you going to write that newsie fic? Because you, m'dear, are an abso-friggen- lutely awesome writer, and I just can't wait to see what you could do with my boys! Ooh, alluring, you say? I don't believe I've ever written an alluring fic. . . yes. . . this could work. . . Hope ya like 'Part the second'!
Plaid Pajamas~ Wow- this shout out is long over due. I would just like to say that YOU, my friend, rock the kielbasa. (My favorite cryptic compliment of the week) Seriously, you're reviews are appreciated beyond the telling of it, and I do not deserve such a great supporter (awesomeness, thy name is plaid pajamas) Really, thanks again for the inspiration- hope this doesn't dissapoint!
Well, that's a bout it. oh yes, and forgive the Ricky Martin reference and passé slang . this is '99, after all. Oh, and, erm, say no to drugs.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
~*~ Manhattan - 1999 ~*~
Images, pieces of a broken and stitched together sequence in a movie reel, came drifting across the fog, like snippets from a drunken night come drifting back on a hung over morning with a jackhammer in your brain and your head in the bowl. People, places, voices-
A painted white face topped with a curly red wig, a bathroom with a spigot pump for a sink, a crutch.
His own voice in the midst of a rumble of boys- "It aint fair. We got no rights."
A tiny Italian boy with a pack of cards in his back pocket and a cigar in his mouth, a statue, and a young man that he didn't know, but remembered in places deep down inside of him, with eyes to old for his face behind flattering glasses.
And then, the too-wise boy opened his mouth, and in the voice of a hoary old man, whispered "Boots! Open your eyes."
~*~
Gideon Whitecotton jolted from his nightmares in a cold sweat, with the splintery old voice still ringing in his ears and his pulse racing. That damn dream again, it took him a moment of rapid breathing to realize. That's all it was. Just a bad dream. He glanced at the floor beneath him to reassure himself, and sighed with relief to see the gritty cobblestones of his nightmares replaced by the steely cool surface of the train bed.
It must've been the drugs, he reasoned. That might even explain why he'd dreamed in black and white.
And if it was drugs, than last night sure had been a whopper. He couldn't recall exactly where he'd been or what had taken place (not that that was unusual for mornings), but shot after shot of Captain Morgan's Whisky and loose girl named Evita sprang instantly to mind. How he'd gotten to his boxcar in one piece, he'd never know.
Gideon allowed himself the tiniest smile as he glanced around his place of residence. He supposed he could always find a home in the dark and sleazy hovels that his drug ridden associates used to shoot up in without the cops on their asses- just move over a pile of glow sticks and pacifiers, and he'd have a nice, whisky scented place to lay his head. But he liked the train yards. Oh, not in the summer, when the guts of th train car he slept in were hot enough to boil and egg without fire, and not especially in the winter, when the cold struck with enough icy force to freeze the breath before it left your lungs.
But times like this. . . Gideon scrambled slowly to his feet, still nursing a pounding head that he planned to cure with the first beer bottle he could rustle up. Beyond the open doors of his boxcar, the Manhattan Train Yard was just stretching and stirring itself into life in the honey colored light of dawn. A thin December breeze ruffled his patchy red 'Patriots' jacket, and with the dreams temporarily forgotten, his thoughts turned to the biggest problem in his life at the moment- breakfast.
He jumped to the gravel of the train tracks below him with an "oof", lay there a moment, and then peeled himself from where he'd landed in a jumble on the ground. Come to think of it, that druggie hovel was looking mighty cozy right now. . .
The first cramp hit him like a sour punch to the stomach.
Still nursing a hang-over, he had to pause for a moment and analyze the pain. By now, he could identify stomach cramps like blue haired old ladies could identify each of their cats. This one was colder and clammier than a hunger cramp, and more wrenching then an I've-been-beaten-up cramp. . . all in all, this one definitely felt like an I-need-a-fix cramp. The second the thought occurred to him, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. He needed a hit like Ricky Martin needed a new tune. Rifling in his pockets, he came up with the last of his pizza delivery paycheck, and with a determined nod, headed towards the nearby heart of Manhattan with a new purpose.
First drugs- and, if there was any money left over, then breakfast.
But first and foremost- drugs.
With his hood pulled tight over his afro-like crop of hair, bent so low at the middle that his face ran parallel to the chipped tar of the street sides, the first Gideon knew of his stalkers was a thick and menacing voice in his left ear.
"Party a little to hard las' night, G?" Arms still wrapped around his throbbing middle, Gideon raised his head to see the two bearish figures blocking his path. If it wasn't his two favorite dealers.
"'Ey, Mickey! S'up, Wendall. You guys. . . you guys aint carryin', are you?" Mickey, the older and fatter of the two brothers, smiled a wolvish smile and beat a meaty fist against his palm.
"Why, Wendell, it seems our dark-skinned little friend heah don' remember da transgression he committed last night, do he?"
"No, Mickey, it appeahs he don't."
Inwardly, Gideon moaned. "Guys, I don' really remember much about last night, if ya know what I mean. So I's sorry for whatever I did. . ."
"Sorry?" Mickey grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt and pulled him so close, Gideon could barely stand against the stink of cigar smoke on his breath. "Sorry don't cut it, G. You see dis?" He lifted one smudged black L.L. Bean boot, and Gideon clamped his legs tighter in preparation for a kick, but it never landed. "You see dis stain? You t'rew up on me boot last night, you little turd."
"Oh. Well, uh, if it's any consolation, I bet I t'rew up on a lot a t'ings last night."
"You sure did. You t'rew up on me other boot, too." This time, the kick landed, sucking the wind from Gideon's lungs. As he sank to the sidewalk, gasping and gulping like a fish out of water, it struck him that today would've been better spent in bed.
What with the jackhammer of a hang over, the gut wrenching heroin cramps, and the boot-shaped ache in his churning bowls, the next few minutes were just a bit hazy. He vaguely noticed the arrival of a third party- a saxophone case wielding, vertically challenged Italian.
* A tiny Italian boy with a pack of cards in his back pocket and a cigar in his mouth. . .*
Nah. Couldn't be. Chalk up another post-party hallucination for Gideon, the twelve year old drug-monger.
"Put an egg in ya shoes and beat it, ya dumb asses." Through the red mists of pain, he caught a glimpse of the boys scattering like indignant pigeons. Must've been the saxophone. "Hey, kid, you alright?"
Gideon looked up into the stunned face of his savior. "I seen you before, hasn't I?"
For a moment, he thought the boy would run away, as the color drained from his doe-eyed face like beer down Gideon's throat, but after a tenuous few seconds, he nodded gravely. "Yeah. I think so." And right there on the sidewalk, in the midst of the pulsing, pushing, mid-morning crowds, with Gideon crouched at his feet, the boy named Ruden told him a story. . .
~*~
Gideon sighed and leaned back in his seat, unable to meet Ruden's eyes over his untouched bowl of oatmeal. The diner- one called Maraschinos, a place he'd never eaten in, but had often passed out behind- was surprisingly free of the expected breakfast crowd, but that suited the boy just fine. After all, no one wants a horde of people witnessing their fall from merely drug- crazed to certifiable insanity, and Gideon hadn't a doubt in his mind that he was now one flew over the cuckoo's nest.
"And. . . and this ol' crack head, he said you could change stuff?"
"Yup. That's what 'e said." Ruden stared glumly at his own bowl, also untouched.
"Thought he was the only crazy one. But then you show up, lookin' just like ya did. . ."
"In ya dreams?" Ruden dropped his eyes, suddenly fascinated by the swirls of grease painted across the cheap Formica tabletop. "So. . . so what do we do? Do we just ignore it? Do we. . . man, I need a reefer."
Ruden snorted. "Can't help ya dere. Drugs stunt ya growth." Gideon cocked an eyebrow and sized up his friend, and both boys descended into high-strung giggles.
"So what do you wanna do?"
The Italian sobered up quickly. "I tell you what I want. I want my life back."
"And I aint got nothin' in my life worth protecting. Hell, when you got nothin', you got nothin' to loose, right?" At that, the boys shared a bitter smile. God knows neither one had anything to loose. They hadn't for a long time.
* * * * * * * * * *
Alright- this chapter was. . . m'eh. But I promise, next chapter is FUN. Atleast, it was fun to right. . . what with the gratuitous shirtless newsies and all (yum) so stick around. . . it may just be worth your while. Reviews? *Dangles shirtless newsies on fishing lines*
Keza~ mmm. . . kielbasa. . . not on Passover, though. *arg matzo* If you're unfamiliar with matzo- count your blessings. Ooh, sound effect- filled review! My fave-o-rite kind! Thanks so much- this chapter. . . not so cool, but trust, they should get much cooler, and soon. And while we're waiting for inspiration to re- strike, how about a "Gods" update, ey? *offers newsie bribes*
Sparker~ Sparker! She-who-writes-Angie! *Dies of ego-inflation* Thanks so much, hope I live up to the expectations! *hands sparker chocolate newsie* See? See how good I treat my hungry reviewers?
Dreamer~ Thanks muchly! Ah, yes, inspiration is a beautiful thing! Though my inspiration tank is running on fumes of late. . . oh, I'm not worried in the slightest! I'm sure it will be chalk-full of brilliant newsie goodness. And rest assured, it did make sence. I too speak the language of reviewer-ese.
Shimmerwings~ GAH! It's my goddess-of-slashy-goodness idol Shimmerwings! Your review is met with much hardy revelry, so *nudge poke nudge* do it again! Feel free to keep me in line if I defile the fic to much, ey? Thanks again!
Klover~ Tee hee- thanks muchly! I hope this chapter lives up to your word!
Doll Face~ DOOOLLL FAAACEEE! Missed ya, kiddo! And btw, when ARE you going to write that newsie fic? Because you, m'dear, are an abso-friggen- lutely awesome writer, and I just can't wait to see what you could do with my boys! Ooh, alluring, you say? I don't believe I've ever written an alluring fic. . . yes. . . this could work. . . Hope ya like 'Part the second'!
Plaid Pajamas~ Wow- this shout out is long over due. I would just like to say that YOU, my friend, rock the kielbasa. (My favorite cryptic compliment of the week) Seriously, you're reviews are appreciated beyond the telling of it, and I do not deserve such a great supporter (awesomeness, thy name is plaid pajamas) Really, thanks again for the inspiration- hope this doesn't dissapoint!
Well, that's a bout it. oh yes, and forgive the Ricky Martin reference and passé slang . this is '99, after all. Oh, and, erm, say no to drugs.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
~*~ Manhattan - 1999 ~*~
Images, pieces of a broken and stitched together sequence in a movie reel, came drifting across the fog, like snippets from a drunken night come drifting back on a hung over morning with a jackhammer in your brain and your head in the bowl. People, places, voices-
A painted white face topped with a curly red wig, a bathroom with a spigot pump for a sink, a crutch.
His own voice in the midst of a rumble of boys- "It aint fair. We got no rights."
A tiny Italian boy with a pack of cards in his back pocket and a cigar in his mouth, a statue, and a young man that he didn't know, but remembered in places deep down inside of him, with eyes to old for his face behind flattering glasses.
And then, the too-wise boy opened his mouth, and in the voice of a hoary old man, whispered "Boots! Open your eyes."
~*~
Gideon Whitecotton jolted from his nightmares in a cold sweat, with the splintery old voice still ringing in his ears and his pulse racing. That damn dream again, it took him a moment of rapid breathing to realize. That's all it was. Just a bad dream. He glanced at the floor beneath him to reassure himself, and sighed with relief to see the gritty cobblestones of his nightmares replaced by the steely cool surface of the train bed.
It must've been the drugs, he reasoned. That might even explain why he'd dreamed in black and white.
And if it was drugs, than last night sure had been a whopper. He couldn't recall exactly where he'd been or what had taken place (not that that was unusual for mornings), but shot after shot of Captain Morgan's Whisky and loose girl named Evita sprang instantly to mind. How he'd gotten to his boxcar in one piece, he'd never know.
Gideon allowed himself the tiniest smile as he glanced around his place of residence. He supposed he could always find a home in the dark and sleazy hovels that his drug ridden associates used to shoot up in without the cops on their asses- just move over a pile of glow sticks and pacifiers, and he'd have a nice, whisky scented place to lay his head. But he liked the train yards. Oh, not in the summer, when the guts of th train car he slept in were hot enough to boil and egg without fire, and not especially in the winter, when the cold struck with enough icy force to freeze the breath before it left your lungs.
But times like this. . . Gideon scrambled slowly to his feet, still nursing a pounding head that he planned to cure with the first beer bottle he could rustle up. Beyond the open doors of his boxcar, the Manhattan Train Yard was just stretching and stirring itself into life in the honey colored light of dawn. A thin December breeze ruffled his patchy red 'Patriots' jacket, and with the dreams temporarily forgotten, his thoughts turned to the biggest problem in his life at the moment- breakfast.
He jumped to the gravel of the train tracks below him with an "oof", lay there a moment, and then peeled himself from where he'd landed in a jumble on the ground. Come to think of it, that druggie hovel was looking mighty cozy right now. . .
The first cramp hit him like a sour punch to the stomach.
Still nursing a hang-over, he had to pause for a moment and analyze the pain. By now, he could identify stomach cramps like blue haired old ladies could identify each of their cats. This one was colder and clammier than a hunger cramp, and more wrenching then an I've-been-beaten-up cramp. . . all in all, this one definitely felt like an I-need-a-fix cramp. The second the thought occurred to him, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. He needed a hit like Ricky Martin needed a new tune. Rifling in his pockets, he came up with the last of his pizza delivery paycheck, and with a determined nod, headed towards the nearby heart of Manhattan with a new purpose.
First drugs- and, if there was any money left over, then breakfast.
But first and foremost- drugs.
With his hood pulled tight over his afro-like crop of hair, bent so low at the middle that his face ran parallel to the chipped tar of the street sides, the first Gideon knew of his stalkers was a thick and menacing voice in his left ear.
"Party a little to hard las' night, G?" Arms still wrapped around his throbbing middle, Gideon raised his head to see the two bearish figures blocking his path. If it wasn't his two favorite dealers.
"'Ey, Mickey! S'up, Wendall. You guys. . . you guys aint carryin', are you?" Mickey, the older and fatter of the two brothers, smiled a wolvish smile and beat a meaty fist against his palm.
"Why, Wendell, it seems our dark-skinned little friend heah don' remember da transgression he committed last night, do he?"
"No, Mickey, it appeahs he don't."
Inwardly, Gideon moaned. "Guys, I don' really remember much about last night, if ya know what I mean. So I's sorry for whatever I did. . ."
"Sorry?" Mickey grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt and pulled him so close, Gideon could barely stand against the stink of cigar smoke on his breath. "Sorry don't cut it, G. You see dis?" He lifted one smudged black L.L. Bean boot, and Gideon clamped his legs tighter in preparation for a kick, but it never landed. "You see dis stain? You t'rew up on me boot last night, you little turd."
"Oh. Well, uh, if it's any consolation, I bet I t'rew up on a lot a t'ings last night."
"You sure did. You t'rew up on me other boot, too." This time, the kick landed, sucking the wind from Gideon's lungs. As he sank to the sidewalk, gasping and gulping like a fish out of water, it struck him that today would've been better spent in bed.
What with the jackhammer of a hang over, the gut wrenching heroin cramps, and the boot-shaped ache in his churning bowls, the next few minutes were just a bit hazy. He vaguely noticed the arrival of a third party- a saxophone case wielding, vertically challenged Italian.
* A tiny Italian boy with a pack of cards in his back pocket and a cigar in his mouth. . .*
Nah. Couldn't be. Chalk up another post-party hallucination for Gideon, the twelve year old drug-monger.
"Put an egg in ya shoes and beat it, ya dumb asses." Through the red mists of pain, he caught a glimpse of the boys scattering like indignant pigeons. Must've been the saxophone. "Hey, kid, you alright?"
Gideon looked up into the stunned face of his savior. "I seen you before, hasn't I?"
For a moment, he thought the boy would run away, as the color drained from his doe-eyed face like beer down Gideon's throat, but after a tenuous few seconds, he nodded gravely. "Yeah. I think so." And right there on the sidewalk, in the midst of the pulsing, pushing, mid-morning crowds, with Gideon crouched at his feet, the boy named Ruden told him a story. . .
~*~
Gideon sighed and leaned back in his seat, unable to meet Ruden's eyes over his untouched bowl of oatmeal. The diner- one called Maraschinos, a place he'd never eaten in, but had often passed out behind- was surprisingly free of the expected breakfast crowd, but that suited the boy just fine. After all, no one wants a horde of people witnessing their fall from merely drug- crazed to certifiable insanity, and Gideon hadn't a doubt in his mind that he was now one flew over the cuckoo's nest.
"And. . . and this ol' crack head, he said you could change stuff?"
"Yup. That's what 'e said." Ruden stared glumly at his own bowl, also untouched.
"Thought he was the only crazy one. But then you show up, lookin' just like ya did. . ."
"In ya dreams?" Ruden dropped his eyes, suddenly fascinated by the swirls of grease painted across the cheap Formica tabletop. "So. . . so what do we do? Do we just ignore it? Do we. . . man, I need a reefer."
Ruden snorted. "Can't help ya dere. Drugs stunt ya growth." Gideon cocked an eyebrow and sized up his friend, and both boys descended into high-strung giggles.
"So what do you wanna do?"
The Italian sobered up quickly. "I tell you what I want. I want my life back."
"And I aint got nothin' in my life worth protecting. Hell, when you got nothin', you got nothin' to loose, right?" At that, the boys shared a bitter smile. God knows neither one had anything to loose. They hadn't for a long time.
* * * * * * * * * *
Alright- this chapter was. . . m'eh. But I promise, next chapter is FUN. Atleast, it was fun to right. . . what with the gratuitous shirtless newsies and all (yum) so stick around. . . it may just be worth your while. Reviews? *Dangles shirtless newsies on fishing lines*