A/N right well here's the first real live chap. Enjoy eh and review pwease!
Race inhaled his cigar, and blew the smoke out into the crisp air that surrounded him. It was a long walk to Brooklyn, and it appeared even longer when you were walking it alone. He knew it had to be important, Spot wouldn't be so urgent if it wasn't important.
The newsies brotherhood after the strike disintegrated quite a bit. David was working at the Sun with his connections to Denton it was easy for him to gain a job. Boots and Snipeshooter had headed west. Kid Blink and Mush opened up a bar. Skitts started working for Medda as her new piano man. Race, well Race was working to get a job at the tracks, it only seemed fitting.
Spot, Spot had always been distant from the Manhattan newsies, his real tie was with Jack. As for Jack, no one knew what happened to him. He stayed about one and half more years after the strike, then just disappeared.
Race turned the corner. He had diplomatic immunity of a sort in Brooklyn. While Spot was no longer a newsie he still had power, well, power to some extent. He headed up the tenement stairs, tipping his hat to the young lady leaving Spot's room, he knocked on the door.
Spot was half dressed and grinning crazily. He beckoned Race into the room.
"How you been Spot?" Race put forth in an attempt at small talk.
Spot kicked a liquor bottle under the bed and pushed his hair back, "They're taking everything Race. Damnit people don't need newsies anymore. They can buy the papes off the venders."
Race pulled up a chair and sat across Spot. It was true, he saw it happening himself. "I know Spot."
Spot scowled, "And the nerve they've got the nerve to come into Brooklyn acting like they own it."
Race snuffed his cigar, "Who?"
"The gangs," Race shook his head he knew all about the gangs. It's not like they hadn't been around before. It was just now, now they were life-sized it seemed. Bigger than life even.
"So what do we do Spot?" He knew he was one of the last Manhattan newsies that Spot gave shit about. That was probably the only reason Spot wanted him here, he knew Race, and he trusted Race. It wasn't just the guy you got smashed with, Spot didn't need people like that, if you were Spot's friend you knew it, you really knew it.
A grin spread across the king of Brooklyn's face, "Well, its simple Race, we join."
Race laughed, and saw the seriousness in Spot's eyes, "You're serious? You want us, you and me, to run with the gangs. How the hell do you plan to go about that?"
Spot rubbed his temples, "I'm working on it okay? Things like this take careful evaluation."
A snort escaped the avid gambler, "It doesn't take evaluation. It takes recognition. The gang has to recognize you, they don't let pansies in."
"I know you're not calling me a pansy. I do believe stupidity is being implied though. I've already thought of that Race, like I said, careful evaluation."
"And what did you think of exactly?" Race asked, skeptical of the whole matter.
Spot's eyes lit up, "Race the only way to get recognized is to do something big, really big, or kill a guy."
"I have a feeling you're going with the latter."
Spot nodded, "And I know the perfect guy."
Race inhaled his cigar, and blew the smoke out into the crisp air that surrounded him. It was a long walk to Brooklyn, and it appeared even longer when you were walking it alone. He knew it had to be important, Spot wouldn't be so urgent if it wasn't important.
The newsies brotherhood after the strike disintegrated quite a bit. David was working at the Sun with his connections to Denton it was easy for him to gain a job. Boots and Snipeshooter had headed west. Kid Blink and Mush opened up a bar. Skitts started working for Medda as her new piano man. Race, well Race was working to get a job at the tracks, it only seemed fitting.
Spot, Spot had always been distant from the Manhattan newsies, his real tie was with Jack. As for Jack, no one knew what happened to him. He stayed about one and half more years after the strike, then just disappeared.
Race turned the corner. He had diplomatic immunity of a sort in Brooklyn. While Spot was no longer a newsie he still had power, well, power to some extent. He headed up the tenement stairs, tipping his hat to the young lady leaving Spot's room, he knocked on the door.
Spot was half dressed and grinning crazily. He beckoned Race into the room.
"How you been Spot?" Race put forth in an attempt at small talk.
Spot kicked a liquor bottle under the bed and pushed his hair back, "They're taking everything Race. Damnit people don't need newsies anymore. They can buy the papes off the venders."
Race pulled up a chair and sat across Spot. It was true, he saw it happening himself. "I know Spot."
Spot scowled, "And the nerve they've got the nerve to come into Brooklyn acting like they own it."
Race snuffed his cigar, "Who?"
"The gangs," Race shook his head he knew all about the gangs. It's not like they hadn't been around before. It was just now, now they were life-sized it seemed. Bigger than life even.
"So what do we do Spot?" He knew he was one of the last Manhattan newsies that Spot gave shit about. That was probably the only reason Spot wanted him here, he knew Race, and he trusted Race. It wasn't just the guy you got smashed with, Spot didn't need people like that, if you were Spot's friend you knew it, you really knew it.
A grin spread across the king of Brooklyn's face, "Well, its simple Race, we join."
Race laughed, and saw the seriousness in Spot's eyes, "You're serious? You want us, you and me, to run with the gangs. How the hell do you plan to go about that?"
Spot rubbed his temples, "I'm working on it okay? Things like this take careful evaluation."
A snort escaped the avid gambler, "It doesn't take evaluation. It takes recognition. The gang has to recognize you, they don't let pansies in."
"I know you're not calling me a pansy. I do believe stupidity is being implied though. I've already thought of that Race, like I said, careful evaluation."
"And what did you think of exactly?" Race asked, skeptical of the whole matter.
Spot's eyes lit up, "Race the only way to get recognized is to do something big, really big, or kill a guy."
"I have a feeling you're going with the latter."
Spot nodded, "And I know the perfect guy."