Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies. I do, how ever, own Carlie Louise Monclair, and the rest of the Mary Sues, maybe the plot to. And, Stabby McStab-Stab isn't mine. It's Joseph's. Or at least, he always says it. If it's from a movie or possibly the Simpsons (It probably is)... well, it's not mine is what I'm trying to say.
Part One of the Mary Sue Trilogy is dedicated to my good friend Kai. She's always been there for me, even when I have the worst of Writer's Block. Finally, I have a piece "worthy" enough to dedicate to her, for as all of us Newsie fans knows, no story is as good as "Excuse Me, How Long?" (Accept maybe a few... such as "But I'm a Prep!"). Until the day I can match you're hand of skill, I'll keep working at it. But for now, I can only hope (and pray) that this one can even out the score.
_September Winds (Melody) 2004
-------------------------
When they hit, they hit hard. Almost every Character from almost every Book, Television Show, and Movie has them. Mary Sues. But never was it this bad. Take my word from it. You'd be walking down the street when WHAM- you'd walk right into what you THOUGHT was a pole. More like a giant cut out of yourself. Scary hunh? I have this friend, and the other day, he walked into the bathroom- only to be met by 13 beautiful girls hugging him to death. No, don't laugh. He's traumatised now for life. It wasn't always like this though. The five calmest lands are now swamped with them. Let me take you back... a few weeks ago. What I'm about to show you may shock and disturb those of the younger audience. By the way, I'm Specs, and if you hadn't noticed, I'm a Newsboy, or "Newsie" as they're called. And if you hadn't guessed, I sell Newspapers for a living. I'm not here to tell you about that now am I? Dutchy, Curtains. Dutchy! I said Curtains please! DUTCHY! Thank-you. For now, I guess, I'll leave you to the screens. I might be back, I might not. Who knows if I'll make it through the hour or so. Perhaps evil Mary Sues'll kidnap me...
-Specs
The Attack of the Mary Sues:
Part one in the Mary Sue Trilogy
Written by September Winds
--The Streets of Manhattan, New York: Thursday, July 21st 1899, 1:38 P.M--
It was a fine day over in the streets of New York in 1899. A soft breeze was blowing, the constant afternoon chatter could be heard, and overall, there was nothing that could spoil his day. Racetrack Higgins sat on the street curb just outside the Newsies' Lodging House. Clenching his cigar tightly in his teeth, he shuffled a deck of cards in his hands. The wind ruffling his brown hair, the little Italian placed three cards in a circle: one in front of himself, the other two in front of his friends. Both egar to learn the popular game "21". Setting the deck down to his right, he nodded, and picked up his single card. Smirking, he watched as a brunette and blonde followed suit. The rim of the blonde's glasses reflected the hot sun's rays, giving the effect that he was a giant bug instead of a seventeen year old boy. Yawning slightly, he stared blankly at his card.
"Race, I'm just not gettin' this. So's, I look at my card, and if I'se think it's close ta 21, I leave it?" He said unsuringly. The Italian nodded again, still silent. If the blonde couldn't get the basics of the game, that was okay. But the brunette on the other hand-
"Race," he whined. "What's the card with a wierd black thing... like a flower? Is that a spade?" Racetrack sighed and dropped his card face-down onto the pavement. It was hopeless. This kid couldn't learn anything. For days they had sat at this exact same spot, learning what each card ment, what it was called, how to add up the different numbers... and this kid was supposed to be going back to school? Collage even? Not a chance.
"Specs does that look anything remotly like a spade? No? I didn't think so. If it's black, and doesn't look like a spade, than it would be a..." He waited a moment in silence for the kid to think, but nothing. "It's a club Specs, a club! How many times do I have to say this? Gawd. How can we play 21 without knowing the types of cards? You know what? I give up already!" Ripping the cards out of both Dutchy and Specs' hands, he pilled up his deck, and stormed inside. One week- seven days- of this. Everyday, it was the same routine. Get up, sell papers, have lunch, than meet back here to teach kids cards. Gambling was his life, but why gamble his time away for these twits if he already knew the dice would show naught but the wrong numbers for him? Why was he doing this anyways? Because Jack was his greatest friend, and wanted him to help the poor kids out?But when one of the kids can't count, and the other doesn't know which card is which, how can one stand them? It wasn't worth it. Not one bit.
His feet pounding on the hardwood flooring, Racetrack made his way into the larger of the two boarding rooms in Kloppman's Lodging House. It was pretty big, with a few closed-in toilets to the right, a few sinks, counter space, and of course a large tub for baths. The bunk beds were lined up in two neat rows, with space inbetween them for a little bedside table. Dumping himself on a lower one, he tossed the cards onto the table, along with his partly used cigar. The summer breeze was seeping it's way in through the two open windows, the heat coming with it. He tilted his head back against the wall, drifting off into a silent slumbar.
"RACE! You up? Raaaaacetraaaack!" The sharp voice pounding in his ears, the Italian opened his eyes to the face of Specs and Dutchy. Both of them shining their 100-watt smiles at him. Yelping in horror, Racetrack rolled of the bed to the hard floor, leaving a shiny black-and-blue bruise on his hip. It wasn't like he wasn't used to bruises- or minded them for that matter- but just for show, he made a big deal out of it.
"Stupid apes! Look what you've done. Stupid flooring." Plasterng a frown on his face, he inspected his hip, seeing the damage done to his beloved side. The bruise was there: large, blueish in color, and mighty ugly. People who just happened to be in the room cringed as the Italian swore fluently in his mother tounge. Specs backed up from the bed, unsure as to whether to run like the wind to the streets, or to stay calm and force Dutchy into the beast's path. With Race, you could never really tell what he was thinking,
"S-s-s-sorry Racey ol' pal, ol' buddy... you okay?" Dutchy cried, thinking of the best way to butter the furious kid up. "You want to play cards? Umm... govenor or... maybe cheat? I'm real good at that one." A smirk flashed on Racetrack's face for a split second before heiving himself onto the bed. Reaching over, he plucked the deck of cards from the table, placing it in his hands. Arm outstretched, he smirked at the two.
"Sure, I'll play cards! How about... 52 PICK UP!" Letting the deck go, 57 (he had picked up a few spares along the way) cards fluttered around the room uncerimonisly. Pushing himself up into a comfortable position, he snatched his cigar, placed it firm in his mouth, than lit it. "Either you clean that up, or I'll soak ya." He had had enough of the two for one day, and this was pure pleasure as they growned and dropped to their knees, quickly finding the many cards spread about. When Dutchy finally counted the last card, he placed the deck in Racetrack's open palm and smiled. Flicking the deck, the one brunette knew the thickness was not to the fullest.
"Youse still have a few cards to go now... fretta, fretta!" Snapping his fingers, the broad smile crossed his face again. This was the only thing that could make his day. Maybe he should try it more often.
--Santa Fe, New Mexico: Thursday, July 21st, 1899, 1:30 P.M--
I could hear footsteps behind me, and yet I still kept running. My feet bare and dirty, pounded on the soft grassy floor, making my way up the hill. But why was I running? Because I had to? Indeed. For once though, I wasn't running from the bulls, nor the Delancy's. Nope, ol' Jacky Boy was in big trouble. I wanted to be back in my bed; safe along with the other boys I grew up with. This was my own fault though. I was the one who wanted to travel to Santa Fe for a week, to explore it, get it out of my system as Kloppman called it. And for that particular reason, I was running for my life.
"Francis... Why don't you love me? Francis, Come back, please? Come heeeeeeeere." Her voice carried in front of me by the wind, I shivered. I didn't know who she was, or how she got here, but there she was, as pretty as an angel. Her name: Carlie Louise Monclair. The gem of Santa Fe, or so they claimed. After only 3 days of being in Santa Fe, she arrived. With her hair as golden as the sun, bright cherry red lips, and not to mention a nice figure, Carlie was one of a kind. And she wanted to be all mine.
Now, most guys would agree to this. I did to, at the beginning. But soon after, I realized that this... creature was not who she appeared to be. When everyone was around, the beautiful and talented Carlie showed. But the second we were alone, she was a ravished beast, who wanted nothing more than to "own" Manhattan. How could I let her do such a thing? She wanted to kill me off, claim Manhattan for her own, than make all the Newsies her own personal slaves. Like I was going to let that happen. I gasped as my footing slipped, and the cold morning dew splashed in my face. The next thing I new, I was sliding backwards down the hill, and right into the open arms of... guess who? The one and only Carlie.
"Oh Francis! Meet Stabby McStab-Stab, my... little friend..." As I glanced upwards, my eyes caught the purple ones, surrounded by the perfect complexion and fair skin. How could an angel be so deadly?
--The Streets of Manhattan, New York: Thursday, July 21st, 1899, 1:32 P.M--
Sighing slightly, 16 year-old David Jacobs walked down the crowded streets of New York, his last two papers set in his hands. It had been a hard week for selling, without his favourite selling partner (and best friend for that matter) Jack Kelly. 5 days, without contact from his friend, was too much. But it was something Jack wanted to do, and for that, he had to accept this parting. It wasn't like Jack wouldn't be back. Placing the papers in the garbage can, he gave up and began walking the direction of the lodging house, his own place of refuge. Home lately, was nothing but cheer and glory, for his father had gotten his job back. Although he was supposed to be at school, and although his parents thought just that, David preferred the life on the streets, selling papers. The money he made, he put in a jar, which he hid under Jack's bed. So far, he had saved up 7 dollars. 7 dollars, for him to spend on him, not his parents.
Lost in thought, he never saw the large pale face of Sarah squinting at him, nor did he see the large woman beside her. He didn't see them stride quickly across the flagstone, their arms crossed eyes both worried and angry. And when the large woman started to shriek, he was startled, not realizing that he had been caught playing hooky, and not going to school. When he was asked for an explansion, all he could say was sorry. It wasn't long before they reached the small apartment close by. His ear was red and sore from being pulled on all that way.
"David Phillip Jacobs!" David winced at the tone of his mother's voice. 'What do you think you are doing? I am ashamed! Just ashamed that a son of mine would leave school to... to go galloping around town, doing... what?" Shaking slightly, David had never seen his mother this angry before. The woman was kind, and never showed anger. This was a side that he had never seen before. Looking up, he got the woman's cold grey eyes that usually showed kindness showed no mercy. After a moment of silence, she shook her head. "I'm disgraced David. Simply disgraced. Go away. I don't want to see you right now. You've broken my heart."
Slinking away, the boy turned to say something, but he couldn't. How could he break his mother's heart? What had he done? Nothing really. That was it, nothing. And yet, he had broken her heart. Why? For no particular reason. But a little voice inside his head shouted at him. He had skipped school to sell papers. That alone was considered a "sin" in his parent's eyes. Now he knew what the seven dollars could be used for. But winning back his mother's love would be a hard thing. Something that would take time. Smirking, David thought to himself. This would only speed up the process.
Part One of the Mary Sue Trilogy is dedicated to my good friend Kai. She's always been there for me, even when I have the worst of Writer's Block. Finally, I have a piece "worthy" enough to dedicate to her, for as all of us Newsie fans knows, no story is as good as "Excuse Me, How Long?" (Accept maybe a few... such as "But I'm a Prep!"). Until the day I can match you're hand of skill, I'll keep working at it. But for now, I can only hope (and pray) that this one can even out the score.
_September Winds (Melody) 2004
-------------------------
When they hit, they hit hard. Almost every Character from almost every Book, Television Show, and Movie has them. Mary Sues. But never was it this bad. Take my word from it. You'd be walking down the street when WHAM- you'd walk right into what you THOUGHT was a pole. More like a giant cut out of yourself. Scary hunh? I have this friend, and the other day, he walked into the bathroom- only to be met by 13 beautiful girls hugging him to death. No, don't laugh. He's traumatised now for life. It wasn't always like this though. The five calmest lands are now swamped with them. Let me take you back... a few weeks ago. What I'm about to show you may shock and disturb those of the younger audience. By the way, I'm Specs, and if you hadn't noticed, I'm a Newsboy, or "Newsie" as they're called. And if you hadn't guessed, I sell Newspapers for a living. I'm not here to tell you about that now am I? Dutchy, Curtains. Dutchy! I said Curtains please! DUTCHY! Thank-you. For now, I guess, I'll leave you to the screens. I might be back, I might not. Who knows if I'll make it through the hour or so. Perhaps evil Mary Sues'll kidnap me...
-Specs
The Attack of the Mary Sues:
Part one in the Mary Sue Trilogy
Written by September Winds
--The Streets of Manhattan, New York: Thursday, July 21st 1899, 1:38 P.M--
It was a fine day over in the streets of New York in 1899. A soft breeze was blowing, the constant afternoon chatter could be heard, and overall, there was nothing that could spoil his day. Racetrack Higgins sat on the street curb just outside the Newsies' Lodging House. Clenching his cigar tightly in his teeth, he shuffled a deck of cards in his hands. The wind ruffling his brown hair, the little Italian placed three cards in a circle: one in front of himself, the other two in front of his friends. Both egar to learn the popular game "21". Setting the deck down to his right, he nodded, and picked up his single card. Smirking, he watched as a brunette and blonde followed suit. The rim of the blonde's glasses reflected the hot sun's rays, giving the effect that he was a giant bug instead of a seventeen year old boy. Yawning slightly, he stared blankly at his card.
"Race, I'm just not gettin' this. So's, I look at my card, and if I'se think it's close ta 21, I leave it?" He said unsuringly. The Italian nodded again, still silent. If the blonde couldn't get the basics of the game, that was okay. But the brunette on the other hand-
"Race," he whined. "What's the card with a wierd black thing... like a flower? Is that a spade?" Racetrack sighed and dropped his card face-down onto the pavement. It was hopeless. This kid couldn't learn anything. For days they had sat at this exact same spot, learning what each card ment, what it was called, how to add up the different numbers... and this kid was supposed to be going back to school? Collage even? Not a chance.
"Specs does that look anything remotly like a spade? No? I didn't think so. If it's black, and doesn't look like a spade, than it would be a..." He waited a moment in silence for the kid to think, but nothing. "It's a club Specs, a club! How many times do I have to say this? Gawd. How can we play 21 without knowing the types of cards? You know what? I give up already!" Ripping the cards out of both Dutchy and Specs' hands, he pilled up his deck, and stormed inside. One week- seven days- of this. Everyday, it was the same routine. Get up, sell papers, have lunch, than meet back here to teach kids cards. Gambling was his life, but why gamble his time away for these twits if he already knew the dice would show naught but the wrong numbers for him? Why was he doing this anyways? Because Jack was his greatest friend, and wanted him to help the poor kids out?But when one of the kids can't count, and the other doesn't know which card is which, how can one stand them? It wasn't worth it. Not one bit.
His feet pounding on the hardwood flooring, Racetrack made his way into the larger of the two boarding rooms in Kloppman's Lodging House. It was pretty big, with a few closed-in toilets to the right, a few sinks, counter space, and of course a large tub for baths. The bunk beds were lined up in two neat rows, with space inbetween them for a little bedside table. Dumping himself on a lower one, he tossed the cards onto the table, along with his partly used cigar. The summer breeze was seeping it's way in through the two open windows, the heat coming with it. He tilted his head back against the wall, drifting off into a silent slumbar.
"RACE! You up? Raaaaacetraaaack!" The sharp voice pounding in his ears, the Italian opened his eyes to the face of Specs and Dutchy. Both of them shining their 100-watt smiles at him. Yelping in horror, Racetrack rolled of the bed to the hard floor, leaving a shiny black-and-blue bruise on his hip. It wasn't like he wasn't used to bruises- or minded them for that matter- but just for show, he made a big deal out of it.
"Stupid apes! Look what you've done. Stupid flooring." Plasterng a frown on his face, he inspected his hip, seeing the damage done to his beloved side. The bruise was there: large, blueish in color, and mighty ugly. People who just happened to be in the room cringed as the Italian swore fluently in his mother tounge. Specs backed up from the bed, unsure as to whether to run like the wind to the streets, or to stay calm and force Dutchy into the beast's path. With Race, you could never really tell what he was thinking,
"S-s-s-sorry Racey ol' pal, ol' buddy... you okay?" Dutchy cried, thinking of the best way to butter the furious kid up. "You want to play cards? Umm... govenor or... maybe cheat? I'm real good at that one." A smirk flashed on Racetrack's face for a split second before heiving himself onto the bed. Reaching over, he plucked the deck of cards from the table, placing it in his hands. Arm outstretched, he smirked at the two.
"Sure, I'll play cards! How about... 52 PICK UP!" Letting the deck go, 57 (he had picked up a few spares along the way) cards fluttered around the room uncerimonisly. Pushing himself up into a comfortable position, he snatched his cigar, placed it firm in his mouth, than lit it. "Either you clean that up, or I'll soak ya." He had had enough of the two for one day, and this was pure pleasure as they growned and dropped to their knees, quickly finding the many cards spread about. When Dutchy finally counted the last card, he placed the deck in Racetrack's open palm and smiled. Flicking the deck, the one brunette knew the thickness was not to the fullest.
"Youse still have a few cards to go now... fretta, fretta!" Snapping his fingers, the broad smile crossed his face again. This was the only thing that could make his day. Maybe he should try it more often.
--Santa Fe, New Mexico: Thursday, July 21st, 1899, 1:30 P.M--
I could hear footsteps behind me, and yet I still kept running. My feet bare and dirty, pounded on the soft grassy floor, making my way up the hill. But why was I running? Because I had to? Indeed. For once though, I wasn't running from the bulls, nor the Delancy's. Nope, ol' Jacky Boy was in big trouble. I wanted to be back in my bed; safe along with the other boys I grew up with. This was my own fault though. I was the one who wanted to travel to Santa Fe for a week, to explore it, get it out of my system as Kloppman called it. And for that particular reason, I was running for my life.
"Francis... Why don't you love me? Francis, Come back, please? Come heeeeeeeere." Her voice carried in front of me by the wind, I shivered. I didn't know who she was, or how she got here, but there she was, as pretty as an angel. Her name: Carlie Louise Monclair. The gem of Santa Fe, or so they claimed. After only 3 days of being in Santa Fe, she arrived. With her hair as golden as the sun, bright cherry red lips, and not to mention a nice figure, Carlie was one of a kind. And she wanted to be all mine.
Now, most guys would agree to this. I did to, at the beginning. But soon after, I realized that this... creature was not who she appeared to be. When everyone was around, the beautiful and talented Carlie showed. But the second we were alone, she was a ravished beast, who wanted nothing more than to "own" Manhattan. How could I let her do such a thing? She wanted to kill me off, claim Manhattan for her own, than make all the Newsies her own personal slaves. Like I was going to let that happen. I gasped as my footing slipped, and the cold morning dew splashed in my face. The next thing I new, I was sliding backwards down the hill, and right into the open arms of... guess who? The one and only Carlie.
"Oh Francis! Meet Stabby McStab-Stab, my... little friend..." As I glanced upwards, my eyes caught the purple ones, surrounded by the perfect complexion and fair skin. How could an angel be so deadly?
--The Streets of Manhattan, New York: Thursday, July 21st, 1899, 1:32 P.M--
Sighing slightly, 16 year-old David Jacobs walked down the crowded streets of New York, his last two papers set in his hands. It had been a hard week for selling, without his favourite selling partner (and best friend for that matter) Jack Kelly. 5 days, without contact from his friend, was too much. But it was something Jack wanted to do, and for that, he had to accept this parting. It wasn't like Jack wouldn't be back. Placing the papers in the garbage can, he gave up and began walking the direction of the lodging house, his own place of refuge. Home lately, was nothing but cheer and glory, for his father had gotten his job back. Although he was supposed to be at school, and although his parents thought just that, David preferred the life on the streets, selling papers. The money he made, he put in a jar, which he hid under Jack's bed. So far, he had saved up 7 dollars. 7 dollars, for him to spend on him, not his parents.
Lost in thought, he never saw the large pale face of Sarah squinting at him, nor did he see the large woman beside her. He didn't see them stride quickly across the flagstone, their arms crossed eyes both worried and angry. And when the large woman started to shriek, he was startled, not realizing that he had been caught playing hooky, and not going to school. When he was asked for an explansion, all he could say was sorry. It wasn't long before they reached the small apartment close by. His ear was red and sore from being pulled on all that way.
"David Phillip Jacobs!" David winced at the tone of his mother's voice. 'What do you think you are doing? I am ashamed! Just ashamed that a son of mine would leave school to... to go galloping around town, doing... what?" Shaking slightly, David had never seen his mother this angry before. The woman was kind, and never showed anger. This was a side that he had never seen before. Looking up, he got the woman's cold grey eyes that usually showed kindness showed no mercy. After a moment of silence, she shook her head. "I'm disgraced David. Simply disgraced. Go away. I don't want to see you right now. You've broken my heart."
Slinking away, the boy turned to say something, but he couldn't. How could he break his mother's heart? What had he done? Nothing really. That was it, nothing. And yet, he had broken her heart. Why? For no particular reason. But a little voice inside his head shouted at him. He had skipped school to sell papers. That alone was considered a "sin" in his parent's eyes. Now he knew what the seven dollars could be used for. But winning back his mother's love would be a hard thing. Something that would take time. Smirking, David thought to himself. This would only speed up the process.