A/N: Twenty days to zero hour! Yes, the days are flying by and the
chapters just...keep...getting...weirder. But that's a good thing, right? (Of
course it is.) I told Race to just get Sapphy a puppy...but no. *sigh* He
NEVER listens.
And now, on to the fic!
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
From the minute he mounted the stairs and began to climb upstairs to the bunkroom, Racetrack knew that something was wrong. He could hear a thumping bass line emanating through the walls, and the first thing he glimpsed through the half-open door was the sight of Les in full cowboy getup. This didn't seem so odd to him—the younger boys were always trying to act more like Jack. When he saw Slider dressed as a biker, he assumed it was because of the same thing. But when he saw Boots doing a strange dance, dressed up as a Navy man, Tumbler standing next to him costumed as an Indian, and Snipeshooter standing at the front of the room shouting orders, while dressed in the clothes of a construction worker, complete with hardhat—well, Racetrack knew that something out of the ordinary was going on.
And then, he heard the music:
"Young man! Theah's a place youse can go--
I said, young man! When you're short on ya dough--
Youse can stay there, and I'se sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time..."
The song took on an almost eerie quality when sung by the small, piping voices of the younger newsies. At the chorus, everyuthing united in a strangely beautiful fever pitch, and it was all Racetrack could do to keep standing there, and not run down the stairs as fast as he could...
"It's fun ta stay at th'— WHYYYYYYYY, EM, SEEE AY! It's fun ta stay at th'— WHYYYYYYYY, EM, SEEE AY!"
Tumbler stepped forward, doing a manic little two-step, and belted out his big solo:
"They have ev'rything, foah young men ta enjoy, youse can hand out wit' all da boys—"
"Cut, cut, CUT!" Snipeshooter screamed in frustration, ripping off his hardhat. "Tumbler, what was that?"
"Well, I'se was just, uh, improvising dere a little—"
"Look," Snipes said, looking about thirty years older, "I's choreographin' heah. If ya wanna win any prizes, ya gotta stick to th' dance moves. I mean, how d'you expect ta—" Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Racetrack hovering in the doorway. "Race!" he said quickly, swallowing nervously, "What are you doin' heah?"
Race looked in horror at the boys milling around in their bizarre costumes. "I dunno, Snipes, whaddaya think you're doin'?"
"Um...nothin'?"
"Nothin' at all?"
"Yeah..."
"So youse jus' normally dress up as cowboys an' Indians an' sin' strange songs about—"
"YES! Yes, we do. All the time." Snipeshooter looked hard at Racetrack, hoping he had bought the story. Racetrack currently had a troubled look on his face that made him look uncannily like poultry; Snipes figured he was in the clear. "So, Race, what can I help ya with?"
"Well, ya see, it's Sapphy's half-birthday tonight, an' I gotta figure out what ta get her. Jack said you might have some ideas."
"Well, at th' age of seven-and-a-half," Snipeshooter said autobiographically, "I swallowed a small, live earthworm ta prove my love to Tessie Harper."
"Oh," said Racetrack. He didn't really trust himself to say anything else.
"So, what I'm sayin' is, basically, goils want some kinda gesture. Do somethin' brave, that proves ya care about 'em."
"I dunno, Snipes. I don' really think Sapph would go for me eatin' a worm."
"Well, to each his own," Snipeshooter mused. "You could always just eat a bug, I guess."
"Right," Racetrack sighed.
Seeing the poultry look again, Snipeshooter finally took pity. "Tell ya what, Race...Mush'll probably know what ta do. I mean, he's always got a goil. Why dontcha go find him? He's out sellin'."
Racetrack smiled. Of course! Mush would know just what to do. "Hey, thanks," he called over his shoulder, bounding out the door.
"No problem," Snipeshooter said, breathing a sigh of relief that Racetrack had finally left. "Now then...boys, I think 'In The Navy' needs some work..."
*~*~*
TBC...
And now, on to the fic!
*~*~*
Racetrack's Quest
*~*~*
From the minute he mounted the stairs and began to climb upstairs to the bunkroom, Racetrack knew that something was wrong. He could hear a thumping bass line emanating through the walls, and the first thing he glimpsed through the half-open door was the sight of Les in full cowboy getup. This didn't seem so odd to him—the younger boys were always trying to act more like Jack. When he saw Slider dressed as a biker, he assumed it was because of the same thing. But when he saw Boots doing a strange dance, dressed up as a Navy man, Tumbler standing next to him costumed as an Indian, and Snipeshooter standing at the front of the room shouting orders, while dressed in the clothes of a construction worker, complete with hardhat—well, Racetrack knew that something out of the ordinary was going on.
And then, he heard the music:
"Young man! Theah's a place youse can go--
I said, young man! When you're short on ya dough--
Youse can stay there, and I'se sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time..."
The song took on an almost eerie quality when sung by the small, piping voices of the younger newsies. At the chorus, everyuthing united in a strangely beautiful fever pitch, and it was all Racetrack could do to keep standing there, and not run down the stairs as fast as he could...
"It's fun ta stay at th'— WHYYYYYYYY, EM, SEEE AY! It's fun ta stay at th'— WHYYYYYYYY, EM, SEEE AY!"
Tumbler stepped forward, doing a manic little two-step, and belted out his big solo:
"They have ev'rything, foah young men ta enjoy, youse can hand out wit' all da boys—"
"Cut, cut, CUT!" Snipeshooter screamed in frustration, ripping off his hardhat. "Tumbler, what was that?"
"Well, I'se was just, uh, improvising dere a little—"
"Look," Snipes said, looking about thirty years older, "I's choreographin' heah. If ya wanna win any prizes, ya gotta stick to th' dance moves. I mean, how d'you expect ta—" Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Racetrack hovering in the doorway. "Race!" he said quickly, swallowing nervously, "What are you doin' heah?"
Race looked in horror at the boys milling around in their bizarre costumes. "I dunno, Snipes, whaddaya think you're doin'?"
"Um...nothin'?"
"Nothin' at all?"
"Yeah..."
"So youse jus' normally dress up as cowboys an' Indians an' sin' strange songs about—"
"YES! Yes, we do. All the time." Snipeshooter looked hard at Racetrack, hoping he had bought the story. Racetrack currently had a troubled look on his face that made him look uncannily like poultry; Snipes figured he was in the clear. "So, Race, what can I help ya with?"
"Well, ya see, it's Sapphy's half-birthday tonight, an' I gotta figure out what ta get her. Jack said you might have some ideas."
"Well, at th' age of seven-and-a-half," Snipeshooter said autobiographically, "I swallowed a small, live earthworm ta prove my love to Tessie Harper."
"Oh," said Racetrack. He didn't really trust himself to say anything else.
"So, what I'm sayin' is, basically, goils want some kinda gesture. Do somethin' brave, that proves ya care about 'em."
"I dunno, Snipes. I don' really think Sapph would go for me eatin' a worm."
"Well, to each his own," Snipeshooter mused. "You could always just eat a bug, I guess."
"Right," Racetrack sighed.
Seeing the poultry look again, Snipeshooter finally took pity. "Tell ya what, Race...Mush'll probably know what ta do. I mean, he's always got a goil. Why dontcha go find him? He's out sellin'."
Racetrack smiled. Of course! Mush would know just what to do. "Hey, thanks," he called over his shoulder, bounding out the door.
"No problem," Snipeshooter said, breathing a sigh of relief that Racetrack had finally left. "Now then...boys, I think 'In The Navy' needs some work..."
*~*~*
TBC...