A/N: I swear to god I had another chapter somewhere. I've misplaced it, or
maybe completely lost it to the void of the rapidly disappearing
fanfictions. This seems to happen a lot, huh? Well, no matter. I had two
written, so I'll post the other when I find it. Here's the other.
***
I was born in a pretty well off family. We were MUCH richer than Denton, but poorer than Pulitzer. My life was good enough. My dad, who is still alive and kicking, is pretty nice to me. A good father. My mother - who is also still living - I visit twice a week. Not just for her, also for my father, but I can't help loving my mama a little more. Call me a mama's boy, I don't care, she was the one who was always around and always said something to make me feel good. Dad worked hard for our family, but I never saw him. I was usually asleep right after dinner, which he was always just on time for.
I didn't leave because we were poor, or because my family was mean to me, or because my dad was a drunk or my mom was a whore. I just couldn't stand the dogs.
These aren't your little lap poodles like the Queen of England always seems to have. These dogs are VICIOUS, and they're huge. I was reared with these giant wolves standing over me. And I HATE them. I'm allergic to them now - I throw up if the dog's taller than my knee. I don't sell papes to people with dogs.
But back to my life before newsiehood. The family dogs were two Dobermans, a racing Greyhound, three Pitbulls, and a mutt. But this isn't the cute, lovable mutt you find in the streets as a half-starved puppy and raise from the big-pawed, pissing wherever it lands stage. No. Not even close. This thing, this BEAST of a canine was half-German Shep half WOLF. Well, maybe it was coyote.
Anyway, my dad works with the horses at Sheepshead, so the dogs are to guard the horses from foul play by other jockeys or their hostlers. Well, I say my dad works with the horses. But he really controls anything and everything equine-related that happens on Coney Island. So we're very rich. Plus our Greyhound is a track favorite when the Sheeps' does dog- races, every Saturday at noon.
I come to all the important horse races still. My dad tells me a date to be there and I'm there, I trust him not to let the dogs near me. I hate those things, have I mentioned that?
My parents understand it. They need the dogs and I can't live with them. You might ask why they don't just sleep at the stable, but obviously you don't know what these dogs are like at night. They'd keep the horses up with their howling and scare them to death. Besides, my dad's so used to them; it would break his heart if they had to sleep outside. Just like if I had to sleep outside.
So I moved to the LH when I decided I could go out on my own. Best thing about the place - no pets. I sell with Race down by the tracks. That was where both of us got our nicknames. His, for betting. Mine, for . . . well, you'll see.
"Hey Joey. Ya need a nickname," Race told me one day while he lounged on a bale of hay, chewing one piece out of need for a cigar. My dad and I were working in the stables with the track favorite, Silver-Shoe, names for one white hoof. My least favorite dog, the mutt, walked right in the barn, barking and snapping.
My dad started yelling at Buck - the mutt - Silver-Shoe neighed, stepped on my foot, and bit me; and finally, I jumped a foot in the air at least, screaming my head off. Race swears it was two feet, and my father insists on a yard.
"You'se mawh skittish den dat ho'ss," Race laughed, patting Buck. The rotten flea-bag's tongue was lolling, his tail was wagging . . . my face burned.
"I HATE dogs."
"He's afraid of them. Especially Buck," my father told him.
"I ain't scared a' dat hairy monstrosity."
"It's ok, son. He's half-wolf, there are grown men afraid of wolves."
"I gotta sell . . . Skittery."
I nearly killed him. But the name stuck.
***
I was born in a pretty well off family. We were MUCH richer than Denton, but poorer than Pulitzer. My life was good enough. My dad, who is still alive and kicking, is pretty nice to me. A good father. My mother - who is also still living - I visit twice a week. Not just for her, also for my father, but I can't help loving my mama a little more. Call me a mama's boy, I don't care, she was the one who was always around and always said something to make me feel good. Dad worked hard for our family, but I never saw him. I was usually asleep right after dinner, which he was always just on time for.
I didn't leave because we were poor, or because my family was mean to me, or because my dad was a drunk or my mom was a whore. I just couldn't stand the dogs.
These aren't your little lap poodles like the Queen of England always seems to have. These dogs are VICIOUS, and they're huge. I was reared with these giant wolves standing over me. And I HATE them. I'm allergic to them now - I throw up if the dog's taller than my knee. I don't sell papes to people with dogs.
But back to my life before newsiehood. The family dogs were two Dobermans, a racing Greyhound, three Pitbulls, and a mutt. But this isn't the cute, lovable mutt you find in the streets as a half-starved puppy and raise from the big-pawed, pissing wherever it lands stage. No. Not even close. This thing, this BEAST of a canine was half-German Shep half WOLF. Well, maybe it was coyote.
Anyway, my dad works with the horses at Sheepshead, so the dogs are to guard the horses from foul play by other jockeys or their hostlers. Well, I say my dad works with the horses. But he really controls anything and everything equine-related that happens on Coney Island. So we're very rich. Plus our Greyhound is a track favorite when the Sheeps' does dog- races, every Saturday at noon.
I come to all the important horse races still. My dad tells me a date to be there and I'm there, I trust him not to let the dogs near me. I hate those things, have I mentioned that?
My parents understand it. They need the dogs and I can't live with them. You might ask why they don't just sleep at the stable, but obviously you don't know what these dogs are like at night. They'd keep the horses up with their howling and scare them to death. Besides, my dad's so used to them; it would break his heart if they had to sleep outside. Just like if I had to sleep outside.
So I moved to the LH when I decided I could go out on my own. Best thing about the place - no pets. I sell with Race down by the tracks. That was where both of us got our nicknames. His, for betting. Mine, for . . . well, you'll see.
"Hey Joey. Ya need a nickname," Race told me one day while he lounged on a bale of hay, chewing one piece out of need for a cigar. My dad and I were working in the stables with the track favorite, Silver-Shoe, names for one white hoof. My least favorite dog, the mutt, walked right in the barn, barking and snapping.
My dad started yelling at Buck - the mutt - Silver-Shoe neighed, stepped on my foot, and bit me; and finally, I jumped a foot in the air at least, screaming my head off. Race swears it was two feet, and my father insists on a yard.
"You'se mawh skittish den dat ho'ss," Race laughed, patting Buck. The rotten flea-bag's tongue was lolling, his tail was wagging . . . my face burned.
"I HATE dogs."
"He's afraid of them. Especially Buck," my father told him.
"I ain't scared a' dat hairy monstrosity."
"It's ok, son. He's half-wolf, there are grown men afraid of wolves."
"I gotta sell . . . Skittery."
I nearly killed him. But the name stuck.
