Tainted Love
Part One- Malicious Intent
Disclaimer: Okay, I don't own the Newsies, but hell, whoever owns Racetrack, I'll give you a penny for him!
Chapter 1- 1901
It was almost midnight, but the saloon was still lively. The smell of stale cigars and beer hung in the air. Newcomers, walking in from the streets, would gag upon entering such a hazy atmosphere. Although the bar was crowded, many tables in the saloon were empty, save for several ones sporting large crowds of people. Waiters watched the crowd with the eyes of predators, waiting for such prey as a thirsty costumer, or an empty glass.
The most crowded table was covered in a haze of smoke, denser than the surrounding tables. Women of questionable morality leaned against men who slipped money in their garters. Everyone seemed to have their eyes on the goings on at the table. Cries of triumph and woe rocked the saloon, as card games were common in a place such as this. Tonight, the stakes were high.
All eyes seemed to be on one player in particular, for he seemed to be the luckiest one at the table.
He was just a boy, barely sixteen. His dark brown hair was brushed back, only a few pieces escaping and falling over his forehead. His quick, Italian eyes were almost black, and could come off as unusually expressive. They were cool now, for he was a seasoned gambler, even at this young age, and knew that emotions in the game would only lead to empty pockets. He took his cigar out of his mouth and exhaled, adding to the smoky cloud around the table.
Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins took the top chip off of his pile and tossed it into the pot. His icy stare swept across the room.
"I see ya fo'dy, and raise ya fiddy," he told the crowd. There was an excited mumble, as the other players exchanged glances.
"Yer eyes seem tah be a liddle big for yer stomach, boy," one of the men said, giving him a chronic sneer.
Racetrack tossed his head defiantly. "You do ya own bets, Jimmie, an' I'll do mine." Jimmie glared, picking up one of his chips and tossing it into the pile.
From afar, a person watched, leaning languidly against the bar. The bartender didn't dare to ask him if he wanted a drink, and just allowed him to watch the Italian boy play his game.
"Alrigh' boys, momen' o'truth," Racetrack said. "Lay ya cahd's down."
"I fold," one of the men said quietly. The crowd booed and hissed as though they were one person.
"Me too," the other man said. The crowd had a similar response. It was down to Jimmie and Racetrack, both staring each other down.
"Two pair…" Jimmie said, laying his cards down. Something flickered in Racetrack's eyes, as he glanced at his own cards, looking back up at his opponent. He moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth, looking as though he was in deep thought.
"Royal flush!" He cried, laying his cards down on the table. The crowd went wild, and Racetrack pulled in his winnings. "I tink mah time is done now," he added.
Jimmie looked at Racetrack dangerously, gears working in his head that Racetrack didn't even want to guess at.
"It was nice playin' wit ya," Racetrack said to the others, his arms full of chips. He waded his way through the crowd, heading towards the bartender to trade in. The person at the bar kept watching him, but his eyes flicked to Jimmie, slinking out of the club, filled with malicious intent.
"Thanks Chahley," Racetrack said, stuffing the money in his pocket, the bartender nodded and waved to Racetrack as he headed out of the bar.
His thoughts were filled with the sounds of rolling dice and the feel of cards in his hands as he walked, puffing thoughtfully on a cigar. It was rare that he got so lucky, especially playing cards. He would most likely continue walking, looking at the stars until daylight. Racetrack smiled to himself, kicking a stone along the cobblestone streets.
He was becoming a natural insomniac, and his nights away from the lodging house were growing in numbers. None of the kids seemed to miss him at dinner, they all assumed it was his way of dealing with things…ever since Jack died.
No. Jack didn't die; Racetrack had to keep telling himself that. He just never came back from one of his newspaper runs. People assumed he finally caught that train to Santa Fe, but Racetrack himself could have sworn he had seen him lurking in the shadows, watching the other Newsies while they sold their papes.
It was just something could feel, it didn't matter though. All he knew was that Jack was never coming back; he knew it in his heart. It didn't bother him as much as it bothered the others, Heck, even Spot hung around the lodging house now, missing his good friend Jack.
Suddenly, he heard a noise, turning around sharply, his hands automatically went to the money in his pockets. There was no one behind him…why was he so jumpy? He just needed to calm down…
SLAM! Someone tackled him and pinned him against a wall. When Racetrack's vision cleared, he saw it was Jimmie, the angry man from the bar. A knife in hand, he had it pressed against the hollow of Racetrack's throat.
"I know yer a liddle slimey cheater…" Jimmie hissed, inches away from his face. "I'm gunna slit yer throat now, an' get mah money back…"
Dis is it!Racetrack thought bitterly. I'm done for! He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling of cold steel drag against his neck, but felt nothing. As he slowly opened his eyes, he saw a figure bent over the twitching body of Jimmie, from the angle in which Racetrack was standing, he couldn't see anything.
Quick as a flash, the body of Jimmie dropped to the ground and the thing was at his throat now, fangs breaking the flesh of his beck. Racetrack screamed, clawing at the thing latched to his throat.
"Shhh…Race, don't worry…yeh'll be fahn...Racetrack's eyelids slowly drooped, and he fought to stay awake. The pain subsided in his neck as the thing drew away, and suddenly something warm and wet was pressed to his lips. He drank hungrily, grabbing the wrist of the thing that drank from him.
"Don't worry Race, yer wit Jackie boy now…" Racetrack lifted his eyes, still drinking, and met the eyes of the boy he thought was dead. His own muffled scream snapped him out of it, and he pushed his former friend away.
Pain ran up and down his body, and Racetrack fell to his knees, tears coming to his eyes. Jack looked the same as ever, down to the red bandanna around his neck. Racetrack curled into a ball, clenching his teeth.
"Dis happens to us all, y'know," Jack explained, kneeling in front of him. " Yer body dyin'…Didin' ya always wanna live foreva?" Racetrack sat up, his eyes glassy. He gave Jack a smile, showing newly grown fangs.
"I wan' some more."
To be continued…muahaha.
Author's Note: Jimmie is actually a character from "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets", a book I read in Language Arts this year. I don't care if you people review (If you did though, I would shout out!). This story can branch off two ways, the main story is going to flash forward to present day, but I plan to write a continuation in this time, which'll kind of explain things coming up in this story!
,
Part One- Malicious Intent
Disclaimer: Okay, I don't own the Newsies, but hell, whoever owns Racetrack, I'll give you a penny for him!
Chapter 1- 1901
It was almost midnight, but the saloon was still lively. The smell of stale cigars and beer hung in the air. Newcomers, walking in from the streets, would gag upon entering such a hazy atmosphere. Although the bar was crowded, many tables in the saloon were empty, save for several ones sporting large crowds of people. Waiters watched the crowd with the eyes of predators, waiting for such prey as a thirsty costumer, or an empty glass.
The most crowded table was covered in a haze of smoke, denser than the surrounding tables. Women of questionable morality leaned against men who slipped money in their garters. Everyone seemed to have their eyes on the goings on at the table. Cries of triumph and woe rocked the saloon, as card games were common in a place such as this. Tonight, the stakes were high.
All eyes seemed to be on one player in particular, for he seemed to be the luckiest one at the table.
He was just a boy, barely sixteen. His dark brown hair was brushed back, only a few pieces escaping and falling over his forehead. His quick, Italian eyes were almost black, and could come off as unusually expressive. They were cool now, for he was a seasoned gambler, even at this young age, and knew that emotions in the game would only lead to empty pockets. He took his cigar out of his mouth and exhaled, adding to the smoky cloud around the table.
Anthony "Racetrack" Higgins took the top chip off of his pile and tossed it into the pot. His icy stare swept across the room.
"I see ya fo'dy, and raise ya fiddy," he told the crowd. There was an excited mumble, as the other players exchanged glances.
"Yer eyes seem tah be a liddle big for yer stomach, boy," one of the men said, giving him a chronic sneer.
Racetrack tossed his head defiantly. "You do ya own bets, Jimmie, an' I'll do mine." Jimmie glared, picking up one of his chips and tossing it into the pile.
From afar, a person watched, leaning languidly against the bar. The bartender didn't dare to ask him if he wanted a drink, and just allowed him to watch the Italian boy play his game.
"Alrigh' boys, momen' o'truth," Racetrack said. "Lay ya cahd's down."
"I fold," one of the men said quietly. The crowd booed and hissed as though they were one person.
"Me too," the other man said. The crowd had a similar response. It was down to Jimmie and Racetrack, both staring each other down.
"Two pair…" Jimmie said, laying his cards down. Something flickered in Racetrack's eyes, as he glanced at his own cards, looking back up at his opponent. He moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth, looking as though he was in deep thought.
"Royal flush!" He cried, laying his cards down on the table. The crowd went wild, and Racetrack pulled in his winnings. "I tink mah time is done now," he added.
Jimmie looked at Racetrack dangerously, gears working in his head that Racetrack didn't even want to guess at.
"It was nice playin' wit ya," Racetrack said to the others, his arms full of chips. He waded his way through the crowd, heading towards the bartender to trade in. The person at the bar kept watching him, but his eyes flicked to Jimmie, slinking out of the club, filled with malicious intent.
"Thanks Chahley," Racetrack said, stuffing the money in his pocket, the bartender nodded and waved to Racetrack as he headed out of the bar.
His thoughts were filled with the sounds of rolling dice and the feel of cards in his hands as he walked, puffing thoughtfully on a cigar. It was rare that he got so lucky, especially playing cards. He would most likely continue walking, looking at the stars until daylight. Racetrack smiled to himself, kicking a stone along the cobblestone streets.
He was becoming a natural insomniac, and his nights away from the lodging house were growing in numbers. None of the kids seemed to miss him at dinner, they all assumed it was his way of dealing with things…ever since Jack died.
No. Jack didn't die; Racetrack had to keep telling himself that. He just never came back from one of his newspaper runs. People assumed he finally caught that train to Santa Fe, but Racetrack himself could have sworn he had seen him lurking in the shadows, watching the other Newsies while they sold their papes.
It was just something could feel, it didn't matter though. All he knew was that Jack was never coming back; he knew it in his heart. It didn't bother him as much as it bothered the others, Heck, even Spot hung around the lodging house now, missing his good friend Jack.
Suddenly, he heard a noise, turning around sharply, his hands automatically went to the money in his pockets. There was no one behind him…why was he so jumpy? He just needed to calm down…
SLAM! Someone tackled him and pinned him against a wall. When Racetrack's vision cleared, he saw it was Jimmie, the angry man from the bar. A knife in hand, he had it pressed against the hollow of Racetrack's throat.
"I know yer a liddle slimey cheater…" Jimmie hissed, inches away from his face. "I'm gunna slit yer throat now, an' get mah money back…"
Dis is it!Racetrack thought bitterly. I'm done for! He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling of cold steel drag against his neck, but felt nothing. As he slowly opened his eyes, he saw a figure bent over the twitching body of Jimmie, from the angle in which Racetrack was standing, he couldn't see anything.
Quick as a flash, the body of Jimmie dropped to the ground and the thing was at his throat now, fangs breaking the flesh of his beck. Racetrack screamed, clawing at the thing latched to his throat.
"Shhh…Race, don't worry…yeh'll be fahn...Racetrack's eyelids slowly drooped, and he fought to stay awake. The pain subsided in his neck as the thing drew away, and suddenly something warm and wet was pressed to his lips. He drank hungrily, grabbing the wrist of the thing that drank from him.
"Don't worry Race, yer wit Jackie boy now…" Racetrack lifted his eyes, still drinking, and met the eyes of the boy he thought was dead. His own muffled scream snapped him out of it, and he pushed his former friend away.
Pain ran up and down his body, and Racetrack fell to his knees, tears coming to his eyes. Jack looked the same as ever, down to the red bandanna around his neck. Racetrack curled into a ball, clenching his teeth.
"Dis happens to us all, y'know," Jack explained, kneeling in front of him. " Yer body dyin'…Didin' ya always wanna live foreva?" Racetrack sat up, his eyes glassy. He gave Jack a smile, showing newly grown fangs.
"I wan' some more."
To be continued…muahaha.
Author's Note: Jimmie is actually a character from "Maggie: A Girl of the Streets", a book I read in Language Arts this year. I don't care if you people review (If you did though, I would shout out!). This story can branch off two ways, the main story is going to flash forward to present day, but I plan to write a continuation in this time, which'll kind of explain things coming up in this story!
,