A/N: I wrote this for a school project. I realize that it is completely ridiculous, and that is the point. I thought it would be funny, so I decided to put it up for other people to read. Please R&R. Thanks bunches! -Layne
It was a noisy Friday night in New York City - the day was over, the headlines had been good all week, and hundreds of rowdy newsboys confidently had change jingling in their pockets. All the "newsies," as they called themselves, had the same thought running through their minds: tonight was the perfect night for a show. Now, when you were a newsie and you wanted to see a show, you knew there was only one place to go and one person to see... you had to head over to Irving Hall to see the beautiful and celebrated Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadowlark, in her fabulous vaudeville act.
The time for the show approached slowly, as all exciting things do to a teenager, and the buzz about it had reached just about every ear in every borough. It had also reached the ears of a pair of young men known to most as "scabbers," people used as the muscle of newspaper distributors, whose sole job was to seek out and soak defiant newsies. These two scabbers were particularly vile - the sworn enemy of every newsie in New York City... the Delancey brothers, Oscar and Morris. They were closet fans of Medda, having seen her show a few times during weeks when the headlines had been bad and newsies were off losing their money to Racetrack, local poker entrepreneur and gambling extraordinaire, rather than spending what it cost to see a show. They knew that when a newsie was in Irving Hall, a scabber had little chance of surviving the night should he step foot in the door, and this tormented their dry, shriveled-up souls, as they heard Medda had a particularly good act this evening.
About twenty minutes before the show began, the Delanceys made the decision to go ahead and go anyway... they figured they would just stay in the back, inconspicuous, and not disturb anybody. They weren't there to cause trouble, just to see a show, not to incite a riot. Nobody would notice them, anyway.
Boy, were they wrong.
The dance hall was crowded and filled with the whistles and cat-calls of the newsies who sat up front, playing poker, drinking, happily taking in every minute of the song and dance Medda shelled out to them along with her dancers. One newsboy in particular could be seen, holding court over his loyal band of cohorts - the figure of one Jack Kelly, cowboy hat and bandana his telltale features, was clearly visible even from the back of the hall where Oscar and Morris slouched against a wall, hoping to go unnoticed. Jack looked around, taking note of the goings-on, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He scanned the room, forever every newsie's sentry, looking less for trouble and more for pretty girls. He saw two of his best friends, rather short though they were, making their way through the crowds: Crutchy hobbled through, leaning heavily on his crutch with one arm around Racetrack, who was happy to support his pal after the Delanceys themselves worsened his already crippled state upon his arrest during the strike. Jack smiled at this show of unfaltering comaradery; tough though his newsies were, they were quite the compassionate group of young men. Satisfied that his friends were all in good working order, Jack sat down to enjoy the show.
Racetrack and Crutchy had found their way to the back of the room, and Crutchy assured Race that he could make his way out of the hall and back to the lodging house with the help of a few of the younger newsies, who were tired and wanted to get to bed anyway. Race nodded and bid goodbye to his friend, then turned to find the two faces of pure evil staring at him. The Delanceys clearly looked as if they hoped he hadn't noticed them - Racetrack was trouble, and was one to report directly to Jack if he thought any of his friends were in danger. Race smirked at them, his trademark cigar bouncing against his lips as he said, "Dear me... once again I find myself facing that unpleasant aroma."
The Delanceys straightened, prepared to bolt, when Racetrack turned around and calmly took a few steps away from them. Making the dangerous assumption that perhaps this time they would be safe, they relaxed a bit, before Racetrack found a point where the music had quieted a bit, and then called out, "SCABS! WE GOT SCABS!"
The entirety of the room turned around, and the Delanceys found themselves feeling very small and very scared in a room full of hundreds of rambunctious, easily-angered young men with sticks. The newsies charged at the pair, and the brothers ran for their lives into the lobby, grabbing the handle of the first door they could find and rushing in.
As the door slammed shut and the symphony of anger and threats echoed hollowly behind it, the Delanceys found themselves in just about any teenage boy's dream: the dressing room of an Irving Hall dancer. Granted, the dancers were still on stage, but the music had ended and they should have been coming in any minute. Oscar and Morris head the stage door creak, and hid behind a comically large pair of skirts.
The girls shuffled in, giggling over how the infamous (and gorgeous!) Jack Kelly had smiled at one of them. As they got ready for their costume change, they noticed the skirts against the wall moving conspicuously. Upon brushing the fabric aside, they discovered the Delancey brothers, bright red and sheepish, smiling up at them.
One of the girls looked like she was about to scream. The brothers knew they had to act quickly.
They stood up and grabbed the girls, pushing them into a closet and sliding a chair under the doorknob. From outside, a voice could be heard. "Anybody check backstage yet?"
"Why would they go backstage? Medda wouldn't-"
"It wouldn't hurt to check!"
Oscar and Morris looked at one another in terror. Glancing around for a less-obvious place to hide, they came up with a plan.
The newsies scoured the backstage area. Satisfied that the scabbers had been scared off, they all settled back into their seats to enjoy the rest of the show.
Cheers at the sight of Medda taking the stage were soon replaced by rumblings of confusion and groans of disgust.
"Who are the new dancers?"
"What happened to the other two? I liked them..."
"Does that one have a mustache?"
"They sure ain't very good..."
The two new dancers stumbled about the stage, trying to keep up with the music and guess Medda's next step. To the right, the one with the unfortunate facial-hair problem bent down in an attempt to be graceful, and one of the scarves she had used as padding tumbled out of the top of her dress.
Morris Delancey turned bright red. He was caught. He looked around to see if anyone noticed, to see if he still had time to run, and saw Medda Larkson herself storming towards him. He turned to run, but found himself stuck as Medda stomped her high-heeled boot down on the hem of his dress.
"Scabbers? In my show?" shrieked the newsboy-friendly star. "This is an outrage! I've never felt so betray-"
"I'll handle this, Medda," said a cool voice. Jack Kelly strode across the stage, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
The two scabbers lay in bed at home the next day, recovering from what very well may have been the soaking of the century. They moaned and groaned as they nursed their black eyes, split lips, and possibly a few broken ribs, while their uncle, Weasel, head of distribution for the World, tisk-tisked over them.
"You two are useless. I hope you're satisfied," he grumbled, walking out and slamming the door behind him.
Oscar looked to his brother and smiled a bloody, half-toothless smile. "At least we got to see a show we'll never forget."