Chapta Five

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

The Manhattan newsies woke to a rather... interesting... surprise.

Since the Brooklinians had to get up at 6:30, of course the Manhattanins had to, too. Because anyone who stayed had to pay it off in their share of work, and they were obligated to get up and sell papes, otherwise Spot'd have their heads on silver platters.

The King o' Brooklyn was pulling on his suspenders over one of his work shirts, plaid with brown and yellow and all that good stuff about fifteen minutes after he woke up. "Joe, Zippy, Glasses," he ordered to his roommates,"Go get 'em."

So, with a great joyous leap and some Indian war whoops, four or five Brooklyn newsies pounded down the door to the staff room and stomped in stark naked.

Of course, no one had expected Racetrack and Mush would be sleeping on the floor, so one newsie was flat on his ass in two seconds.

Race sat up drowsily and wiped his eyes. "What the... My god."

His eyes widened as he saw two Brooklyn newsies naked, dancing on the bed and laughing, and one lying next to him, biting his lip from stubbing his toe. Poor Jack was huddled in the corner, pressed flat up against the wall in horror. After all, they were on his bed.

Mush found the whole thing hysterical and doubled over laughing. "Better than coffee anytime, eh?" he asked, tears streaming down his face. Race, who sat next to him, stared at him in disbelief, and it crossed his mind Mush just might be insane.He kicked the sheets off his legs and scrambled to get up.

"The Brooklyn Newsie Wake-Up Call!" cried one of the newsies jumping on the bed, prancing around like no one's business.

"Directly from Spot ta his fine guests. He wants ta see ya outside," another one said, laughing. "Consider yaselves lucky. This don't happen ta everyone."

Racetrack rolled his eyes and popped in another cigar. "I hope not."

After the morning amusement, the boys retreated down the long flight of stairs to the streets below, where Spot was leaning against a barrel, smiling.

"'Ave a nice sleep, chums?"

Mush smirked. "'Twas excellint, yer honor. 'Specially liked yer wake up call."

"Ya don't get dat everyday." He looked at Race, smoking, and asked, "Ya got anudda onna dose?" pointing to the cigar.

Racetrack frowned an shook his head. "My last," he said, "but I can getcha one by lunch."

Spot nodded. "Ya ready ta sell papes da Brooklyn way?"

Cowboy shrugged, making everyone pause. "Well, dat depends, Spot," he said, calmly, "If it's anything like da wake up, dese boys here might not be able ta handle it." He wrapped his arms around Mush and Race jokingly, and Race made a sad face that would make a cinder block cry. Spot snorted.

"Close, but no cigar," he said, "And, ya betta keep yer promise," he added, pointing at Race, reminding him. Race nodded again. He was good at stealing cigars from the rich men in the boxes at the racetrack, he'd bump into them and make them drop a pen or something and then grab it and run. Something along those lines. A sudden sting made him bend over and roll up his pant leg, tosee the cut from the day before. Bright red and puffy, the cloth was irratating it. He rolled the pants back down and tried to ignore it. Nothing he could do now.

'Is everything crappy in Brooklyn?' Mush wondered, as they neared the paper distribution center, where there was already a line the size of Texas. Rotting fruit lay all over the ground, and memories filled each of their heads from the day when Crutchy had been arrested. Rotten fruit being flung about. Ahh, those were the days...

The walls were covered in dried egg and the paint was chipped and cracked and peeled. Rats scurried bout, collecting anything they could find, and somewhere they were probably having a feast. The smell of low tide burned at the group's noses, and a fog from the bay hung thickly in the air like a cloud.

Jack got in line, but not after Spot pushed his way to the front, just because he could do that. No one bothered to say anything against him, but actually greeted him, which wasn't that big of a deal to Spot, but to Mush, it was amazing. Remarks flew from the newsies like sparks from flint.

"Ay, Spot."

"How ya doin', Spotty?"

"Look who it is..."

'Spot!"

"I'll be damned, if ain't da king."

"Yeah Brooklyn!"

Spot turned around. "Yeah Brooklyn!" he responded, causing a cheer of 'Yeah Brooklyn!"'s from the crowd. He turned around again to face the manager of the paper distribution and slapped down some quarters.

"100," he demanded nonchalantly. The crowd cheered again, but not before Racetrack felt a rough hand on his shoulder and was spun around to see a face sneering at him.

"Spot, who's dis?" he asked. Spot looked over his shoulder, waiting for his papes.

"Dat," he said casually, pulling Race away from the ugly newsie, "Is my guest from 'hatten, Racetrack. An' if ya know what's good fer ya, ya should treat 'im with respect, him an' all da otha ones." He motioned to Jack and Mush.

"Dey're from 'hatten, dey're trash."

The whole crowd stopped. No one moved. Jack's fist clenched. And Mush sounded grave as he said, "Trash, eh? We's don't seem ta be swimmin' in "

Spot put his hand over his mouth and said, 'Dontcha say anythin'. Only someone from Brooklyn can 'sult someone from Brooklyn. Ya say one word and dese boys will be all over ya."

He stepped foward. "Seems like you don't got respect faw my friends here, Curly," he said, matching him eye to eye, although Spot was shorter. "That's sayin' somethin' ta me. That's sayin' ya don't have respect faw me."

There was another deadly silence. "Ya know what dat means?" Spot whispered, hand resting on the walking stick. His thumb traced over scratches he had made on it.

Curlylooked at Spot, with something between fear, anger and hatred. You simply cannot go against the King of Brooklyn when he and his little army are standing right there and ready to fight. A death sentence. So he did the only thing he could do, and tipped his hat.

"Yer guests are my guests."

"Back o' da line, Curly."

Brace bit his tongue as he walked to the back of the line, humiliated. 'But it wouldn't last long,' he told himself, trying to ignore the snickering and the funny looks from Spot's minions. No one embarrassed him like that. Not even someone who was allowed to.

He knew Spot had a night fear, or once did. He was three years older and Spot was just a child when he had come in, only about eight or nine. He could remember having to keep the light on for the stupid kid under bunk two because he couldn't sleep on his own. He wasn't sure if he had grown out of that fear or not, but it was worth giving it a shot. He knew that Spot had just had a mini-rumble with the critics and the Delancey brothers and won.

And he knew that the door was never locked.