I was at Girl's Camp for almost a week, so I did not have time to write. There were no electronics at all at camp. It was so much fun, though! And I typed this up listening to episodes of Bill Cosby going on, and I was laughing so much. Ha! Anyway, thanks to leah61909, who actually reviewed. I heart you! You are epic! And I'm sorry if this chapter is a bit confusing. I didn't know what I was writing at some points. My original paper copy is covered all over in question marks! I kid you not! Now, on with the story!

XxX

It's good to be king, Spot Conlon thought as he perched on top of the "throne" of Brooklyn. From here, he felt he could miss absolutely nothing going on in the city of New York. From there, he see from the tops of skyscrapers to the alleys where a group of scabs were soaking some kid to the market on the east to the…hold on, that wasn't just some kid. Spot's eyes narrowed. That was Trigger Fire, his youngest charge, and he was calling for help.

Sheesh, what did the kid do to upset seven scabs? He shook his head. He simply dropped down to docks and set off at a brisk walk, taking large strides. He came up behind the scabs.

"All righ', all righ', break it up," Spot drawled. "Why dontchya pick on someone ya own soize?"

The scab who had his fist drawn back to hit Trigger turned around leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. "Can't believe ya fell foah dat, Conlon."

Spot's fist clenched involuntarily as he recognized a face he had not seen for eight years. "Sneers," he spat.

Sneers, a huge sneer plastered on his face (I mean, it's not like his named for smiling, is he?), said, "Yeah, is me, Conlon."

He slowly took a couple steps forward. "Is been a long time, no see. As ya can see, I moved up in da woild."

Spot recognized all of the newsies as ones he had met in Harlem. Most of them were large goons with brains the size of peas.

Sneers decided to taunt Spot even further. "But you'se, well, you'se still scrawny."

Spot had always hated that name that Sneers had given him. Sneers had called him Scrawny when he had beaten Spot until Racetrack ratted him out.

When Brooklyn's leader back then, Sergeant, had found out, he had kicked out Sneers. Rumor had it (mostly contributing from Racetrack) that he had gone to Harlem. Nothing had been pulled during the strike, so all was well.

"Maybe, but I'se woik in Brooklyn. Da hardest place to woik. You'se from Harlem, a place where only snivelin' cowards can sell."

Sneers pressed his tall, powerfully-built body against Spot's considerably smaller and thinner one. "Oh, yeah?" he snarled, before Spot shoved him away. He snapped his fingers and the scab Spot recognized as Gills dropped Trigger, who just sat there, staring, as blood ran down his chin from his split lip.

The group of scabs closed in on Spot, and he looked around, weighing his odds. He then cleared his throat and gave the most profound counsel he has ever given to any one.

"Triggah," he advised. "Run foah it." As Gills lunged at Spot, Trigger scrambled out of the alley. Almost of its own accord, not unlike another extension of his body, Spot's cane lashed out and Gills went down heavily. Spot glared at the group. "Who else wan's a taste o' me cane?"

Not surprisingly, Sneers barreled forward. As he did, he pulled out a long knife. One of the Harlem boys tackled Spot, and did an awkward piggyback ride as Spot tried to throw his off. Scrubbers, the one who tackled Spot, grabbed his arm and twisted it back as far as it would go. They both went down. Scrubbers yanked Spot to his feet roughly. Sneers started soaking Spot, literally, in Spot's own blood, as the knife started cutting him. By the time he was done, Spot had nearly passed out from blood loss. Just like Racetrack, he thought rather hazily. Racetrack had nearly been dead when Manhattan found him again. He grit his teeth as the pain coursed up and down his body. Spot's legs finally were the last thing to be ravaged as he went down as Sneers kicked his feet out from under him. This may not seem to have much impact but Spot just about broke his ankles on the cobblestone. He spat some blood onto the pavement as he glared at Sneers. Scrubbers dragged Spot up, and he was surprised that the "king" had given up so easily.

Sneers grinned as he walked up to Spot. "We'se gettin' Brooklyn foist," he whispered in Spot's ear. "Den, it's Manhattan. An' dere ain't nuttin' ya can do ta stop it." Sneers brought down the handle of the knife on the back of Spot's head. Spot's eyes widened ever so slightly, then he finally seemed to give up, and went slack. Scrubbers dropped him on the side of the alley and stuffed a paper with a message on it into Spot's hand.

Sneers allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He glanced back at the unconscious and bloody –ahem, former- king of Brooklyn, and then walked back out into the sunlight.

It's good to be king.