Alrighty, chapter two! I have currently decided, that after I publish one chapter, I must immediately start writing the next. So, without further ado, here is the next chapter!
Disclaimer: *sigh* I don't own anything except some random OC's, but other than that, everything else is not mine.
"It all started in the year of eighteen-ninety nine," Spot started, Ponyboy sitting on the couch across from him, listening intently, Sodapop listening from the kitchen, scouring the pantry for food, Darry leaning against the counter, listening and watching their grandfather, "During the time there were kids, poor orphans and runaways, called newsboys. But since girls joined the ranks we just changed it to newsies. On every corner, we'd each have a stack of newspapers, ranging from thirty papes to a hundred. You'se could tell who was a newsie and who was a scab by the color of your hands. If you was a real newsie, yer hands were almost pitch black from the ink," Spot lifted his hands up, and sure enough, after all these years, they were still a bit black, now a fine, grey color.
"Scabs was the kids who thought they could be like us. But that's not until later. In eighteen-ninety nine the price rose because of the war. But after the war, price didn't go down," he looked between his grandchildren, all of them listening intently, "So, down in 'Hattan, me friend Cowboy proposed a strike, a strike that-" he was interrupted by the door flying open, with Two-Bit and Steve came laughing in. Spot narrowed his eyes. "Who's da graftahs?" he asked, his Brooklyn accent thick in his words.
Two-Bit plopped down on the couch next to Ponyboy, asking jokingly, "Who's the old timer hm? I thought you was too old for a babysitter Pony." Spot narrowed his eyes.
"I'se their grandfather, ya little dip-s**t," he said before Pony, Soda or Darry could say anything, "and if ye call me old timer again, I'll beat your arse to a pulp." Two-Bit shut up, Steve asked Sodapop what was going on, and he explained, catching Steve and Two-Bit up to date. After that, he told Spot,
"Continue your story, I wanna know 'bout Cowboy. Was he an actual cowboy?"
Spot smirked, "Cowboy was a liar, but a leader. No real cowboy, anyway, as I was sayin', before those two scabs over there interrupted," he jerked his head over to where Two-Bit was sitting, and then over to Steve who was standing next to Soda, "Cowboy proposed a strike that would lower the price back for us. Of course, it wasn't his idea first. Da Walkin' Mouth, Davey, was the one who decided. Cowboy just knew how ta word it right. Anyways, da newsies united, and a reporter named Denton reported it for us in the New York Sun. I'se didn't come into Cowboy's strike until he came askin' for me help."
"Wait," Steve interjected, "You weren't with this Cowboy fella when it started?"
Spot replied sarcastically, "Oh thanks for pointin' dat tidbit out or me Sherlock, what'd it take ya ta figure it out, a magnifying glass? Now lemme finish," he cleared his voice, "I'se was leader of New York's toughest borough, Brooklyn. The reason I knew all dis was cause I had me 'boidies.' They'se was me ears and eyes of the state. Your grandmother was one of da best, we'se called her Doll. She's da one who told me. So, Cowboy, da Mouth, and another newsie, Boots, little brown boy, came to da docks where me men and I hung around after sellin'."
"Like how Steve and I hang out around the DX?" Sodapop asked.
Spot was silent. After a few seconds, he stated, "What the hell is a god damn DX. I passed at least five of them while walkin' here, and I got no clue why the hell you'd name some place DX. Don't make sense." Everyone but Darry stifled a laughter.
Darry asked seriously, "You walked all the way here? You should have called me I woulda picked you up from the train."
"Cars are for quitters," Spot stated, just as serious as Darry, "If ya got two legs, ya use them. Now what the hell is a god damn DX?" by now Spot was getting impatient. Even after all the decades that had passed, including a century, he was still as impatient as ever.
"A DX," Sodapop, holding back laughter, "Is a gas station for cars. Steve and I work there."
"Thanks, now as I was sayin' before I finally found out what a freaking DX is," Spot started again, "Cowboy, Mouth and Boots came up ta me and asked for help. Back then, even now, I'se known as da king of New York, cause if I'se wanted ta, I could of taken all da boroughs as me own. I ruled with an iron fist, and hearing about this strike was gonna affect me. So, I'se told dem dat they had ta show me that they had what it took ta win."
Now all five boys were interested in what the old man had to say. For once, history was interesting. This old man, this king, had been tough, and still was. He had been the ruler of all of New York, and probably still was, in a way. There was a knock on the door. Getting up, Pony answered the door to find Johnny and Dally. "Hey Pony," Johnny said, looking around, shaking a little, "Can we come in? Don't wanna go home." He nodded, letting his friend and Dally in. They looked at Spot when they entered the room. Spot had a leg crossed, hands folded together and his cane at his side. He looked like someone who'd get up and beat your heart out in a second. Dally raised an eyebrow.
Spot grunted, "Why the hell do your friends always interrupt when I'm talkin'? Someone get me a cig, I'se need one."
"Spot you can't smoke in here," Darry said sternly, as if talking to someone younger than him, "And for your information their names are Johnny and Dallas."
He leaned forward, studying Johnny and Dally, "Hm…" he got up, circling the two. Johnny looked nervous, while Dally put on an agitated look. Circling them, he said, "The shrimp's a wimp, he'd belong in 'Hattan, your buddy Dallas… I'se seen 'im before. Ye think yer all dat don't cha?" he asked, walking in front of Dally, pointing the tip of his cane at him, "Ye think yer all tough cause ye were part of a gang down in Queens, and that ye'd been in fights where ya always won. Yer worse than a scab. You'se a jackass; all bark, no bite and full of s**t."
Dally looked down at the old man, "Who the hell are you, thinkin' ya can talk to me like dat, gramps," he emphasized the word gramps, as if taunting the old man. Before he could even blink Spot had punched Dally in the jaw, hearing a slight crack. Stumbling back, he held his jaw, running his tongue over his teeth to see if they were still there. They were, but his mouth was bleeding pretty bad.
"Me?" Spot said, narrowing his eyes, smirking at Dally, a cold, cruel, 'I just beat you without trying' smirk, "I'se Spot Conlon ya little s**t."
