The boys for years sold papers. The same ol' hawking headlines and carrying the banner. Until Joseph Pulitzer decided it would be best to raise the newsies prices. The boys took it upon themselves to strike against it just like how the trolley workers fought for equal pay. The face of the strike, Jack Kelly held his head high, his worries only plaguing the back of his mind. Racetrack could tell that his friend wasn't as cocky as he really said.
The first order of business? Get the other boroughs to team up with Manhattan and fight against Pulitzer and Hearst, who only thought of the boys as nothin'. It's hard for a council of people to agree on one thing. But to the surprise of no one every borough agreed on one thing.
They won't strike until Spot Conlon and Brooklyn are on strike.
Well shit. So here Racetrack, Jack, Davey, and Les stood, on the Brooklyn bridge halfway to the other side. Joking and talking all the way there. Les clung onto Race's shoulders, holding his wooden sword high. Race knew Jack had a plan, he always did when it came to Spot and all his cronies. This time they had newbies on the scene. Davey and Les hadn't ever been to Brooklyn. Let alone seen any of Spots boys.
Stepping onto Brooklyn's turf was like stepping into molten lava. Race really wished he went with his first choice, Midtown, instead of feeding himself to the dogs. He decided to distract himself with what he knew best, being annoying. It first started with a few jokes and now, twenty minutes later, Les was now on his shoulders, pretending that Race is his loyal steed. He was fully in character until they stepped onto Brooklyn soil. He gently set Les back down, the younger boy whined as he was set back on the ground.
Race had been to Brooklyn before. More times than he could count on his fingers. Little did Jack and Manhattan know, he'd even made a deal with Spot Conlon himself. He'd sold at the Sheepshead Races, gambled at the Sheepshead. He's only really stepped foot there. But who was Race if he didn't try and antagonize one of Spots boys..
...
May 1899
Walking away from the Sheepshead Races with a pocket full of coins and a grin on his face, Race had bet his money on the winning horse and won! He'd never felt this cocky. In his palm he began counting his winnings, grinning if even possible wider. He was up to fifty cents when he body slammed face first into another body.
"I'm s...sorry.." His apology dragged out as he looked up to see a boy a bit older than him. Except he was muscular and wore a black eyepatch that covered his right eye. The guys chest seemed to puff out as he huffed.
"Watchit' why don't you's?" He spat, Race blinked. "I said sorry, what more ya' want?" Race raised an eyebrow as he popped his cigar in his mouth. With his one visible eye the guy squinted. "Hey.. you's ain't from around here's aren't ya.." he said lowly, Race shrunk in on himself. "Nah.. Nah.. jus' came from the sheepshead. I actually won a bet earli-"
"I's don't care, blue." The guy cut him off, stepping closer to the blonde. Race gulped, he only just noticed how the boy in front of him wore a shredded red flannel. Spot Conlon's turf, Spot Conlon's boys. He was in Brooklyn he reminded himself. Race had only seen Spot's boys from afar before. He'd never been so close to one. The rumors weren't wrong then. Them Brooklyn boys big.
"How do I's know you's aren't jus' sellin' on our turf?" He took another step, Race took a step back. "See any papes on me?" Race smirked as the Brooklyn boy looked dumbfounded for a moment. Race thought about the couple extra pennies that were in his pocket, nothing but a little selling papers and gambling. With a swift movement the blonde was suddenly shoved against a brick wall with a fist balled in his shirt. "Don't play dumb wit' me blue." He snarled. Race winced when his head hit the brick.
"I'm not playing dumb with ya'—"
"Then what tis' in you's pockets?" With his free hand the Brooklyn guy reached his hand in Race's vest pocket, pulling out a pile of assorted coins. "aYE! Those are my winnings you vazey bitch!"
"..you's little—" With a harsh shove Race stumbled back. Race scoffed as he lunged at the guy with full force. This guy wasn't going to just steal his money and get away with it! Race shoved him back as hard as he could. The guy lost his footing slightly. Enough for Race to punch him clean across the face. The Brooklyn boys face whacked to the side, he groaned lowly as he wiggled his jaw. Uh oh. Race's stomach dropped as he took a step back.
"Ah, shit—" The guy with red hot anger shoved Race so hard Race got the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for air as he fell to the ground. That boy had some muscles. He barely lifted a finger and now Race was floor-bound. Without the warning Race wasn't prepared to well y'know fall. The suddenness of it had Race fall and catch himself with his head. It cracked against the pavement. He let out a groan as he rolled onto his back.
"Hey! What tis' goin' on here's, York?" From the alleyway came a voice. The Brooklyn newsboy, whose name must be York whipped his head around, his furrowed brow suddenly raising.
"Boss, I's found blue on our turf." York pointed at the clearly in pain Racetrack, Race slowly lifted his head only for his eyes to widen. Spot Conlon the king of Brooklyn himself stood with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. This hadn't been the first time Spot and Race have spoken. Only this time Race didn't have Jack to back him up.
"Leave m' be, he's one of Jack's boys." Spot demanded, his head lowering. His expression became darker as he looked at York through his brows. He sighed, shoving past York and holding a hand out for Race to grab. Race blinked at the gesture, Spot remained where he stood. The blonde with great caution took Spot's hand, pulling himself up with a cocky grin, brushing himself off.
"A hattan' boy, aye'? What a hattan' boy doin' in Brooklyn without Kelly?"
"Gee Spotty, you sure have some bright ones—" York growled, Race just smirked at him.
"Don't call me that." Spot scowled at the nickname. Silence fell over the three, Race awkwardly rocked on his heels. York and Spot shared a look. Race could have swore it was like they were having a conversation with just their eyes. York sighed and with a bit of reluctance placed Race's earnings back in his open palm.
"Like I said.." He snatched the coins and shoved them back in his pocket. "I was at the sheepshead, no pape sold on ya' turf. Already sold my lot." Race beamed, scratching the back of his head.
"York get outta' here's, I'll deal wit' blue." And like an obedient puppy York nodded and he was off down the street and into a nearby alleyway. Now alone with Spot, Race felt extremely uneasy. "You's too. Git' outta' here. You's don't belong on this side of the bridge." Race was about to respond when he suddenly became aware of the burning headache that stabbed into his skull. He rubbed at the spot that hurt the most. He squeezed his eyes shut, everything felt foggy.
"..heh, well, .." His voice trailed off as his ears began to ring, the pitch making Race's head scream. Everything around him felt like it was spinning, the world around felt empty as the ringing took over his thoughts. With that.. his knees gave out.
YOU ARE READING
Kings Racetrack- A Sprace fanfic
Fanfiction"Stepping onto Brooklyn's turf was like stepping into molten lava. Race really wished he went with his first choice, Midtown, instead of feeding himself to the dogs." "Race had been to Brooklyn before. More times than he could count on his fingers...
