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EXPECTATIONS
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@askkingofbrooklyn
Name's Spot Conlon. Brooklyn born and bred, and I ain't leavin'. The Brooklyn boys and girls is family, and that's how it is.
Relationships:
@askalbie - We's together, and he's allowed in here 'cause I say so.
@ask-hotshot Sister ((OOC: I think?))
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
*He's listening patiently.*
It ain't nothin'.
It's clearly somethin'.
It's not good to keep hard things to yourself. Let me help carry the load?
Ya ain't seen a woman 'round, have ya?
No, why?
Lost her son.
Sorry for her.
He ain't dead.
He ain't?
No. He ain't.
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
*He's listening patiently.*
It ain't nothin'.
It's clearly somethin'.
It's not good to keep hard things to yourself. Let me help carry the load?
Ya ain't seen a woman 'round, have ya?
No, why?
Lost her son.
Sorry for her.
He ain't dead.
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
*He's listening patiently.*
It ain't nothin'.
It's clearly somethin'.
It's not good to keep hard things to yourself. Let me help carry the load?
Ya ain't seen a woman 'round, have ya?
No, why?
Lost her son.
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
*He's listening patiently.*
It ain't nothin'.
It's clearly somethin'.
It's not good to keep hard things to yourself. Let me help carry the load?
Ya ain't seen a woman 'round, have ya?
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
*He's listening patiently.*
It ain't nothin'.
It's clearly somethin'.
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
*He's listening patiently.*
It ain't nothin'.
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
*Crutchie frowns, worried.*
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
What's eatin' ya? I promise I won't tell.
*He holds out his pinky finger to Spot, a childish but sincere gesture.*
*He's tense, unmoving.*
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
Anythin' I can do to help?
*Something to his tone says that he's not leaving until Spot feels better *
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Okay.
*He takes his hand off.*
*He looks away.*
*One evening in the lodging house, there's someone up on the roof, it looks like Spot.* Well if it ain't Jack Kelly.
( @askkingofbrooklyn)
*Jack's expression darkens.*
What da hell are you doin' here?
Sittin'.
Yeah? Well what gives ya the right to be sittin' on my roof in my turf?
What, this roof got ya name on it?
If it does, it clearly ain't "Spot Conlon."
Don't see it sayin' Jack Kelly nowhere either.
( @askk-jackkelly)
*Jack points at a supporting pole where he and Crutchie signed their names.*
Fancy.
Now why da hell are you here?
*He spits.*
I wanna be.
So what, that give ya the right t' come into our turf with no words? Gee, Spot, no manners.
*Jack says the name like it's venom in his mouth.*
Ya one to talk.
*Jack scoffs.*
Ain't ya supposed t'be in Brooklyn with yer boyfriend?
My boyfriend ain't my boyfriend no more.
You break up with Albert?
*He seems suprised.*
No, he break up with me! Kinda.
*Jack makes a low whistle, somewhat amused.*
Jeez.
Why do ya care?
Who says I did? 'Least Albie's gonna stay back in Manhattan where he was meant t'.
Tell your other fellas to do the same.
They in Brooklyn?
One o' 'em.
Who?
Guess, why don't ya?
Race? Specs? Hell, I dunno, Tommy boy?
Yes, no, no.
What's he doin' there?
Ain't that kinda in the name?
Why ya got a problem with it, huh?
He ain't interuptin' sellin', he ain't startin' fights with your boys.
Got a problem with it 'cause I got a problem with it.
Ya got a problem with everythin'.
No, just things I ain't likin'.
Get out the lodgin' house.
I'm not in the lodgin' house.
Smartass. Youse on top o' it.
Yeah. That's what they's callin' it when ya go upstaiys like this.
Ya got a problem?
*Jack steps closer.*
What if I do?
*Jack spits on the ground.*
Then we settle it.
How we gonna settle it, huh?
Well, dat depends, you wanna be civil? Have some manners for once in your life?
I got plenty o' manners.
*Jack scowls.*
Then use 'em, Spot.
They just ain't good.
What's yer problem?
Ya is.
( @askk-jackkelly)
Da hell did I do, huh?
Ya is up here.
Yeah, I'm up here. Dis is my roof.
Ya wanna be alone on a roof, go to da Brooklyn lodgin' house. Climb up to da roof. Ya wanna settle this or nah?
Yeah I wanna settle it.
*Jack rolls up his sleeves, face and voice cold.*
Ya wanna do the kind way or da old way? Ya civil way or nah?
Ya think I wanna be civil? Nah, we's settling this da good old way.
Fine.
C'mon Kelly, what ya waitin' for?
*Jack rolls up his sleeve and soaks him in the nose.*
*He stumbles backwards, but manages to punch back.*
Whats yer deal, huh? Showin' up uninvited t' Manhattan just t' fight
*He punches him in his eye.*
I go where I wanna go.
*He aims a punch right at Jack's jaw, mostly ignoring his own pain.*
*Jack stumbles back, adrenaline pulsating throughout him.*
You just sad yer little boyfriend broke up with ya?
Yeah I got feelin's!
*Jack punches him on the side of his head.*
*He stumbles.*
Yer pathetic.
*He spits.*
That's comin' from ya, is it?
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
*He tentatively puts a hand on Spot's shoulder, ready to just be there for him.*
Don't touch me.
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
I'm listenin'.
*He shakes his head.*
Heya Spot. Heard you been actin' off, what's on your mind?
( @ask-crutchie )
Why are ya askin'? It ain't your problem, is it?
Thought I might just check in on ya. Everythin' alright?
Ya can tell Race it ain't nothin' ta worry 'bout.
I'm worried, Spot.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're friends, right? Friends care about each other.
Don't wanna talk 'bout it.
I'm here if ya change your mind.
Ain't gonna.
Okay. It's good to talk about it sometimes, though.
'm good.
Alright.
Go 'way.
C'mon, Spot. I promise I won't tell anyone.
I told you to go away.
What, ya gonna soak me? I ain't afraid of ya.
Yeah.
*Crutchie snorts.*
C'mon.
Don't feel like it.
Why?
'Cuz.
Why are ya afraid of tellin' me? I'm trustworthy.
Ya will go ta Race, ain't ya gonna do that?
I promise I won't tell him.
Still ain't gonna tell.
But why.
Can't a fella have a bad day?
Sounds more like a bad week. Or month, or however long you been feelin' like this.
Yeah, an'?
An' I wanna know what's wrong.
Go bother someone else, will ya?
( @crutchie-offical)
But I got no one else ta bother!
Don't bother me.
But I wanna know what's wrong.
Nothin'.
Then why're ya gettin' so defensive?
It ain't your business.
I'll go away if ya tell me.
I ain't gonna.
Then I ain't gonna leave ya alone.
Ya will. I got fellas workin' for me.
Who, Hotshot? York? They wouldn't beat up a poor kid with a bum leg.
*He's being sarcastic, laying it on thick*
York ain't carin'. He will.
Right.
He ain't afraid o' doin' that.
Whatever ya wanna tell yerself.
I ain't tellin' myself nothing.
Ain't tellin' me nothin' either.
Why would I?
'Cause I'm trustworthy. An' I won't leave 'till ya tell me.
*He shakes his head.* Go away.
*Crutchie just sits there, raising an eyebrow at Spot.*
Get out.
*He crosses his arms.* Make me.
I. Don't. Wanna. Talk. 'Bout. It.
Might make ya feel better to tell someone.
Come on.
Ya really ain't gonna quit, are ya?
Nope.
... Why?
Mostly 'cause I wanna find a way to help, but also 'cause I'm nosy.
You're gettin' on my nerves.
Great.
Get outta here.
Make me.
*He gets up, very close to Crutchie.* Get. Out.
You wouldn't hit a kid with a bum leg. Don't wanna get on Jack's bad side, wouldja?
Ain't my problem.
Ain't it? Your funeral.
I can blame someone.
He wouldn't believe ya. So take another step closer and see what happens.
*He steps closer.*
Sure you wouldn't rather tell me?
*Crutchie's clearly sizing Spot up, getting a feel for how gutsy he actually is.*
No, I ain't tellin'.
Fine then.
( @askkingofbrooklyn )
*He tries to hit him.*
*Crutchie dodges, just barely.*
*He tries again, but it's halfhearted, and looks like it's a lot of effort.*
*Crutchie steps back, getting concerned for Spot.*
You're sure you don't wanna talk 'bout it?
Don't have ta.
I'm tellin' ya, it might make ya feel better.
*He just looks at him.*
*One evening in the lodging house, there's someone up on the roof, it looks like Spot.* Well if it ain't Jack Kelly.
( @askkingofbrooklyn)
*Jack's expression darkens.*
What da hell are you doin' here?
Sittin'.
Yeah? Well what gives ya the right to be sittin' on my roof in my turf?
What, this roof got ya name on it?
If it does, it clearly ain't "Spot Conlon."
Don't see it sayin' Jack Kelly nowhere either.
( @askk-jackkelly)
*Jack points at a supporting pole where he and Crutchie signed their names.*
Fancy.
Now why da hell are you here?
*He spits.*
I wanna be.
So what, that give ya the right t' come into our turf with no words? Gee, Spot, no manners.
*Jack says the name like it's venom in his mouth.*
Ya one to talk.
*Jack scoffs.*
Ain't ya supposed t'be in Brooklyn with yer boyfriend?
My boyfriend ain't my boyfriend no more.
You break up with Albert?
*He seems suprised.*
No, he break up with me! Kinda.
*Jack makes a low whistle, somewhat amused.*
Jeez.
Why do ya care?
Who says I did? 'Least Albie's gonna stay back in Manhattan where he was meant t'.
Tell your other fellas to do the same.
They in Brooklyn?
One o' 'em.
Who?
Guess, why don't ya?
Race? Specs? Hell, I dunno, Tommy boy?
Yes, no, no.
What's he doin' there?
Ain't that kinda in the name?
Why ya got a problem with it, huh?
He ain't interuptin' sellin', he ain't startin' fights with your boys.
Got a problem with it 'cause I got a problem with it.
Ya got a problem with everythin'.
No, just things I ain't likin'.
Get out the lodgin' house.
I'm not in the lodgin' house.
Smartass. Youse on top o' it.
Yeah. That's what they's callin' it when ya go upstaiys like this.
Ya got a problem?
*Jack steps closer.*
What if I do?
*Jack spits on the ground.*
Then we settle it.
How we gonna settle it, huh?
Well, dat depends, you wanna be civil? Have some manners for once in your life?
I got plenty o' manners.
*Jack scowls.*
Then use 'em, Spot.
They just ain't good.
What's yer problem?
Ya is.
( @askk-jackkelly)
Da hell did I do, huh?
Ya is up here.
Yeah, I'm up here. Dis is my roof.
Ya wanna be alone on a roof, go to da Brooklyn lodgin' house. Climb up to da roof. Ya wanna settle this or nah?
Yeah I wanna settle it.
*Jack rolls up his sleeves, face and voice cold.*
Ya wanna do the kind way or da old way? Ya civil way or nah?
Ya think I wanna be civil? Nah, we's settling this da good old way.
Fine.
C'mon Kelly, what ya waitin' for?
*Jack rolls up his sleeve and soaks him in the nose.*
*He stumbles backwards, but manages to punch back.*
Whats yer deal, huh? Showin' up uninvited t' Manhattan just t' fight
*He punches him in his eye.*
I go where I wanna go.
*He aims a punch right at Jack's jaw, mostly ignoring his own pain.*
*Jack stumbles back, adrenaline pulsating throughout him.*
You just sad yer little boyfriend broke up with ya?
Yeah I got feelin's!
*Jack punches him on the side of his head.*
*He stumbles.*
*One evening in the lodging house, there's someone up on the roof, it looks like Spot.* Well if it ain't Jack Kelly.
( @askkingofbrooklyn)
*Jack's expression darkens.*
What da hell are you doin' here?
Sittin'.
Yeah? Well what gives ya the right to be sittin' on my roof in my turf?
What, this roof got ya name on it?
If it does, it clearly ain't "Spot Conlon."
Don't see it sayin' Jack Kelly nowhere either.
( @askk-jackkelly)
*Jack points at a supporting pole where he and Crutchie signed their names.*
Fancy.
Now why da hell are you here?
*He spits.*
I wanna be.
So what, that give ya the right t' come into our turf with no words? Gee, Spot, no manners.
*Jack says the name like it's venom in his mouth.*
Ya one to talk.
*Jack scoffs.*
Ain't ya supposed t'be in Brooklyn with yer boyfriend?
My boyfriend ain't my boyfriend no more.
You break up with Albert?
*He seems suprised.*
No, he break up with me! Kinda.
*Jack makes a low whistle, somewhat amused.*
Jeez.
Why do ya care?
Who says I did? 'Least Albie's gonna stay back in Manhattan where he was meant t'.
Tell your other fellas to do the same.
They in Brooklyn?
One o' 'em.
Who?
Guess, why don't ya?
Race? Specs? Hell, I dunno, Tommy boy?
Yes, no, no.
What's he doin' there?
Ain't that kinda in the name?
Why ya got a problem with it, huh?
He ain't interuptin' sellin', he ain't startin' fights with your boys.
Got a problem with it 'cause I got a problem with it.
Ya got a problem with everythin'.
No, just things I ain't likin'.
Get out the lodgin' house.
I'm not in the lodgin' house.
Smartass. Youse on top o' it.
Yeah. That's what they's callin' it when ya go upstaiys like this.
Ya got a problem?
*Jack steps closer.*
What if I do?
*Jack spits on the ground.*
Then we settle it.
How we gonna settle it, huh?
Well, dat depends, you wanna be civil? Have some manners for once in your life?
I got plenty o' manners.
*Jack scowls.*
Then use 'em, Spot.
They just ain't good.
What's yer problem?
Ya is.
( @askk-jackkelly)
Da hell did I do, huh?
Ya is up here.
Yeah, I'm up here. Dis is my roof.
Ya wanna be alone on a roof, go to da Brooklyn lodgin' house. Climb up to da roof. Ya wanna settle this or nah?
Yeah I wanna settle it.
*Jack rolls up his sleeves, face and voice cold.*
Ya wanna do the kind way or da old way? Ya civil way or nah?
Ya think I wanna be civil? Nah, we's settling this da good old way.
Fine.
C'mon Kelly, what ya waitin' for?
*Jack rolls up his sleeve and soaks him in the nose.*
*He stumbles backwards, but manages to punch back.*
Whats yer deal, huh? Showin' up uninvited t' Manhattan just t' fight
*He punches him in his eye.*
I go where I wanna go.
*He aims a punch right at Jack's jaw, mostly ignoring his own pain.*
*Jack stumbles back, adrenaline pulsating throughout him.*
You just sad yer little boyfriend broke up with ya?
Yeah I got feelin's!
