Slow, sleazy music played in the background of a dark, devious Irish pub in Brooklyn. Men with beautiful locks of red hair grinned at each other in foolish manners as they threw their large mugs together in celebration.

"Aye! Aye!" They shouted in drunken tones over the ruckus of the room. "Maddie Malone" was being sung by a man in the back of the room, his deep voice cutting through the individual conversations.

"Ye girl will make me happy, eh?" A man with thick, blond curls asked a girl who walked past him with a tray. Her full bust spilled out of her tight corset, and her big green eyes sparkled dully as she frowned at the man.

"I wouldn't die foah ye's comp'ny. Nor do I need it!" With that she scattered away before he could change her mind; forcefully. The blond drunk giggled to himself before downing another whisky.

There were boys of all shapes in sizes, ages to boot, cigars hanging out of their mouths, and hats placed on top of hair that was oily from neglect. Their still growing faces were disfigured from the coal dust and mud that caked it. And yet their voices were chipper as they passed around the beer, the smokes, and their lives. Many were not over the age of 14. Some had even been to the bed with a woman. A few were lucky enough to have jobs, and money in their pockets. And yet, most of them were poor, street trash who had not a penny to their disgraceful names.

"An' dis is what I get? Eh? Foah bein' a good man! I get pain! I get... beer!" An upset drunk howled from his place on the floor. He sat in a puddle of his own waste.

"Shut your bloody hole, man!" Came the cry from a 12 year old boy. His face was hidden by a stack of cards that he was playing on. His supposed "lucky" hand would give him enough money to feast on candy and cigars for the rest of his life.

The bawling, drunk man whimpered lightly before passing out on the floor, his face covered in his regurgitation. No one seemed to notice.

A young man of 18 sat at a booth, staring glumly at his untouched mug. A stack of newspapers sat beside him as poor company.

"You goin' ta finish dat, mate?" A large, rude, man asked him as he pointed to the mug.

The younger of the two nodded lightly, his square chin bobbing up and down in a slow manner. The large man grumbled obscenities in his native tongue before stomping away to find a sucker to buy him a drink. His woman had just given birth to a bastard child, (which just so happened to be his brother's) and he needed liquor. He would teach her who was boss.

The young man sighed inwardly as he turned back to his drink. Absentmindedly, he ran a large and ink covered hand over his stack of World papers. It seemed second nature to him. He spent most of his time in some various pub, staring at a drink as if he knew he was supposed to drink it. The remainder of his time he spent drinking, or in bed with a dirty woman who slept as he took what he thought he wanted. The truth was simply that he didn't know what he wanted.

As he looked around him, his cool, blue eyes roaming around the dark room, he took in the faces. Men who were sloppy drunk, screaming profanities to each other. Other men who kept their hands attached to a women's hips or sides. Young boys, not old enough to be away from their mothers, gambling their money away. And this was life. Not only life, but LIFE as they knew it. New York city was a trap. A trap of dreams... a spider web for dreamers.

"Snoddy! Got a quartah?" A strange, deep voice of an adolescent asked the young man from beside his elbow.

"Yeah." Snoddy reached into his worn pant's pocket and pulled out an old quarter, that had lost it’s shininess long ago. He looked up into the face of his friend, Snipeshooter, who wasn't but 11 years old. The boy smirked as he held the quarter up to his hazel eyes to examine it. Then with a grin to his older friend, he scampered off to his marble game that he had much money bet on. Snoddy tilted his head in thought. He had changed that quarter almost a year ago, out of 25 pennies that he had received when selling one day. He kept it in his pocket that long for the sheer reason that it gave him comfort. It had seemed right to give it to Snipes.

He had met Snipes long ago, when the lost nine year old was but a poor boy on the streets. Cold and hungry, abandoned and hopeless. He was pure American; his parents immigrants from Germany. Soon enough, Snoddy had taken him to the lodging house, where him and his friends lived, and made a newsie out of the gutter snipe.

In a way, the city had ordered the boy to be hung and Snoddy had tied the knot. Sure, the newsie business was one of freedom. You could roam the dirty slums of Queens, or the Bronx, and pretend it was made of gold. So many boys pretended the mud was a delicacy of candy, and other luxurious foods, like their parents told them before they came to America. Just when they thought they were out of the sewers, more water just came on them. The city had hope, though. Much hope for all who were young at heart. Yet again it was one of pure...

Grimly, Snoddy pounded a strong fist on the table in front of him. Lowness. That was it. If you lived in New York City, you were either rich and prosperous, or poor and low. As Jake had said one time to him, "Damn it all. We can fight and we'se only gonna get pushed back more. Damn it and drink up." Jake had been Snoddy's first newsie friend, a few years younger than himself. His big brown eyes were full of defeat, yet he covered them with joy for his own sake. He was a good boy who believed in dreams, and golden streets, puddles of candy rather than mud, and the smells of rich and luxurious foods all around him. Walking down the street, you would find Jake laughing richly as he twirled his bowler in his hands, leaping and dancing about on his golden streets. Snoddy thought it was wonderful to have hope, like Jake did.

"Drink it up," Jake had said to Snoddy that one day as he shoved a flask at him. "Whats else dere ta do? Sides sellin'. And dat only gets ya pain." That night Snoddy and Jake traveled into Queens and got sloppy. Jake was almost killed in a knife fight. He didn’t twirl and leap in the streets anymore.

Snoddy’s life seemed to be on a whirl... spinning. Jack was gone. Kloppman had died. Even David, the Walking Mouth, had left for college. He knew he could end up better than his friends. And yet, in another way, he wanted to be like them. The Unfortunates.

"We'se so unfortunate, dat we'se got our own group name!" Racetrack joked one night, after a rich woman had gracefully chucked a penny at the small Italian.

"Bless you unfortunate children. May God love and protect you." She had muttered before hurrying off towards her coach. No matter how nice she displayed herself to be, there was still a tad amount of fright in the corners of her mind as she turned her long, slender back towards the dirty boys.

Race looked towards Skittery and Snoddy, who were with him on that night, and snorted. "Getcha gun!! Quick, b’foah she gets away!" He screamed through his cupped hand. They had a big laugh as the woman whimpered and leaped into the coach, ordering the driver to "take her away from this filth".

"See ya ‘round, sweet thing!" Skittery had called after her with a grin standing out on his slender face. Race and him took turns blowing kisses at the departing coaches. Then as a grand finale, Skittery threw a large hunk of horse manure through the open window, right into the woman’s lap. She shrieked, and just as soon, she was gone. Snoddy congratulated Skittery, his friend, by buying him a keg that night. He was older than Snoddy by a month, and he would be dead before his 18th birthday.

Snoddy closed his eyes for a moment. Bloody papers on the wall... it had all ended so quickly. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to think about it. He wouldn't.

“Drink it up,” Jake’s echo filtered through Snoddy’s tired mind as images sweltered behind his closed eyelids.

“Snoddy, baby, come to bed...” A soft, alluring voice beckoned from the cot. The “flavah of da week”, as Kid Blink called it, was lying on her stomach, smiling at Snoddy as he looked through the window and onto the street below. They were in her husband’s apartment in the Bronx, and Snoddy was highly drunk. He swayed back in forth as he tried to concentrate on the wagons rolling below him.

Scenes like this, which took place months ago, happened all the time. Snoddy got drunk, blacked out, and all of a sudden saw himself in a girl’s building or in a dark alley with rats crawling around his naked body.

“Sucha low cost ta pay foah da action, right, Snoddy??” Kid Blink had mentioned to him one night at the lodging house. The thin blond elbowed Snoddy as he grinned, his blue eye sparkling next to his brown eye patch that covered the other one. “Trust me. LOW cost.”

Night after night, Blink, Snoddy, and a few various others would walk the streets to find them some action. Some flavor. And they found it. One night the women were so enticed with Snoddy and his newsie friends, that they had a little party in a alley next to the lodging house. Kloppman forbid any women friends inside. Snoddy awoke the next morning to a prostitute, throwing up on his naked chest.

When it came to drugs, the newsies had it made.

“C’mon, try dis one!” Snitch ventured with a lopsided grin. “You’se gonna like it... bettah den da pills I had last week, I sweah.” He pushed a small sack of pills towards Snoddy. After a night in the washroom, turning green and feeling as if his insides were falling out, Snoddy decided that pills were not for him.

It was at night when the drugs were best, so much like it’s companion, beer. Pie Eater, tall and well built, would hold a tin can of God-knows-what in one hand, and a beer in another, and mix them together. Whoever would drink it, would win a dime. That game stopped after a few tries, when Boots almost choked on his own tongue when he mixed whisky with the pills.

“Drink it up! Drink it up!” Jake would bellow in Snoddy’s ear as he guzzled down his drinks. Drinks came and they went so slow. Just as soon as one was done, another appeared in it’s place.

The days were occupied with selling, while the nights were free to the young men.

Sometimes, Brooklyn himself would come to Manhattan to gamble. Spot Conlon seemed to bring danger in his midst, as a fight always broke out over the cards, and someone always ended up with a bloody nose. And Brooklyn reigned over all. He liked it that way.

The childish, and joker Mush would spend his nights in Irving Hall, chasing after one of the performing girls. After a girl and him were caught on the balcony in a rather odd situation, he was banned for a month. He spent that month tagging behind Snoddy as he made his way to the whore houses. Mush became a regular visitor.

“Va aqui, nino... Calypso take good care of you!” A Puerto Rican called after Snoddy one night. He must have remembered the beautiful face of her, for when he saw her dead body three days later, it hit him with surprise. She was so pretty, with her curly, black hair falling over her hazel eyes. Most of her olive skin was covered with dried blood. Mush had been her last paying customer.

Drinks, and more drinks. Snoddy was all too happy to drain them for himself. Pain entered his life as Jake was slashed that one night. And not a week after that, Skittery was dead.

“But... but why!? WHY!?” Snoddy crept into the bunk room one night to see Dutchy, his blond hair spilling around his pale head, wailing on Skittery’s empty bunk. They had been lovers for a month.

Skittery’s death was a surprise to the newsies. Even Bumlets said, durring a short visit to church: “Life seemed so safe. Like da beer was perservin’ our blood or somethin.’” Snoddy had accompanied Bumlets to the church. Even though the quiet Hispanic hadn’t been inside a church for years, the activity was still fresh in his mind. His rosary that his mother made him was clasped in his hands as he prayed for his deceased friend. Snoddy watched silently, never being in a real church before.

Life seemed to slow down all of a sudden... and then everything ceased to exist.

“Snoddy, lighten up. Deres always moah good to be had!” Itey exclaimed one night as Snoddy lie on his bunk, dreaming. The small boy with curling black hair smiled down at his friend. “C’mon, I know a good piece of women would love ta have ya tonight. What do ya say?” A dirty, slightly dark hand was shoved in front of Snoddy’s face as Itey offered it to him. And then he gave up and crept out for a night of women and booze.

Snoddy’s eyes were burning with bitter tears. When did it all stop? Certainly the world was still the same. Maybe it was him that had changed.

“You okay, Snoddy?” Snipes asked as he suddenly re-appeared next to his friend. His big eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the dreamy look on his face.

“Snipes,” Snoddy began, “You evah think of us as The Unfortunates?”

Snipeshooter’s left eyebrow went up. The question was that sudden. “What do ya mean?” He asked cautiously. Snoddy was acting odd all of a sudden. What happened to the beer guzzling, partying, woman lover that he had once been?

“D’ya evah look at a street and see gold, when ya know it’s nothin’ but a dirty street?” This question was hushed. Snoddy wrapped his hands around his now warm beer, feeling the condensed water cover his skin. Snipes smiled. Snoddy was turning into Kloppman.

“Shoah, why not.” Snipes said as she shrugged his small shoulders.

“You evah think we was born beaten?” Came the next question.

Snipes thought over this, cynically, for a moment. When he opened his mouth to answer, a shine of brightness came into his eyes. “Da way I see it, we’se beat when we admit it. Look at da drunks back dere,” he pointed to the remaining men who were either passed out or drinking the remaining beer that fellows had left behind. “Dey’se beat ‘cause dey gave in. But ya know what? We don’t ‘ave ta be unfortunate! ‘Cause we’se newsies! One day we’se gonna be out dere in da woild... sellin’ papes, improvin’ headlines, and bein’ superior to all dat is out dere! An’ da woild will know!” He finished his speech with a flourish of hands, that he threw over his head.

Snoddy pondered for a moment. A line on his forehead creased as he carefully went over all that his young friend had said. And then his face broke into a smile. “Yeah. Dey will.”

A few minutes later, Snipes and Snoddy left the pub in Brooklyn, walking together on the street of gold, stepping over puddles of candy, smelling the smells of rich food, and content that they were alive. And they were not unfortunate for that.