There's a fine line between fact and fiction. Over the years the story of Spot Conlon's life and death was glorified and twisted in such a way that even the few who were really there couldn't pick out the truth from the amusing lies.

Often at night he used to dream of his death. Sometimes he was drowned in the river beneath the docks at which he spent his summers. He would wake up with his blanket twisted around him, gasping for breath.

Other times he bled, his life slowly pouring out onto the street. It stained his hands and his clothes, but was gone when he awoke.

So how did he really leave this world? Ask any boy in Brooklyn and he'll tell you that Spot Conlon fell with his head held high, as if he was defying his own death. That's a lie. All of it is a lie.

Spot hated pain. (There actually wasn't much that he didn't hate.) Every scar told a story, but failed to tell the secret ending: he wasn't invincible.

She would trace his scars with her finger as he kissed her, beautiful and naked in the dark. An ugly pink line was drawn from his heart to his liver. It had almost killed him, but only almost. It hadn't been his time yet.

There were others as well: a cigarette burn in the center of his palm, a perfect circle from a bullet in the back of his thigh, and a thin white line under his chin that he'd gotten when he was three years old.

So you want to hear his story? It would be best to start at the beginning.

Look who's back? It's Tina! Score, my computer is almost fixed. As I get over my Les writer's block, here's the start of some Spot stuff. This started in US History, which might just be the worst class EVER. The PA systems run with the phones, and they were broken, so this high-pitched ringing noise was going on all over the school for an hour...ick. Well, this is that high-pitched noise's child. Maybe more if I decide to update (and get reviews...mmm, reviews) Ta ta!

Tina