So, kids! I've decided to pull a rewrite, make my stories longer, and (hopefully) better. Here's chapter one of the Time Flies rewrite! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except myself. I don't even own my house, because we moved. I do own the sword. All "OC's" are actual people, and they own themselves, s'far as I know.

"Look at me! I'm the king of New York!" I sang, leaping onto my desk, very Racetrack-esque. "Suddenly! I'm respectable, starin' right atcha', lousy with stature!"

I jumped down. "Knobbin' with all the muckety-mucks, I'm blowin' my dough and goin' deluxe!" I snatched up a notebook.

"And there I be! Ain't I pretty? It's my city! I'm the King of New York!"

I leapt onto my bed and began a pathetic (but enthusiastic) attempt at a tap dance. Wonderful, wonderful music was blaring out of my stereo, with no one home to complain.

My name is Tory, but call me Two-Bits. That's what I call myself when I'm in Newsie-mode. Newsies. Ah, newsies. It's the most brilliant movie I've ever seen. (Not really, but it's pretty damn close.) It's a musical, based on the true story of the 1899 newsboy strike.

Anyway, I'm in love with it, and my parents are out of town for two weeks, leaving me, the house, the stereo, and the DVD player all to our newsie selves. You follow?

So, the instant they left, I changed into brown knickers, a wife-beater, my favorite red suspenders, and my newsie cap.

And then the party began.

I started off by pushing the table against the wall in preparation off a dance-off: me versus the newsboys.

…They won.

But I still had more enthusiasm, so when I was done getting my ass kicked by Bumlets, I went upstairs and turned on my stereo, popping in the Newsies soundtrack.

Thus began my improvised choreography to "King of New York." Not as good as Racetrack, I'll admit, but it wasn't too shabby on my part, if I do say so myself. I only fell down twice.

"When I'm at bat, strong men crumble! Proud yet humble! I'm the king of New—"

The music cut off, the lights shut down, and the house was silent. Eerily silent. I glanced outside, wondering if a thunderstorm had rolled in when I wasn't looking. The street was as dry as I had left it. I groaned. My house is notoriously creepy. It's ridiculously old, so it creaks constantly.

CRASH!

I jumped a foot in the air, nearly screaming. Breathing hard, I listened as hard as I could, while my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. I looked around, half-blind, for some sort of weapon. I scrambled over to my bookcase, trying not to make the floor creak, and found my Samurai sword. My friend, Jessie's, older brother gave it to me, since he already had one. It's duller than watching paint dry, but it looks intimidating, at least. Beats going down with a boot.

Carefully, I opened my door, trying to be as quiet as physically possible and made my way to the stairs, wincing at every creaking step. I made my way carefully down the steps. As I neared the kitchen, I could hear low voices arguing.

"What's going on?"

"Where are we?"

"Who turned out the lights?"

I frowned. This didn't sound like the average burglar. I creeped into the kitchen. I could see about a dozen people standing in a group in my kitchen.

"Who are you?" I demanded, in my most authoritative voice.

"Who are you?" another voice demanded. I scoffed.

"Excuse me, this is my house! And I'm armed!" I added.

Without warning, the lights came up again.

I stared in shock. At the receiving of my sword was a slingshot, and at the giving end of the slingshot was a pair of icy blue eyes and an amazing smirking mouth. I felt my jaw drop slightly, and my grip on the sword sagged. I was staring at none other than the famous…

Spot Conlon.