You Had Better Eat Your Corn Kraut... Or Part One: Death Drives a FIAT! "So...any ideas in particular about tonight?" Mike was sprawled over the couch like a bearskin rug, reading a newspaper."That don't include PRETTY, PRETTY PRINCESS CONTESTS...?" his glare fixated on Peter, who shrugged innocently and started whistling. "I say we kidnap the Queen of England," Micky suggested. "Mick, for the seventh time, no!" Mike snapped. "You're just gonna have to live out you dream of shoving a crumpet up her nose on your own time." Micky sunk back in his chair, disappointed. Maybe Fergie, he thought to himself. The evening was dead as of so far. Not one of the boys could think of a thing to do. Suddenly, a lightbulb appeared over Mike's head. Startled, he looked up and started poking at it. "Mike, what have you been eating?" Davy asked as he gazed astonishingly at the lightbulb. He inched twards it, and it buzzed angrily at him, sending him abut ten feet in the air. "I have an idea," Mike announced. "I--eh, I--" he swatted at the bulb. "Will ya please TURN OFF for a second?" The lightbulb dimmed. Simultaniously, Mike uttered a "hyulk!" The others stared at him, puzzled looks across their faces. "Oh, forgot it was a mental lightbulb," he said, and regained himself. "Anyways, as I was saying, I have an idea. Let's play God!" Micky, Davy and Peter cheered. It was their favourite game to play in the whole wide world! "Who gets to be God this time?" Micky asked. Davy was the last time, and boy, what fun was had! Their neighbor's chicken, Ezekyel, would never be the same after that night. Neither would that box of mangled Barbie heads... "Wellll...." Mike surveyed his three friends for a minute. Then, quite proudly, he said, "Peter." Immediatly the others uttered disappointed "Aaaawww..."s and "I keel you scum!"s. Peter jumped up, smiling and dimpled. "Where do we go this time?" he asked anxiously. "A resteraunt," Mike answered. "We gotta go soon, then. Davy, you get the flashlights. Mick, you find the BIGGEST white sheet in the house. Peter, you still have that Santa Claus beard?" Peter nodded excitedly. "Eeexcellent!" Mike rubbed his hands together, his face sporting a maniacal grin. "I'll get the disco balls and Ben Stein." The frugging four set off to a nearby McDonalds. Once inside, they burst into the bathroom. After about 5 minutes of OOfs! ans EEGAD!s, they all came out on each other's shoulders, Peter on the top. Micky, Davy and Mike were covered with a giant white sheet, and Davy flashed flashlights in al directions as Mike manuevered the group to the cashier. The puzzled teen tilted his head up to Peter, mouth hanging like a fly-trap. "Uh, er, can I...take your order?" The covered three could barely stifle their giggles.Peter turned downward to his "legs". "Would you be QUIET?" he whispered. They tried their best to hold themselves together for 5 minutes. Peter straightened up. "Uh, yes. Hello, I'm God, and I had a reservation for 7:30." The poor boy didn't know what to make of this...He backed away slowly. "Reservations?...Um, this is a fast food resteraunt..." "DAVY! Wave the lights around!" Micky whispered. "Are you alright, sir? Your stomach seems to be talking..." The clerk observed. Did God's stomach usually talk? "Of course I'm alright!" Peter shouted. "Howbout you get me a table by the polka band, then? There's a hefty tip in there for ya..." Peter waved a nickle at the boy. "Somebody smells like eggs..." Mike said, muffled by the sheet. "POLKA BAND?" The boy backed on into the back room. "ED!" he called. Ol' manager Ed came walking out of his office. "Ed, I quit! You never even HINTED that God would be on my shift!" The tower-O-Monkees toppled, and the boys were shaking as hard as chihuahuas in a rock tumbler laughing. They scrambled out the door--after bashing into it a few times. Micky had the bright idea of pulling on the handle, and they were free once again. "OOOOOHWEEE!" Mike whooped. "Did you see the look on his face? He coulda jumped out the window! This was the best one yet!" "This beard smells funny!" Peter announced. "Maybe you ought to stop snorting it, then," said Davy. Peter threw the beard into a dumpster. Ten minutes later, they were walking through the door, with giggle-fits still erupting. Peter strolled by the phone and it rang as if on cue, and he jumped a foot into the air. He stepped backward cautiously and started walking by again. It rang a second time. He jumped a foot in the air again. He tried this the third time. "Hey, fellas! Look what I can do!" The others glanced up. Peter tested his little theory again, and sure enough, the phone rang yet again. A look of amazement ran across his face. "Pete, would you just answer it?" Mike asked. Peter picked up the receiver. "Hello...?" "Hello, my name is Bob. Bob Wrongbottom. I'm the owner of a new mini- mall in the area, and I'd greatly appreciate any eager, young go-getters to come and work in these fine establishments," the voice on the other end said. "Are you interested?" Peter's eyes grew wide. "SURE!" he shouted enthusiastically. The last time they had a real job, Spam was still classified as part of a food group. Micky, Davy and Mike heard his tone and crowded around. "What is it?" they asked. Peter hung up the phone. "We have a job!!" Part 2! Or, as some of us call it, "Starland Vocal Band? They suck!!" A big, red GTO rolled along the highway, thundering past the other cars on the road like a marathon runner pit against a class of first-graders. It started swerving about violently, sending the other drivers in a panic. Some even pulled off the road and watched with puzzled eyes while the car did figure eights in the lane. "Mick, I told you we shouldn't play Twister in the car! Do you know what our highway friends are doing now?" Mike said, and dodged the vegetables that the other people on the road had suddenly taken to throwing at them. "You're just being a sore loser, you're almost done for!" Micky replied with great difficulty, for he was wedged under the steering wheel. "I'M almost done for? We're gonna bonk into a tree!" Mike said, his legs under the seat. "Well, how else are we gonna pass the time?" Micky asked. "Right Hand blue," Peter reported from the back. Micky grunted, raised his hand and fell on Davy. "OW! My arms....I can't feel my arms..." Davy started fidgeting under poor Micky. "Maybe it's because they're MINE. Stop poking that!" Mike wiggled his way out of the mess and put his hands on the wheel. He was promptly pelted with a bell pepper. Mike turned around. "HEY! It's your loss, anyhow! We'll just have an omlette!" "But, don't we need eggs for that?" Peter asked him, putting the twister board under the seat. Two eggs came sailing out from an unknown assailant and cracked on Mike's forehead. "Thank you, Peter..." The group pulled into a parking lot and surveyed the scene. Above them towered a humungous beige building. On the top, in 7 foot 3 D letters read, "TWO DEAD GUYS RUNNING A MINI MALL". "Hmmm...not much of a name," Davy observed. "What's so mini about THAT?" Mike wondered aloud. "Maybe the mini part means it's run by happy little elves!" Peter suggested. He gazed up at the words. Wonder how many of them got crushed just to make that, he thought to himself. "Poor, poor sad little elves..." The boys headed in and were greeted by a short, plump man with a wide smile revealing white, sparkly teeth. He had pointy ears and wore green, pointed shoes that jingled when he shuffled his feet. "I was RIGHT!!" Peter gasped. The others raised their eyebrows at him. Somehow or another, no matter how far- fetched his ideas were, Peter always seemed to know these things. One night, Micky's weed-whacker wouldn't start. He tried for HOURS to fix it, but he just couldn't find the cause. "Maybe a little gnome snuck in and ate the motor!" Peter said, inspecting it carefully. Mick and the others laughed, but upon taking it apart, they saw a tiny man inside, gripping a fork and sporting a bib. He had been chewing on the motor, and stopped abruptly when Micky's wrench rammed him in the head. Boy, they picked up a number of new colourful metaphores that night! "Are you Mr. Wrongbottom?" Mike asked, bending down to shake the man's hand. "No," he said in a cheery, bouncy little voice. "I'm Stan. Or Tim, the author can't decide." Hey, don't you be dragging ME into this, buddy.... "Well then make up your mind! Do you know how confusing life is when you have two names?" The elf lost some of his bounciness. If you don't stick to what I'm writing, so help me... The two-named elf put his thumb on his nose and waggled his fingers in the author's general direction. "Nyah, you don't scare me." Oh no? A Swedish sumo wrestler by the name of Hans fell on Stan/Tim and proceeded to sing Strangers in the Night. The Monkees looked on in horror as Stan/Tim wiggled under him. "I'll be good!" Stan/Tim pleaded. "I'll be good! PLEASE get him offa meee!" Hans disappeared, and Tim's name was indeed verified! "Well, gentlemen, come with me, I'll take you to Mr. Wrongbottom," Tim got up and brushed himself off. He smelled like bratwurst now... The group passed a few unopened boutiques and stands. This was quite a peculiar mall. Peter glanced at the names. Col. Clown's Kid Kud and Other Various Playtime Objects. Pretzel Pete's Breakfast Options. Hey, Hey, We're a Bagpipe Store. I Cut You Hair Stylists...? He decided maybe looking straight ahead was a better idea. They walked through a corridor that led to a bathroom, and Tim opened the door. "What in Micky's dog's name is THIS?" Mike looked around the loo incredulisly. "This is a bathroom!" "Ah, yes, but it's also an office," Tim explaned. "We cut costs this way. Now follow me to the sinks." They rounded the corner and into the sink section, where they found a man in a wet buisness suit spritzing himself in the face with a spraybottle repeatedly. "Storm's a-comin'! "STORM'S A-COMIN'!!" he shouted to himself happily. "Er, Mr. Wrongbottom? Your young go-getters are here to see you." Tim seemed a little frightened by the scene. He backed away slowly and nudged Peter forward. "Go get 'im!" he whispered. Peter stepped back quickly and Mike took the scene. He was best with these situations. He cleared his throat "Heya, we're your new workers." Mr. Wrongbottom looked up, and when satisfied with himself, stopped spritzing. "Hello, Gentlemen. Have a seat?" he motioned to a nearby stall. "Uh, no thanks." Mike shuddered. "So, when do we start?" "Oh, right away!" Mr. Wrongbottom led the boys out into the mall. "I have a certain job for each of you. You, the tall kid," he pointed to Mike. "You'll be working at the bagpipe store over there with Granola." He beckoned to the Watch Store, and a pretty young girl came out and smiled at Mike. His eyes widened. "You, the little elf with rounded ears," Mr. Wrongbottom turned to Davy, who growled at him. "You'll be running a resteraunt in the food court." he handed Davy an apron that said Goober E. Coli's Salmonella Burgers and a chef hat. "Wha--I can't do this alone!" Davy protested. He looked around frantically for HIS pretty, young assistant to pop out. "That's why I hired you a young assistant." Mr. Wrongbottom assured him. Davy grinned, his thought affirmed. "Goober!" Wrongbottom shouted. Goober? Davy thought. That's an odd name for a girl... A big, smelly, hairy young man with a greasy hat turned backward on his head came running over. "Is you DAVY?" he asked, and immediatly gave him a HUGE, smelly hug. "MMMPPHHEEERRPPH!!!" Davy tried to scream, muffled by a mouthful of armhair. "Now then," the boss turned to Micky. "You'll be in charge of our lingerie department." he motioned tward a store with a sign that read Foofy No No's Things You Can't Wear. "ALONE." "ALONE?" Micky just about choked on air. "In THERE?" Mr. Wrongbottom turned, finally, to Peter. "And you, eating a geranium twig. You'll be our head of security. The boys turned to Peter and gave him an astonished look. "And, so you don't feel overwhelmed, I hired you a Co-Security Guard." Mr. Wrongbottom glanced over into the furniture store window at a girl who was gnawing on a lawn chair. "Tapioca!" She looked up and walked out, still chewing. Their jobs confirmed, Each Monkee and assistant went to work. THE LONG AWAITED PART 3!!!! At least it BETTER have been... Mike crouched behind the cash register of "Hey, Hey, We're a Bagpipe Store" holding, well, bagpipes at the ready. He peered around the corner, and upon determining that the coast was clear, slunk over to behind a display case. His head shot left and right, then he fixated his stare on the kilt rack. "Ah HA!!!" he shouted, and jumped for it. He woulda made it too, if not for something weighing down his leg. He fell to the ground with a THUD!! and casually glanced in back of him to find Granola latched onto his leg. "Howdy!" she chirped. "Granola, Angus McSnarl would NOT glomp himself to his mortal enemy's lower appendage. Play fair!" Mike said, trying to shake the feeling back into his now tingling leg. "And the Scottish don't say Howdy!" Granola scratched her nose. "You play Cowboys and Scotsmen how you wanna play it, and I'll play Cowboys and Scotsmen how I wanna play it!" She re- anchored her grip on the poor Texan's shin. "Are you SURE there were marauding bands of Scottish people in Texas that went around biting the heads off chickens?" Mike asked her a bit suspiciously. "This game doesn't seem all too historically accurate." "Hey, look, a customer!" Granola pointed to a slightly disgruntled looking middle-aged man poking at a few bagpipes hanging on a rack. Mike approached him. "May I help you, ma'am?" The man turned around, and answered in a school-girlish voice, "Well, It'd be just peachy if---HEY! Why you little..." he muttered. Mike stepped a little closer, revealing the fact that he was, in fact, TALLER than the 5' 3" girly-man, thus proving the muttering inaffective. "Sorry, I've had a cold..." "Well, that's quite all right...just don't tell the wife. I'm looking for a pair of bagpipes!" The man said, in a rather confident manner. "Well, I'm sorry.." Mike scratched his head and stared straight at the bagpipe rack. "but we don't have any here." Granola stifled a giggle. What do you do when you're bored in a bagpipe store? Hassle any perspective customers and deny you have any merchandise! "Well then...what are those?" The befuddled man pointed to his pipes of choice. A crooked grin grew on Mike's face. He was enjoying this already. He decided to twist the poor man's mind even more. "Garden Gnomes." "Then, this store, this very store that is labeled 'Hey, Hey, We're a bagpipe Store', is in fact, an outlet for Garden gnomes?" His ears were turning a pleasant shade of mauve as he spoke. Granola studied them intently for any traces of smoke that could come billowing out at any moment. "Nope.." Mike said plainly. "NO?" "No, quite frankly..." Mike paused. "It's a cheese shop." Now came the smoke. "Then, you've been deliberatly wasting my time when I could have gotten 5 bagpipes by now?" The man was getting very annoyed by now, as one could imagine. "Well, not exactly..." Mike was now grinning evilly. "And why not?" Mike and Granola exchanged tickled glances. He turned back to the little man who was turning plaid by now. "'Cause we're the only cheese shop in town that also sells bagpipes!" There was a loud WHIIIRRRRRRRing sound, a few clicks, a SHUNK!!! and the little man's head exploded. Mike stared, wide-eyed and Granola's jaw gaped in amazement. They stood there for five minutes, and the ears were still that nifty shade of mauve and smoking. "So," Mike finally regained himself, "shall we get the mop?" Micky sat hunched over behind the front counter of Foofy No No's Things You Can't Wear. He let out a long sigh and scratched at his ear, then started twiddling his thumbs restlessly. There was nothing in the world more boredom- inducing than staring at frilly, lavender lingerie that ravenous old ladies were ripping off the racks. Nope, nothing could save him. Nothing... "Except a NATURE SHOW PARODY!" Micky sprang up from his seat in excitement to see that the elderly women were all staring at him. "Whoops...did I say that out loud?" He hopped over to a panties display where a little old lady was examining a pair of the blue lacey-trimmed velvet model. He put his best Australian accent to work. "Hello, mates, this is Niles Brunderditch on location in whot appears to be the great Undergarment Jungle of Pantaloontia. Now, we're VEERY lucky, because I've sighted whot may very well be the elusive Piggus Underpantius...the Panty Hog!" "Who are you talking to, sonny?" The lady asked, still looking at her velveties. "Now THIS wiley species is prone to hitting people over the head with umbrellas, playing bingo violently, detatching their teeth, chasing potential enemies with them, crowding Red Lobster, and perhaps the MOST misunderstood behavioral pattern, telling stories that don't go anywhere! I believe it actually to be a modernized defense technique," he prattled. "Aren't you a NICE little boy?" the lady started patting his head. Micky grabbed the lady's arm and proudly shouted, "I GOT ONE! I GOT ONE! I--OW!" The lady took out her umbrella and proceeded to beat Micky senseless. "Well I NEVER! Ooh, little whippersnapping..." She stomped menacingly out of the store. Poor Mick had somehow developed a ring of tiny, chirping birds around his head. "Right, I let that one get away, but you see now how these creatures can turn into hostile, naked little banshees in seconds flat!" Micky grabbed on of the birds in front of his head and shoved it into his mouth. "Mmm...grouty!" "BOOGA!" Peter jumped about fifty feet in the air. "Don't DO that!" he yelled. Tapioca was playing a game of "Sneak Up Behind Peter and Scare The Bajesus Out Of Him". It was jolly good fun, and extra points were earned if Peter jumped halfway to Saturn. The two patrolled the southern tip of the mall, ready as they could be for any troublemakers. Well, sort of, seeing as Peter was carrying a stick of French bread instead of a billy club, and Tapioca had thrown her gun away and replaced it with a He-Man figuriene. (The author would like to state that there WERE, in fact He-Man action figures in the 60's. Shut up! THERE WERE SO! They just...didn't know yet..) "It's not a very...fast moving job, is it?" Peter said. They had been on the job for at least two hours and all that had happened was a vile, soulless Charmin squeezing in Ye Olde Toilet Paper Shoppe. "So..." Peter said, "What should we do?" The poor boy should've known better than to leave a decision like that up to a bouncy, teen-age lusting machine. Tapioca lept at his side with the force of a giant lemur filled with caffiene and crack, knocking Peter to the ground. She lay there, pinning him and smiling proudly. "I meant something CONSTRUCTIVE..." Peter said angrily. Suddenly, he couldn't feel his legs. He looked in back of him. "My legs are NOT a futon!" Tapioca stopped trying to fold them up. "Rats." The two walked in front of a flower stand and Tapioca attempted to feed Peter to the Venus Fly-Traps on display, to which he protested rather loudly. One plant latched on to his pinky and spit it out. "Wow..." Tapioca stared in awe, "I never knew plants could make such odd faces, let alone say 'BLECH!'.." Just then, a threatening-looking old woman came stomping up to them. She was waving her umbrella around and appeared to have a mild case of Turret's Syndrome. Peter covered Tapioca's ears, and she bit his hand. "SECURITY!!!" the lady called. Peter held a finger to his ear and backed away, as he had been nose to nose with her. "Is there a problem, SIR?" Tapioca asked rather rudely. "You stuff it in a sack, Youngin', I had a run-in with a crazy little boy in the lingerie establishment. I want you to follow me, arrest him, and then let me beat him over the head with my umbrella again!" The lady stroked her umbrella angrily. "Crazy little boy in lingerie..." Peter thought for a minute. "Would you stop that, Petey? That smoke smells awful," Tapioca waved her hands around her nose. "Plech!" Peter jumped up suddenly. "MICKY!" The two security guards ran off to Foofy No No's as fast as Peter could carry them. The elderly woman trotted after them, cursing and waving her umbrella of destruction around and holding her hip. "Next time, I get dibs on the piggy-back ride," he puffed as the girl clung to his shoulders. "NO!" "Davy, Ah THOUGHT you was hidin' from me..." the hairy, smelly man that was indeed Goober peered behind the counter of the burger stand to see a terrified, shivering Davy. "I, eh, guess so there, Goobah," he slowly got up and edged his way to the fruit stand next to them. If Goober wanted one more BIG, gushin' hillbillie hug, he was going to run to Bolivia. Goober smelled like gorgonzola. Gorgonzola boy tagged him. "Now AH gits to hide! Yew hafta cover up them peepers, though!" He swatted Davy on the back and ran off. "Great," Davy muttered. This was, by no means, the dream job he pictured. Oh, Goober was nice and assisted him well enough, but the constant cry of "YEEEEEEEEEEEHAW!!!!!" whenever the boy pressed the hamburger patties into the skillet was enough to make ya wonder... "Come gets me NOW! Hurry, the french fryer's awful hot.." Davy calmly strolled up to the massive french fryer and glanced inside. "Goober, I'm sure the customers don't appreciate the smell of deep-fried cheese." "Hey, yer GOOD!" Goober said, looking up. Davy grabbed his hand and pulled him out. "I'm never eating Cheddar again." The two straightened out and noticed a customer waiting in front of the stand. She saw Davy and smiled at him, primping her hair subconciously. He tossed his head, trying to look semi-rugged as fast as he could. "OW!" "Are you alright?" The girl asked sympathetically. "Uh...yeah, tops," Davy wasn't about to reveal his sudden case of whiplash. He walked to the cash register. "How may I help you?" The girl thought a minute. "Ooh, I'd like a Tropical Tickle Smoothie, please." Goober walked over to the fruit stand and prepared the smoothie while Davy rung it up. "That'll be three dollars, please," Davy said. He smiled slyly at her. "And what's your name?" "Frankie Jo," she answered, then giggled brainlessly. "And yours?" "I uh..." Davy frantically searched for a Big, Strong MANLY man name. "Fabio." Frankie Jo gazed at him dreamily. "Wow, my cousin's from France, too!" Davy gave her an odd look and joined Goober at the fruit stand. "How's it coming, Goob?" Goober threw a papaya at him and chuckled. "AH GOTS YA!!! Hyulk hyulk!!" Davy got up, his face covered in gooshed papaya. "Ooh, you're in for it now..." Davy was never one to back away from a fruit fight, no matter what he was doing. He picked up a guava and hurled it, full force, at Goober. It hit with a SMAAASH!! and he fell over. He grabbed a kiwi and whomped it on the Manchestrian's head. A minute later, there was fruit flying every which way but serious and other food court customers were getting caught in the line of fire. They emptied the entire fruit stand in seconds. Goober picked up a small child and heaved it at Davy, who caught it on his cheek. He retaliated and threw a nearby Shi-Tzu at Goober. When bystanders were all gone, pretzels and the cash register went flying through the air. They were having more fun than a bag of mimes until Davy suddenly remembered something important. "Oh, no, Frankie Jo's smoothie!" Davy ran back to Frankie. "Sorry, I got tied up!" Frankie Jo took one look at Davy and screamed. He was covered with assorted fuit and the Pope and a little boy were embedded in his face. Goober wasn't much better, he had a disgruntled little dog stuck to his chin and a few copies of "Cracked" magazine entangled in his greasy hair. "VENUSIANS!!!!" "I'm not from Venus, I'm from France!--I mean, England!" Davy stepped closer and Frankie screamed again. "SECURITY!" she hollered. "Have no fear, Peter's here!" Peter and Tapioca came careening around the corner and skidded to a stop. The old lady came wheezing after them, still shouting obscenities and rubbing her hip. "This isn't Lingerie, you idiots!" the lady yelled. She clubbed Peter with her umbrella. Tapioca lunged at her and started playing her head like a bongo drum. "Security, look! The Venusians are taking over the mall! They're gonna enslave the entire human race and force us to make pleasant-smelling soap for the rest of out lives!" Frankie shook a finger at Davy and Goober, who were attempting to rid themselves of excess organisms. "Oh, Petah, thank Bob you've come!" Davy exclaimed. "Quiet, you dirty Venusian," Peter said and backed away slowly. "Venusian? Oh, wonderful..Petah, it's DAVY!" Davy shouted. "Your friend! Your Pool Stick!" Peter gave him a terrified expression. "Oh NO! The Venusians must have eaten poor Davy and he's trying to communicate from their stomach!" He turned to Tapioca, who was hammering out the drum solo to In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on the old woman's head. "You stay here and guard the Venusians, I'm gonna find Micky and tell him the horrible news!" He ran off, and the old lady got up and ran off after him, waving her umbrella. PART 4!!! Or as some would say, "I got a new BRAIN!!!" Mike and Granola giggled uncontrollably as they jumped on bagpipes. They were like little trampolines, and the bonus was that each time one made a jump, it made a spiffy noise. The sound of "'Heeheehee!' WHOOOOOOOOONNNKKK!!!!! 'Heeheehee!' NNNYYYEEERRRRFF!!! 'EEHEEHEEE!!!' WHOOOOOOONK!!!" traveled through the building, making people crowd around the little store like ants on a runny gingerbread man. Granola's attention shifted to the growing pile of headless. disgruntled people in front of them. "You know, if you keep at this, we're never going to have a customer," she said and looked up at Mike, who was now making a new face at the bystanders with every bounce. "Ehhhh..." Mike stopped bouncing for a second. "Gee, I wonder if Peter, Micky or Davy are having as much fun?" Peter burst through the swinging doors of Foofy No No's and ran up to the front desk, where Micky was shooting spitwads at a nearby woman's beehive hairdo. "MICK!!" Micky turned around to see Peter in front of him and was relieved. "PETER!!" "MICKY!!!" "PEETER!!!!" "MICKY!!!" "Peter?" "Micky?" "Get offa my leg." Peter jumped up. "Oh, Micky, it's terrible! The Venusians ate Davy and took his brain and he spoke from inside their stomachs and then the lady whacked me with an umbrella and suddenly everyone was singing 'It's a Sunshine Day' and I ran to get you but then there was a poodle and--" "Whoa, there," Micky patted Peter on the back. "Davy was eaten by Venusians?!" "Follow me!" Peter grabbed Micky's hand and ran faster than Richard Simmons on speed to the food court. Tapioca paced back and forth in front of Goober and Davy, and kept a watchful eye on the umbrella lady. Frankie Jo sat at a table a few feet away. "Tapioca, believe me, I am NOT an evil Alien bent on world domination!" Davy said. "I just look this way because I've got the pope stuck to me face." Tapioca glared at him. "How do I know you didn't just stick him on there to try and make me believe that you're NOT from another planet? Hmmm?" "Ah'm not an alien, Ah'm Goober!" Goober said, muffled by the Shi-Tzu on his chin. "He's right, take a sniff at him, nothing else in the known universe smells like that!" Davy pointed out. Tapioca leaned in to sniff him, but pulled away at the last minute. "I'll...I'll just take your word on that." "Then, do you believe us?" Davy's voice took on a hopeful tone. "Yes," Tapioca sighed. "Just don't make me smell that thing." She pointed to Goober, who gave her a crooked grin. Frankie Jo got up and slapped Davy across his face, knocking the Pope and the little child off. "And all this time I was feeling sorry for you 'cause you'd been eaten by aliens! I want my smoothie money back! HMMPH!" She sat down and glared at him. Peter and Micky came running into the food court. "DAVY!! You've managed to kill the evil Space Being!" Peter shouted happily. "Evil space being INDEED..." The Pope muttered and stalked off. Micky jumped up and down, relieved to see his friend out of alien clutches. The umbrella lady peered through her glasses at the boy and shot up. "It's the little Lingerie Hooligan!" Micky ducked the flying umbrella. "Guys, we need to get Mike and get out of here! If the boss finds out about all this, we might be clubbed like seals! Tapioca looked up suddenly. "Seal? Where? I wanna club him! Lousy, talentless little..." Micky grabbed Davy's hand, who grabbed Peter's, who grabbed Tapioca's and sped off to the Bagpipe store. The Umbrella woman and Frankie Jo followed, screaming, "Where's my three bucks?!" and, "You get back here, Whippersnapper!" Goober kept up, shouting "Wait! Davy! Ah thoughts we was BUDDIES! Ah wanna hug you!" The Pope and Shi Tzu joined in just for the fun of being in a speeding, angry mob while the little boy who stuck to Davy was at the fruit stand licking at a lolipop. Such a commotion was causing heads to turn and people joined in the chase not even knowing what in Fred's name was happening. "Hurry, Mick, they're gaining!" Peter panicked. Micky led the chain around a corner to "Hey, Hey, We're A Bagpipe Store" and they burst through the doors. "MIKE!!!" the chain yelled. Mike and Granola were in the midst of a puppet show with, you guessed it, bagpipes as the main characters. "Warren, I can't live this lie anymore..." Granola said in a squeaky voice. "I..I'm not your wife! I'm your cousin, Gerty, and I was gonna--" "MIIKE!!" Mike looked up, a bit annoyed. "What is it, guys? We're in the middle of a-- HOLY SHEECRIPEDIES!" His gaze fixated on the growing mob banging on the window outside. "What did you do?" "Can't explain it now, we gotta get out of here fast or this angry rabble's gonna kill us! Not to mention our boss when he sees what's happened," Micky shouted over the rucus. "Wow, I didn't think of that," Mike looked at the pile of bodies. "Think he'd dismiss it if we made up a funny enough story?" Tapioca grabbed Mike's hand, and he grabbed Granola's. The longer chain of Monkees/Freaks ran out to the Monkeemobile and hopped in. "Hurry and start it, Mike," Davy urged. He peeked out the window to see the Umbrella Lady, Frankie Jo, Goober, Bob Vila, the Pope, Chuck Mangeoni, and a whole slew of happy, little elves pawing at the car doors. The great Monkeemobile stuttered and finally roared to life. It squealed off onto the freeway and disappeared out of sight. "Boy, what a day!" Granola said. "Do you think they'll find us?" "If they do, Mr. Schneider'll take care of 'em for us," Mike answered, his eyes on the road. Mr. Schneider was the tough guy of the household. Now, it was a little- known fact, but that dummy was The Monkees' own private member of The Syndicate---convenience galore! A group of marauding kids who had gone toilet- paper crazy with the pad were found several days later in a ditch munmmified with Charmin. "Fingers" they called him. "Woody Fingers McSchneider". The big, growling, red beast pulled into the driveway of 1334 North Beechwood and everyone hopped out. "Race ya!" Peter tagged Micky on the shoulder. Micky ran after him up to the door, and they both bashed into it. Mike walked up to the door and opened it. "I won," he proclaimed. "Woo, neat!" Tapioca gazed up at the pad like it was the Castle Anthrax. "I bet a person could hide LOTS of bodies inside and no one would ever find out!" "No," Davy shook his head. "We tried that with a few pesky girl scouts once. We were so pressed for room that Petah had to dress 'em up as his relatives. Woulda pulled it off, but Mr. Babbit kept noticing a few vultures circling..." Granola, Tapioca and Davy followed the others and went inside. Mike and Peter were on the couch, strumming guitars and singing. "WE'RE ALL PART OF THE DOPE SHOOOW!" Mike screeched. He hammered out a few notes. "BBLLLEEAAAGH!!!!" "What was THAT?" Peter turned to his friend, a bit worried. "Er, uh...nothing.." Peter plucked at the strings. "Anyone know what rhymes with orange?" "Door-hinge," Tapioca said, walking over to inspect the refridgerator. She peered inside and, upon seeing there was nothing but a can of Cheez-Whiz and some leftover chili, closed it. She took a running leap at the back of the couch Peter occupied and flipped over, landing head-first into a cushion. She looked up at him. "Little help?" Peter looked down and raised his eyebrows. "Uh...you wanna stop chewing on my shirt?" Granola flopped down next to Mike, who was practicing his Gene Simmons toungue look. She immediately started punching his arm and yelled, "Hit, hit, hit hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, DING! DING!!! I win!" She held up her arms in a triumphant manner and smiled. Mike bolted to the other side of the room. "Are you trying to kill me and ship my body to Cleveland?" He asked, rather panicked. Granola was taken aback. "You DARE question the game of HIT?" Mike was even more confused. "Hit?" "Let us demonstrate," Tapioca said. She and Granola got up and stood in front Davy. "Once..." Granola began. "There..." Tapioca continued. "Was..." "A..." "DAVY..." "Who..." "Got..." "A..." "HITTING!!!" said--uh.... The author tried figuring out who was saying what, for her braincell was getting a bit overworked.Oh! ...Said Granola. They ran up to Davy, who had developed a look of terror on his face, and started slapping him about. "Hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, DING DING!!! I win!" Tapioca did a little dance of joy. She crashed against the wall. "NNOOOOO!!!" Granola protested in a pained voice. She picked Davy up and heaved him at Tapioca. "GAAH!" Tapioca yelped. She was about to throw Micky in Granola's general direction, when Peter stopped the rucus suddenly. He pointed behind them to a strange, swishing, sparkling porthole that had appeared out of nowhere. Mike gave a disgusted look. "Oh, come on, Ms. Author, can't you think of a better plotline?" Oh, discontented with the story, are we? Mike was sucked right into the porthole, much to everyone's disbelief. Granola jumped up and lunged into the swirling mass after him, shouting a number of obscenities in the author's general direction. Micky, seeing that Granola had stolen his slice of apple pie, dove in as well. Davy jumped in after, as Micky had been tugging at a string in his new sweater and it was unravelling fast. Tapioca plunged into the hole herself, as she didn't want to stick around when Davy's shirt came off. Peter lept after HER, because he had a sudden urge to play "Chase Me" with her. Mr. Schneider stayed exactly where he was, for he was a dummy, and dummies don't go for those sordid shenanigans. The group spiraled, terrified (except for Tapioca, who thought it a good time to start eating gum drops) into the unknown.... Part 5!!!! Kama Sutr...Marge, they stole our idea! WHUMPH!!!! A tiny breeze crept behind Peter, passing along his neck and tossing his hair playfully. It gently tip-toed across his cheek. It floated daintily over his forehead, and then, without warning, punched him in the nose. He awoke with a yelp. "G-Guys? Nature's being a bunion again!...Guys?" There was no answer.He tried to get up, but a pair of legs were weighing him down. He looked up to see Micky strewn over his shoulder-blades like a big sack of potatoes, lying still. The force of the landing must've knocked everyone clean out, Peter thought. He squirmed and wiggled and got himself free after a few minutes and stood up. "Guys?...Mike?...Micky?...Davy?" He kicked at them. "Tapioca?...Granola?" Nothing. "Oh!" Peter got an idea suddenly. The shock had sort of given him a jolt and he started to smell bananas...Anyhow, he cupped his hands over his mouth. "IT'S ZZ-TOP! And they're BATHING IN MUD!" Everyone awoke with a start. Mike and Micky grabbed Granola and Tapioca, ran to a nearby tree and hid behind it while Davy searched frantically for Beard and the rest of the muddy gang with a look of excitement growing in his eyes. Peter grabbed Davy, a bit disgusted, and ran to everyone else. "That got you up!" He said happily. "Well it didn't get the mental images out, thankyouverymuch..." Micky said, pained. He rested his forehead on the tree. Davy sat up straight, suddenly. Something wasn't quite right with this picture...He scratched his head. He looked at the tree, then at everyone else, and scratched again. This dandruff shampoo wasn't working too well... Then, it clicked. "Hey! There aren't any trees in the Pad!" Davy said. The others gasped. They looked around at their sudden surroundings and realized that wherever this was, it sure as sugar wasn't Los Angeles. The ground was dry and cracking, covered by a thin spreckle of yellow grass. There were no hills in the distance, so one could see right into the horizon. It was all greenish-yellow prairie for miles-- enough to make you dizzy, and you could get lost just letting your eyes roam in it. Seemed like what Heaven would look like if God neglected it to go off and watch old reruns of Sanford 'n' Son all day. "Wh--where are we?" Tapioca asked, worried. "I dunno...but I hear something in the distance..." Micky strained to hear whatever it was. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. It had been a fuzzy hum, but was now gradually turning into something like a TV Set turned down as if a child was watching a late night horror flick and didn't want to get punished. The group was silent--as if these sounds were the very parents coming to punish them. Soon, the sound became quite audible--- yips, whoops, YEEEEEHAAAWWWW!!!!s, and horse whinnies. Now it had a visual to go with it, a group of big, burly men on horseback gallopping closer and closer. "It's the rapture!" Peter shouted. "Quick! Get Davy outta here before God comes!" Mike got a sinister grin and hoisted Davy over his shoulder. "AAGH! Put me DOWN, that's not God," Davy protested angrily. He had had just about enough games of "Hide Davy From The Divine Being" after the eigth time around. "Something tells me we oughtta split," Micky said, eyeing the party, which was growing closer and closer. The others nodded, and ran like the wind. "Quick, how do we lose 'em?" Tapioca asked. "Let's do what drives anybody away," Micky puffed, "Sing!" Mike stopped suddenly and inhaled as much air as he could. "Du. Du HAST! DU HAST MIIC--yyaaagh!" Peter grabbed him and ran faster. Had he been very keen on studying the ground in front of him, he might've noticed a rigid little rock jutting out just beneath his pounding legs... T-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-I-P! He felt something pass over him and squeeze the flibberdee-crumpets out of his torso. He gasped. "HALP!" The rest of the gang looked behind them and switched directions. Peter and Mike had sudden guests. "HEY!" Micky shouted at the men on horseback.He saw one holding a lasso that had just been attatched to Peter. "What are you doing?" The men sat in their saddles, silent for a minute, trying to figure out if that was a trick question. "We's roundin' up you Injuns!" One said proudly. "That's not very nice..." Mike said on the ground. "You'd never make it to TV with a mouth like that." The man holding Peter on a rope leaned over his horse, Friskey's neck and squinted at the kids. "Wait a minute---you don't sounds like no Injuns..." "We're not," Davy told him. "We're Monkees." "AHEM..." Granola elbowed Davy. "Er, and company." "Monkeys?" Friskey's owner repeated, only with the wrong spelling. "..You do look like you's just come outta the zoo.." Granola stopped nibbling on a twig. "Hey, I resemble that remark." "Ooh, scuse me," Peter said, "Are you cowboys?" The men broke into a fit of loud HAW-HAWing. "Does a bear eat the pope in the woods?" One of them snorted. He looked at his companions. "Let's take 'em in!" The Monkees (And company) exchanged puzzled glances. Peter felt a tug from the lasso. "C'Mon, GIT!" The cowboy riding Friskey ordered. Peter had no choice but to walk, and so they all did, tagging behind him like a chain of paperclips, connected by an arm on the shoulder. They arrived in town after what felt like an hour under the pounding heat of the sun. The cowboys were none too happy about this by now, as their booty were all singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" and flicking each other while giggling insanely. "I see a little sillhouette-o of a man..." Peter sang in a deep voice. "Eeheehee, stop that, Michael!" "Scaramoush! Scaramoush! Will you do the Fandango?" wailed Micky and Davy. "Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frighten-ING!" Mike, Granola and Tapioca shouted. "Will you dagnabbed ijits STOP THAT?" the cowboy on Friskey's back yelled. As if this wasn't enough to deal with, he had a snake in his boots rolling around. They trudged twards a Saloon while locals stopped to gawk at the group. The three cowboys dismounted and tied their horses up to a hitching post. Friskey's owner grabbed Peter, who in turn grabbed everyone else, and went inside. In the saloon, Sam the piano player hammered out a tune all his own, because the author can't think of anything that old west piano players would play. An old man with only two teeth saw the kids and their captors come in, and turned to Sam. "Ooh, bad guys comin' in, Sam," he said. "Better go into minor key." He most certainly did so. The people at the bar all turned and saw the newcomers. All hell broke loose. Everybody ran and found a hiding place. "IT'S DEAD-SHOT BUEFORD!" someone screamed. He was refering to Friskey's rider. The other two cowboys were his posse--well, what was left of it. He once had 15 men, but 13 were eaten by a pack of feral television evangelists. The two who survived ---Billy The Adolescant and Mad Dog Pookie---had just barely escaped by fending the evangelists off by shoving Pookie's feet, which smelled like rotting apricots, in their faces. Dead Shot Bueford walked up to the bartender, who was trembling uncontrollably. "Sling me three bottles of whiskey, Barkeep," he ordered. The bartender got right to it. "So..." the barkeep was searching for some tension-breaking conversation before Dead Shot decided to live up to his nickname. "Catch you some Indians over there?" he pointed to our heroes, who were looking around, still confused from being flung back into time a hundred years. "That STILL isn't very nice to say," Mike said. "They ain't Injuns...But they're just damned WEIRD," Pookie said. The author started laughing at his name. Pookie gave her a disgruntled "I'm gonna kill you" look. She slapped him across the face. "HEY! I think that's enough Author Interaction in this story!" Tapioca yelled. The author sneered at her and dragged Peter into the closet. WOO HOO HOO! "Give him back!" Tapioca screamed. She chased the author out of the closet with a push broom that had suddenly appeared in her hand. "Come on, GET!" Nuh uh, I just gave him a lollipop. He'll be faithful for life now! "Don't buy into her facade!" Tapioca grabbed Peter and squeezed him until he made a funny little squeaky sound. "She only gave you that lollipop so she can use you to do her dirty work. She'll send you out to the corner store to buy Preperation H!" Peter looked from Tapioca back to the Author. "Is this true?" he asked, the lollipop marring his words. Uh...well...er... "Be honest..." Peter glared at her. Well then, eh... PART 6!!!!!! Oweemoweh, oweemoweh, oweemoweh, oweemoweh, oweemoweh.... The author has contained herself, as threats of sacking her and hiring William Shatner to write the rest of the story have been brought to her attention. Thankyou. Dead Shot Bueford sat at the bar, chugging whiskey from the bottle. "'Ey, you little Ape-weirdos wants some Moonshine?" "MONKEE-Weirdos!" Micky corrected angrily. He took a sniff of the whiskey and gagged. "Uh, no thanks, Mr. Shot, sir." Bueford pointed a gun in the kids' general direction and cocked it. "I SAID, do you want a DRINK?" "Of course he does," Mike said. "He's the leader of the biggest, most fearsome gang in the West!" Micky gave Mike an utterly horrified look. "MIKE!!" "Shh!" Mike elbowed him and whispered into his ear. "If we act like tough guys, maybe they'll let us go." Micky nodded and turned to Bueford and the bar tender. "You're the leader of a fearsome gang?" Billy the Adolescant asked, one eyebrow quirked. "What's your name then, boy?" "Well, it's Mick--" "SHAFT!" Granola interrupted. Micky gave her a dirty look. Everyone broke out into laughter. Mad Dog Pookie was in a schoolgirl giggle fit on the floor. "Well we ain't NEVER heard of no kid named Shaft--sounds pretty dagnabbed goofy if ya ask me..." Bueford said, still snickering. "Yeah, well go ahead and laugh," Davy said. "But can any of you 'Tough' fellahs do THIS?" As if on cue, Granola and Tapioca went off to one side of Micky while Peter, Mike and Davy went to the other side. Out of nowhere came a cheesey 1970's cop movie soundtrack. Peter stepped out in front of Micky. "Who's da Monkee-Mick tha's a sex magnet to all the chicks?" Peter said in a deep, booming voice. "SHAFT!" sang the girls. They started boogieing to the music. "Daaamn right!" Peter boomed. "They say that cat Shaft, he's a bad mother--" "Shut yo' mouth!" The girls shouted. Micky started grooving and giving a mean eye to the saloon's occupants. "He's a complicated maaan," Peter sang, "And noo one understands him but his woomaaaan--" "Okay, Peter, I think we delivered the point," Mike patted his shoulder. He pointed to Dead Shot, his posse and the bartender. They shared a downright disgusted expression and were frozen in terror. The cheesey 70's pimp daddy music faded away. "Has anyone noticed I'm still roped up?" Peter asked, tugging at Bueford's lasso. He squirmed and squirked uncomfortably against the rough texture. "Oh, couldn't you have used nylon?" Bueford tightened the rope around Peter and took another swig from his bottle. A sick look froze on his face for a few seconds. He picked the bottle up and realized it wasn't his whiskey. He spat it all over the bar. "Barkeep, I said it before an' I'll say it again, KEEP YER HAIR TONIC AWAY FROM THE BOOZE!" Dead Shot looked around, found his WHISKEY bottle, and tipped it to his mouth, but he stopped---something was wrong... His toungue suddenly felt a bit...shaggier. He looked to everyone else. "Ith there thomething on mah thoungue?" "Uh...well..." Mike trailed off as he stared at Dead Shot's mouth, which had suddenly become filled with shiny, blond hair. "Uh oh..." "WHAT?" "Nothing!" Mike said. "Well, if you are as tought as you say you are, then you'll come out front with me for a good ol' fashioned gunfight," Dead Shot pulled out a revolver from his boots. Boy, was that a pain to walk on... "If ya win, then you get yer freak boy back." He tugged on the lasso and Peter let out a "Squeenk!!" Tapioca walked over and punched Bueford in the nose. The Monkees shuddered. GUNS? That would mean having to..TOUCH one! And then having to make it work! Peter had seen one once and had been traumatized with it. His Uncle Albert had brought home a rifle one night and the poor kid thought he was Captain Stubing from Love Boat for 3 weeks after. His mother brought him to a Psychiatrist after he kept calling her "Charro". "What if we lose?" Micky asked, trying to maintain his tough guy voice. "Then you're dead," Dead Shot snickered. "Which means I ain't lettin' yer boy go." He snickered again, for he didn't know how to make a good, solid guffaw. In fact, neither does the author. She snickered, too. "You'll have to when I start decaying," Peter pointed out. "I'll make your place smell like feet!" Bueford considered that fact. He most certainly didn't want his abode stenching of some poor sod's sweaty walking utensils, especially if he was dead. "Well," he said, "Maybe I'll just call you an exotic fruitcake, wrap you up and send you to mah Grandma Bessie." "Agreed," said Peter. "So, can we go do it now?" Micky asked. He really had to go to the bathroom. He started to dance around uncomfortably. "Yeah. MAD DOG!" Bueford shouted to part of his posse. "Yeah?" answered Mad Dog Pookie. "Get me mah SQUIRRELY gun!" he ordered. Mad dog went to the back of the saloon and got a gun from under a mat reading "WELCOME TO OUR PAD" with a picture of two googly-eyed frogs painted under the writing. A squirrel clung to the barrel of the gun, looking up and twittering ferociously at Pookie "I had no idea the Old West was so literal," Davy whispered to Micky. Pookie returned, the squirrel now on his head, pelting him with a small barage of almonds from a supply in it's cheek. "This here," Bueford explained to the kids, "Is what I'm gonna use to put a hole in each of yer scraggly little heads." He took the squirrely gun and pointed it from Monkee to Monkee and girl to girl. Granola put her hands on her hips. "You do and I'll give you such a pinch..." High Noon came to the prairie atmosphere, and the two parties walked out of the saloon. Micky carried a tiny revolver in his hand. "I shoulda asked for something a little more substantial than this here lemury-gun..." Micky said and inspected the tiny, hissing primate that clung to the weapon. Billy the Adolescant pulled out a big, maroon book from a purse he kept well-hidden from everyone else. It was leather-bound and had dog-eared pages-- about 1000 of them. It was a little dusty, and when he blew on it a huge dirt-cloud rose into the air, blinding weveryone and sending them into violent hacking fits. "Ooh..sorry," he said as he opened it to the 68th page. He squinted at it, then brought it up to his nose. He turned it sideways, then upside-down, then wrongside-out. Then, a thought came to him suddenly. "Wait a minute...this book has words in it!" he sighed irately. "Any a' you Monkey kids read?" "Ooh, let Tapioca!" Granola exclaimed. "She always makes the characters have funny German accents!" Billy passed the book to Tapioca. "What IS this?" Tapioca asked, turning the book over and over. "Well, ever hear stuff like 'That's the oldest trick in the book!'? That's THE BOOK," Billy explained. "Read this here page on gunfights, wouldja?" Tapioca proceeded. "A-Ah--AHEM! 'The two gunslingers will practice a special respect to make sure that 20 paces from each other are taken. No more, no less. At the counting of the number 5, both will turn and face each other and fire'.....FIRE??" She started panicking. "Wait a minute, we can't do this! It goes against everything we stand for!" "Maybe Ah'll jest shoot HER," Dead Shot remarked snidely. Tapioca walked up to him and punched him in the nose again. She walked back to her place non-chalantly. The two gunfighters obeyed the book and started walking. Micky's lemur was making life very uncomfortable for him right now, as it's tail was stuck happily up his nose. They each counted their steps. 6...7....8...F...wait a minute... What?! "Well excuse me fer not knowin' how to count to ten!" Bueford shouted. F....9...10... "I'm scared," Mike half-whispered. He grabbed a startled Davy by the shoulders. "Hold me!" Davy brushed him off as quickly as he could. 16...17...18... If Mick goes, I get dibs on his record player," Tapioca said. Davy swatted her. She swatted him back. Pretty soon, a massive swat fight erupted. 19.... "I like jell-o," Pookie thought. He smiled. "'Specially with nuts." 19 1/2... "HEY!" Bueford looked twards the author, who was probably somewhere below him. "There ain't no half-steps in a gunfight!" EXCUSE ME for building suspense! 20. "Shaft" Micky Dolenz and "Dead Shot" Bueford Creamcheese turned and faced each other. Bueford's squirrely gun rose up. Micky's lemur was chewing on his gun. He tried shaking it off, but to no avail. "Ready?" Billy called. Dead Shot cocked his rifle...heh heh heh... er, I mean, loaded. Whatever. Micky observed him and tried it on his own gun. It broke in half. "AIM!" The gun in Dead Shot's hands came up to his eyes. He squinted, ready as ever. Micky held his two pieces up. He attempted to look scary as the scraps of metal dangled from his fingers. Billy was about to announce the last step, when a gigantic burst of light filled the sky. The light shrunk into a glowing, green ball the size of a hockey puck and floated over to Micky's nose. It buzzed for a second as all present stared in slack-jawed awe, and then suddenly exploded into a billion little fizzly, gleaming starballs. As if programmed in by a remote control, the glittery spectacles conformed together to form a nuclear basketball, then burst into a swirling, twinkling, green-blue mass. The porthole had come back. "Quick, jump in while the cowboys are still gawking!" Peter instructed. He lept for the porthole, but was stopped by the lasso, which was STILL keeping him hostage. "Criminy..." He then hatched a plan. He walked over to his captor, who was hypnotized by the swirly, pretty whotsit. He casually picked the end of the lasso up out of his hand and crept off to the hole where the others waited. "Okay, ready, kids?" Mike asked. Everyone nodded. "Where's it gonna take us?" Peter wondered aloud. "Who knows?" Micky answered. "One things certain, better than losing a gunfight!" Mike started a countdown to make it all the neater. "5..." "4..." Davy continued. "3..." Peter said. "2..." Granola trailed off. "Q!!!" Tapioca screamed. At that very moment, all took a gigantic leap into the swishing, swooshing, swirling unknown. PART 7! 7, I TELL YOU! AHAHAHAHAAA!!!! (Clunk!) Ow... "You know what?" Granola asked out of the blue. The troop had been walking for some time in silence ever since the porthole had dropped 'em off. At the moment they were headed down a narrow, grimey back alley in the midst of a dank city. The overcast sky had given the place sort of a dingy, desolate feel and there were faint blares from distant foghorns filling the damp air. Quite a contrast from that little tumbleweed setting the kids had been in just an hour ago... "What?" Micky asked. "Well, I've been thinking," Granola continued. "How come no one ever noticed that Patty Duke's cousin was just a split-scene camera trick?" The others turned their heads, listening intently. "I mean, didn't her father at least feel a TEENSY bit funny talking to thin air? Or was it merely psychosis?" There was a pause, and silence filled the air again. Then... "Granola?" it was Davy breaking the silence. "You're frightening." She hissed at him and he lept back in terror. Snickering, she followed the others, who were following Mike, to a dumpster. He leaned aganst it, propping himself up with an elbow. He quietly disregarded the arm that dangled out of the bin a few inches away and took a breath. "Okay, everyone, it seems we've come across yet another searing question in our zany adventures," he said. "Where'd we get booted to THIS time?" "It looks like Santa's pimp-relm," Micky said as he glanced around the squaller of the alley. "Were we bad?" "Maybe YOU were..." Peter thought a minute and scuffled his shoe at the dark grey asphalt. "Should we ask someone?" Mike's puzzled expression turned to worry. "What if no one speaks English?" "OOH!" Tapioca shouted, "I know Rattish!" She saw a rat scamper out of a hole in one of the dirty, nameless buildings out of the corner of her eye and slowly crept toward it. "Eeew!" Davy scrunched his face. "That thing has diseases!" The little rodent turned to him and made a gesture with it's tiny paw. "Did he just flip me off?!" Tapioca got down on all fours and turned her head downward. "Eee?" The rat sniffed at her. "Eee!" it exclaimed, and wiggled it's nose. "Eee...Ee Eee eee?" Tapioca asked. "Eee! Eee, ee ee; ee...ee, ee (Eeee!). Eeee!" it answered. Tapioca got up and brushed herself off. Her audience looked hopeful. "She says she has a brother with two heads." "That's IT?" Mike asked, quite disappointed. Tapioca shrugged. "Rats tend to just stick to the little things." She walked to the dumpster and noticed the hand dangling out from it's mouth. "Mike, your third arm's fidgeting." Mike turned around and everyone else followed his gaze to a hand which now had five moving fingers lifting feebly. "AAAAAGH!!! ZOMBIE!!!" Davy yelped and hid behind Peter. Peter jumped and hid behind Davy. Davy, seeing his safety plans thwarted, angrily turned and lept behind Peter again. Peter growled and thrust himself behind Davy again. This continued until they backed into the opposing wall. Mike lifted the bin's lid carefully and stood back. A groan came from inside, and the startled kids edged closer. Ever so cautiously, all heads peered in to find a young man slumped face down over an old, soiled mattress with a few protruding springs. He groaned again, more pained than the last time. "Are you alright?" Peter asked the pile'o'man. "Oh, just DANDY," came the sarcastic response. "Help me get him outta here," Peter said as he grabbed the dangling arm. He was always a giver, rescuing kitty cats from tree branches and providing the needy Satanists with fresh sacrifices whenever he could. He was a joy to the pad's neighbors, though all the virgin goats of the area didn't share the sympathy so much. It was a tiring ordeal of heaves and hoes... "Who invited all these prostitutes?" Micky wondered to himself. After one BIIIG pull, the young man , as well as everyone else, went tumbling backward like bowling pins. "Uh, this may be an awkward time to ask," Micky said, "but can you tell us where we are?" The dumpster-child looked up, revealing a pale, young face and brown hair in a sort of budding Beatle-cut. He was faintly freckled on his cheeks and had a slightly pointed nose. He looked to be in his late teens, with a short, slender build wrapped in a leather jacket, black shirt and tight pants. The author drooled, she was getting carried away... "Lime Street," he said. "Lime street WHERE?" Peter asked. The boy raised his eyebrows--ooh, did I mention they were quite lusty as well?--and scratched his head. "Liverpool, where else? Don't you Americans check on these things before you go travelling?" "American?!" Davy said, disgusted. "LIVERPOOL!" The Monkees and freak-girls shouted in unison. Tapioca squealed. This was the Holyland. Granola dropped to her knees and started worshipping while mumbling in strange toungues. "Ooohmmshmoooteck...biiitty- sodaaa....u-mac...." "I like Manchester better..." Davy mumbled. "You would," Mike sneered at him. "What's your name?" Peter asked. The boy attempted to sit up, but ended up propping himself up with an arm. "I'm Stu. Stuart Sutcliffe, to be exact," he told them. "Thanks for getting me out of that mess." "Aaaw, can I keep him?" Tapioca asked and patted Stu's head. "PLEEEAAAAASE?" "No!" Mike said. "Do you know how expensive it is to keep a British boy these days? What with all that alfalfa, sugar cubes, carrots, oat-bags..." "That's horses, Mike," Davy corrected him. "Oh...well, then, go ahead." Mike agreed. Stu pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. (Author's note: For those of you who know your Beatles history, I'm well aware that Stu didn't have this Beatle cut till he met Astrid. But this is my story, and what I say goes! If you act up, I'll hit you...) "What happened to you back there, Stu?" Tapioca asked. Stu straightened up. He took a deep breath, the memory was already paining him. "I was in a club, and I called one of the strippers 'Popeye'. Well, her boyfriend and his gang of mates were sitting at the table next to me. I was promptly flattened like a hamburger." "Not many people like being called Popeye, you know," Davy pointed out. "It's sort of a natural law." "I do..." Mike said quietly, and slunk back into the shadows a bit. His newly-found Popeye fetish was growing with each day, and it got harder and harder to keep it to himself. It started innocently enough with all-night cartoon marathons, but it quickly turned for the worse when he started replacing his green woolie hat with a sailor's cap and even lusting for Olive Oyl. Lucky for him, Peter had taken away the cap and the canned spinach that had been building up in the cupboard. "Her resemblence was uncanny, though!" Stu said while rubbing a swollen, boyfriend-inflicted bump on his forehead. A rather thin, knobby-kneed woman puffed angrily up to the gang. She had gigantic, bulging forearms with an anchor tattooed on each one and out of her scrunched up mouth hung a corncob pipe. She blew on it, and it let out a shrill "TOOT TOOT!" She walked over to Stu and bonked him square on the top of the head. "And don't comesk back, ya letchsk!" she yelled, and stormed off, tooting and mumbling, "I yam whatsk I yam..." as she went. The others stared in amazement as the Popeye-lady disappeared. "Well, where are you headed now?" asked Micky. Maybe they could get a place to stay until the next time warp porthole came along. Maybe the next one, out of some billion-to-one-sky-falling-Bob-Hope-Being-Funny chance, would send everyone back home. Of course, if that didn't work, they could always hassle God... "I'm going back to me mate John's flat," Stu said. "We're going to mess around with the band a bit." "Did you say 'band'?" Peter perked up happily. "We're a band, too!" Stu looked the crowd over. This was the first time he'd ever seen anyone wearing moccassins, and what were MEN doing wearing beaded necklaces? Peter's orange happy shirt just about blinded him and Mike's hat made him look like he'd just gotten kicked off a ski slope. "You'd never make it with a look like that." He stood up, dusted himself off, and began walking. "Come on, I'll ask John if you can linger a bit." "I call him first!" Tapioca shouted and ran up to Stu. Granola grumbled, snapping her fingers in an "Awww, nuts" fashion. Tapioca tugged on Stu's leather jacket. "Can I have a piggy back ride?" "What?" "Ya know," she continued, "Like THIS!" she sprung up and landed on his shoulders. Stu let out an "EEF!" as the girl settled herself. "I get him next!" Granola said. Tapioca didn't hear. She was too busy shouting "YEEEEEEHAAW!!" and various other cowboyish exclamations. She patted his shoulder, and in a curiously manly voice, bellowed, "Who's your daddy? YES, AH AM!" Peter started sulking. Did HE get asked for a piggy back ride? Tapioca never mentioned anything about keeping HIM as a pet... What if she was abandoning him? Was he hungry? Would hamburgers be too heavy for this time of day? Wait...did he even EAT hamburgers?? They reached Stu's buddy's house about 10 minutes later. By now, poor Stu was balancing Tapioca, Granola, Peter, Micky, a Norweigan swim-team, a few goats and Todd Rundgren on his shoulders. He knocked on the door with great difficulty, for Tapioca kept on grabbing at Todd's pants and the swimmers were practicing the backstroke. "John?...JOHN?" The door was answered by a young man who looked to be the same age as Stu. He was dressed in all black as well. "Stuart, what on earth is on your shoulders?" John asked. Mike took a long, hard look at the boy. There was something familiar about this face... Peter and Micky started to wonder, too. Davy was too busy cat-fighting with Todd Rundgren to notice. "And who are these people?" "They helped me out of a dumpster, they're very nice," Stu said. "Can they stay while we play?" "Sure..." John wasn't about to ask about the dumpster. He led the way into his livingroom, and everyone followed except for the Noweigan swim-team, who had all run off to find a body of water. Tapioca ran off down the street after Todd, screaming, "GIVE ME THOSE PANTS! GET BACK HERE!" The Monkees and Granola sat down in all available seats while John went off into the kitchen. "For the last time, Davy, I'm NOT an easy chair!" Mike scolded him irately. Davy got off of him. "Phooey." Mike looked down at his feet, which were now being folded up into his stomach. "I'm not a hide-a-bed, either!" He gave an exhasperated sigh. Why did everyone think he was a piece of furniture nowadays? Well, it was better than the small period in '65 when people frequently mistook him for a baking product. Anything was better than old ladies chasing after him with butcherknives in hand screeching, "Nobody doesn't like Sarah Lee, eh? We'll see about that!!" Davy decided Michael wasn't in the mood to play "Mr. Friend Visits the Furniture Department" today. He plopped down on the couch and twiddled Micky's thumbs. John came back in with Stu and two more teen boys. "This is Paul and George," John announced. Suddenly, the familiar face at the door hit the guests right in the head. "OW!" Peter yelped, and fell off the couch. This wasn't just ANY old John or Paul or George. These were the very Gods themselves, only, before they were gods. The Monkees sat in awe, not moving or making a sound, until the front door flew open. "Suzy creamcheese and a dozen of Hell's bacon biscuits!" Tapioca shouted and slammed the door shut. "I got his PANTS!" She held Todd Rundgren's day-glo bellbottoms up for all to see. When satisfied that everyone had a look, she pulled them over her head and strutted, triumphantly, to the couch and sat right down, oblivious to the fact that the very Beatles, the boys who would soon shape the face of music and thereby change rock n roll forever, were staring at her with worried expressions on their faces. What's the difference between a duck? And other cover-ups revealed in... PART 8! A taste of EVIL! ...and Chutney "So, where do you come from?" John asked, his mouth full of roast beef goo. The Monkee-types and Beatley-types had been jamming for an hour and had just decided to take a break. Paul had distributed roast beef and cheddar sandwiches to everyone. Peter started fidgeting with his sandwich. He was not particularly fond of roast beef. When he was just a little boy, his mother had left him alone with a tiny portion of the stuff for lunch. He took a forkful, and was about to cram it into his mouth, when the meat that lingered on the plate started growling at him. He immediatly dropped the fork, and it stopped growling. Just when he thought the roast beef wasn't looking, he picked the fork up again, and the roast beef jumped up and attacked his face. He never quite got over that... "Well, Los Angeles," Micky said, disregarding the meat statue that Peter was now building. "We're sort of stranded here, actually." "I can't get this cheese out of my teeth," Mike announced. He continued picking at the inside of his mouth. "Stranded?" Paul asked, his doe-eyes fixed on Micky. "Didn't you get round-trip tickets like the other tourists?" "Uh...we wanted to be unique," Micky answered. He wasn't about to tell their story of time-jumping and mall-destroying to these people. Nothing looked worse in a social life than being locked up in a mental home by The BEATLES. Well, except for losing a belching contest to Martha Stewart. Now THAT would suck lysol. Fortunatly, Martha hadn't been born yet. "This isn't cheese," Mike announced, frustratedly picking at his teeth, "It's spackle!" John took another bite of his sandwich. "Me Auntie Mimi'll be home in a half hour," he said. "You'll have to be on your way by then, she doesn't take well to guests. She tried sweeping George off the porch with a broom yesterday." "I still have straw imprints on me bum!" George said. "Wanna see?" The others shook their heads in fright. Stu picked up a bass guitar nearby and started plernking at it. He wasn't very good at the bass, nor was he keen on learning. He just liked the BLLAAAAARRRNG!!! sound that came out with every strum. He went for another swipe at it, but suddenly stopped and screamed. "DAVY!" Mike yelled. He glared down at Davy, who was suddenly being held up by Stu in place of the bass guitar. "That's impossible...How on EARTH did you do that?" "I dunno," answered a trembling Davy. "But I hope I don't do it again..." "I share in that aspiration," said Stu as he looked at where he was about to strum on the poor Manchestrian. He shuddered and threw Davy at Paul like a hot potato. "EEYAGH!" Paul screamed. He dropped his sandwich on Davy's forehead. "OW! Ho-Bag!" Davy slapped Paul on the nose and reached up to eat the sandwich remnants upon his forehead. "Don't slap Paul!" George scolded, and slapped Davy smack dab in the face. "Don't slap Davy!" Micky shouted, and slapped George. "Butt onion!" "Don't slap George!" John yelled, and slapped Micky. "Don't slap Micky!" Mike said, and slapped John silly. "Don't slap John!" Stu said angrily, and slapped Mike. "Don't slap Mike!!" Granola screeched, and slapped Stu. Tapioca got up and slapped Granola. "This is fun!" she giggled. She started slapping everyone about, dancing merrily as she did so. Peter and John joined her, twirling gracefully and slapping people at random. Not but a minute later, a gigantic slap-dancefest erupted, and there was much slapping about indeed. John ceased slapping Stu like the mo-fo he was and glanced at a clock on the wall. "Shite!" "Don't use that language in a slap-fest!" Micky said, and slapped John rather dramatically. "It's later then I thought, me auntie'll be home any minute!" John panicked. "Everyone needs to leave or else I'm in a lot of trouble!" "We can't!" Mike said. "We haven't got a place to go." John sighed and thought a moment, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key finding it's way into a doorlock. "NYEEAIGH! She's home!" John frantically looked around for a place they could all hide. He spied the closet. "Everyone into the coatroom!" The Monkees and Beatles all rushed into the closet and tried to close the door. "It won't close, there's too many of us," Mike said, pulling the door. "We can fit," Peter said, "we just need to be creative about this. Micky, climb on top of Stu." " Hey, now," Micky protested, "I don't go in for those kind of shenanegans. Stu, you're very attractive, but I just don't swing--" "SHUSH!" said Mike. "I think John's aunt is inside. Pile up!" Micky climbed on top of Stu reluctantly. Tapioca got on Peter's back not-so reluctantly, George climbed on top of Paul, Granola jumped on Mike, Davy clung to Stu's knees, and Mike shut the door tightly. "What was that noise?" Auntie Mimi looked around. "John, did you leave the back door open?" "Uh, what noise?" John asked, adding a tiny, nervous laugh. Mimi went into the kitchen and opened the ice box. "What do you want to eat tonight?" she asked, fumbling through the vegetables. She felt something squishy and wrinkly. "The tomatoes are rotten," she announced, and walked over to throw it in the trash. The closet's inhabitants were getting restless and very cramped. "Who's got their hand on my leg?" Peter whispered, frightened. "I plea the fifth!" George exclaimed. "SH!" Paul hissed. "We'll be found out!" "Hey, there's a tutu and fairy wings in here..." Tapioca whispered. "And a feather boa?? Anyone care to explain?" "Uh oh," Peter said. He felt a strange urge coming on. He fought to stop it, but it was growing fast. He should have known better than to stick himself inside a tiny space when a tutu was available... A huge crash and a few screams came from the closet. John's eyes grew wide. "What was THAT? It sounds like it's coming from the closet!" Auntie Mimi stumbled over to the silverware drawer and pulled out a rolling pin. John put his head in his hands, mumbling, "Oh, wonderful..." Mimi cautiously approached the closet, rolling pin at the ready. "Auntie, I don't think you want to--" John started. At that moment, the closet door burst open. Mimi let out a scream as everyone fell out in a pile. Peter stood up, sporting the tutu, a tiara, and holding a glittery magic wand. He held the wand up triumphantly. "I am Peter, the DANDELION QUEEN!!" he shouted. Stu rose from the mess, the feather boa around his neck and the fairy wings on his back. "Tis I, the PUBERTY FAIRY!" Peter took one look at Stu and squealed like a 6 year old girl. He lept over the people on the floor and careened around the coffee table. Stu followed in close persuit. "Come back! It's PUBERTY TIME!" "Way to keep QUIET..." John said. No one heard him. Everyone had gotten up and were now in a conga-line that Tapioca led. She waved Todd Rundgren's pants in the air like a flag. Mimi fainted. Coming soon: Part 9! Where Col. Klink and Angela Lansbury learn that caring is sharing!