Micky ran to his friend in the kitchen to cower along with them, towels still in hand. The three began to quiver in fear and look around them. The beating now stopped and a voice, a mysterious eerie voice, echoed throughout the Pad.

"What're you beatniks doing in *my* house?" the voice demanded.

"W-w-w-we're not beatniks s-s-sir," Davy stuttered.

"W-w-w-we're just musicians," Peter added.

"Shuddup!" the voice ordered. The four jumped and screamed.

"A-a-a-are you Jess F-F-F-F-Furrly?" Micky asked.

"The same." The lights came on and the boys turned to the bandstand. There, a man stood in a brown suit and hat, white towels sticking out of his coats, pockets and even his hat. "Please to meat yer acquaintance."

"Oh, the pleasures all ours," Mike responded with a hint of sarcasm.

"W-w-w-what're you doing haunting our Pad?" Micky asked.

"Hey, it's not a pad; it's my house," Furrly answered. "I've lived in this house for five odd years and I plan to keep it that way."

"But why?" Peter asked.

"Many years ago," he began reminiscing; "my dad told me I'd never make it as a towel boy. All my life I'd wanted to work at a fancy hotel giving out white towels to all the aristocrats and upper class shmose that walked into the bathroom. Well, I showed him. I worked hard and finally was able to rent this house and go to work. Then, one Halloween, this guy in black came up holding a sickle. I thought, 'great Halloween costume.' Turned out he was really death and I never returned to the house again in live form. And now you know. Interesting, ain't it? Guys?" Furrly looked back into his kitchen investigating the silence. The four band mates had all since fallen asleep in that thirty-second story. Davy was against the refrigerator, Peter had laid his head on the counter and Mike and Micky were asleep on each other's shoulders. This really made Furrly peeved and he did the only loud thing he could.

A crash came from the direction of the garage waking the boys up. They looked around.

"Furrly," Micky announced.

"He's gone," the four exclaimed in unison.

"How original," Furrly's voice echoed throughout the Pad. "Do you know how long I've wanted to get you four boys out of my house?"

"A week?" Davy asked

"Two months?" Peter attempted.

"Forty days and forty nights?" Mike inferred.

"Thirty days hath September?" Micky guessed.

"Years!" the man's voice answered in demand shaking the foundation. "And now I'm going to have you leave my house forever." Laughter bounced off the walls until it faded into a eerie quiet. The four fell silent and eyed the place around for any signs of the ghostly apparition of the toweled kind.

"Where do you s-s-s-suppose he went off to?" Davy whispered.

"I don't know," Mike answered, "but he'd better not be in my closet."

"Why?" Davy asked.

"Would you want a creepy dead towel guy in *your* closet?" Mike retorted.

"Point taken."

Suddenly, a loud blast came from the direction of the garage again and smoke permeated through the living room from under the door. The boys coughed the smoke out of their lungs and fanned it from their face. When they finally cleared their system, the looked at each other realizing the same thing at once as if on some psychic level.

"The Car!"

The group ran to the door and opened it. Davy at the bottom followed by Peter, Micky, and then Mike on the top, the four boys peered into the garage. The sight was horrifying to any car lover. The Monkeemobile's engine was blown and the paint was scuffed. The seat covering was torn with foam covering the seats. And the steering wheel was bent. There was a collective gasp before the group finally ran in to investigate more closely.

"The Engine!" Micky exclaimed.

"The Dash Board!" Mike added.

"The Front Grill!" Davy contributed.

"The Door Handles!" Peter added. The other three looked at him confused.

"The door handles?" they asked together.

"Well you look at the what you like," Peter retorted.

There was an evil laughter from the kitchen. The boys made no hesitation as they rushed back to the room in which they started. There, the sight was awesome and not the kind of "awesome" that is good but rather that is evil--if such a thing excises. Plates and silverware flew from drawer to drawer. Milk levitated out the open refrigerator door spilling and landing in mid air. The breadbox opened and closed sporadically. The downstairs bedroom door opened and shut in rapid motion. Floating drumsticks banged on the drums in a non-rhythmic fashion. Papers, shoes, and miscellaneous objects shot across the room hitting windows, knocking posters off the wall. The Pad was in total shambles. The boys just watched in awe wondering what would make this beast stop.

"I'll tell you one thing," Mike said threw the pandemonium. "He's not musically inclined that's for sure."

"We've got to do something before the who Pad falls to pieces," Davy said.

"Yeah, Mr. Babbit's going to be none too pleased to see this place when he's done," Peter commented. Suddenly, everything once floating dropped to the ground with a loud collective CRASH! The four looked around.

"Did you say Mr. Babbit?" the ghostly voice spoke, revealing signs of fear.

A weakness, Micky thought to himself with a sly demeanor.

"Yeah, our landlord," Micky said stepping forward as if to divert attention from his friends to him. "You know him?"

"Don't mention Mr. Babbit. I HATE Mr. Babbit," Furrly spoke quivering.

"Yeah well, I bet if he found you here doing this," Micky began thinking fast, "he may have to ask for the money up front. Great guy, isn't he? About money, I mean."

"The man threatened to throw me on the street," Furrly retorted.

"Hey Mick," Peter whispered, "What're you doing?"

"Just watch," Micky whispered back to his friends.

"Really?" Micky continued, directing the question to the out-of-sight ghost. And not the out-of-sight that is good but rather the frightening kind of out-of-sight. "Y'know, he still lives in the house just down the road. In the lap of luxury too. Eats three square meals a day and still can't afford to fix this rickety old house." Micky stamped on the floor having the foundation shake more.

"He never fixed the water in here," the ghost continued, appearing in the doorway by the stares. The four noticed and approached him, lead by Micky. "And the roof always leaked. I thought paying my rent on time may hurry him up."

"Yeah, the sink's broken too," Micky added, tying to raise new anger in the ghost,

"Don't forget about the clogged tub," Mike mentioned, catching onto Micky's plan.

"Oh, and the loose rods in the banister," Davy contributed.

"And the mouse problem," Peter continued.

"Still?" The ghost asked surprisingly. "Ya know something boys, I apologize for what I've done to you. I see now you're just a bunch of no-nothing Joes who get less than minimum wage and have to live on bread and water just like me with no future ahead of you." The four frowned and scowled towards each other at the comment. "I'll tell ya what, I'll fix up ya house here and go have a chat with Mr. B, my way."

"Just don't tell him we sent you," Mike said.

"You got it fellas." With that, there was a finally gust of wind, a flash of light and maybe a few rewind sounds here and there and suddenly, the boy's Pad was back to normal with everything clean and fixed. They all looked around in awe--the good kind of awe, not the evil kind with <!!!!GET ON WITH IT!!!!> Right. The three approached their brave ghost buster with congratulatory intentions.

"Wow Mick," Davy said, "you got rid of our ghost *and* got the Pad fixed."

"Yeah man, I'm sorry I doubted you," Peter congratulated.

"Ah it wasn't anything," Micky replied modestly. "But I proved I'm not as scared as you thought, huh Mike?"

"Oh is that what started this?" Mike asked. "We got so far away from the original plot, I completely forgot."