Ring, Ring

"Hey, one of you guys gonna get that?" Mike yelled from the bathroom.

No answer.

He peeked out of the bathroom with half of his face covered in shaving cream, and the other half clean shaven.

"You know, I'm a little busy here."

Shifting into a more comfortable position on the couch, Davy's back turned toward Mike as he flipped through a magazine. A signal that he obviously had no intentions of answering the phone.

Peter stretched lazily in the hammock which started it to swinging again. Resting his hand over his chest, he drifted back into his nap.

Micky was pouring through chemistry books, jotting down notes as he did so. He seemed oblivious to the ringing phone, or that there was even another person in the room.

Mike rolled his eyes, and mumbled all the way over to the phone.

"You think that someone in this house can answer the phone. Might be a call for a gig or something. Most likely it's one of Davy's pesky girlfriends. If we're gonna be bothered with those girls, least he could do is answer the phone..." he mumbled, then picked up the phone, "Hello?...No, sorry. No Amy lives here. Yeah, bye!"

"Who was it, Mike?" Davy asked without looking up from the magazine.

"Well, if you were so curious, why didn't you answer the phone in the first place?" Mike asked.

"It was a wrong number!" Micky said without looking up from the notes he was writing. "No Amy lives here."

"There's no such thing as a wrong number." Peter said as he started swinging the hammock again.

"Incredible! Just incredible!" Mike exclaimed as he walked back to the bathroom. "And not a one of them could get up to answer the phone."

"What do you mean, Pete?" Davy asked.

"I don't think running into someone on the street, or calling a 'wrong' number is really a mistake. Everything happens for a reason, and shouldn't be treated so lightly." Peter said.

Micky took time to put his pen down, take his glasses off and peer at Peter with genuine interest in what he was saying.

"So, someone called here on purpose knowing that an Amy didn't live here?"

"No, I don't think so." Peter said, "I'm just saying everything happens for a reason...including a 'wrong number.' You may not know it, and the person on the other end may not know it, but it's true just as I'm sitting here. Who knows? Maybe that person is having a bad day and needs to talk. Or maybe that person might become a new friend."

Micky blinked in surprise at the philosophical thoughts Peter was expressing. "Yeah, I guess that could be true," he said slowly. "But they just hung up when Mike said that no Amy lived here."

"That doesn't mean that something else wouldn't have happened if they'd stayed on the line," Peter replied. "It was a missed opportunity." He settled back into his hammock and closed his eyes.

He was just starting to doze again when he heard a loud commotion outside the Pad. Immediately he leaped up, stunned and looking half-asleep. "What's that?!" he exclaimed.

Davy barely looked up from where he was now doing his nails. "It sounds like a car having trouble," he said with a shrug.

"Well, then maybe we should help." Peter stood up and went to the window, looking out. "Hey," he said then, "there is a car out there. And it looks familiar, too." He frowned, scratching his head. "Where have I seen it before. . . ." Try as he might, he could not seem to place it. But perhaps that was because he was still half asleep. If he had been completely aware of things, no doubt he would have recalled their previous encounters with the vehicle and its occupants.

Micky abandoned his books and came over out of curiosity. "Tan Plymouth. . . . Black roof. . . ." He groaned, turning away from the window and looking ill. "You've gotta be kidding. . . ." This was the last thing they needed right now! Micky had hoped that their paths would never cross again.

Again Mike emerged from the bathroom, this time patting his face dry after finishing the shave. "Who's gotta be kidding about what?" he demanded, seeing Micky's stricken expression and Davy's and Peter's bewildered ones. He blew out his breath in frustration. "I'm not going to like this, am I?" It sounded to him as though they were about to embark on another mad-cap misadventure, and he was not at all pleased. For once he just wanted to relax!

Micky shook his head. "No, I really don't think so," he said with a weak smile.

All four of them jumped at the resounding knock on the door. "Who's gonna get that?" Mike frowned, and then sighed. "Nevermind, I will."

But just as he reached to the door, it was thrown open by Mugsy. Mike jumped back, startled, and stared as the mobster entered, followed by Tony and their other friend. Micky cringed, while Davy did not pay much attention and Peter blinked. Finally Mike spoke.

"Well, uh . . . hi!" the Texan greeted, waving weakly. "It's been a long time. . . . We haven't seen any of you since that thing at the Chanels' place. How have you guys been?"

Tony looked at him coldly. "No small talk. You guys are coming with us," he ordered.

"Now, just a minute!" Davy said indignantly, standing up and going over to Tony. They were about the same height, and Davy glared into the criminal's eyes. "Why should we go with you?!"

"Don't ask questions." Tony nodded to Mugsy. "Take 'em."

For the next several minutes the Pad fell into an uproar as Monkees and gangsters alike wrestled, flew across the room, and ended up in a heap on the floor. The Monkees were absolutely baffled by the entire thing. It was not like Tony to suddenly take such an interest in abducting them. He had never wanted to before, but now, suddenly it seemed to be his greatest desire.

Peter frowned, moving away from the others as they furiously grappled. "Come on, guys, let's not fight," he pleaded. Then he groaned and fell over as something hard hit him on the head. One by one the other three Monkees were also overpowered. It would be a while before they were again aware of themselves.
****
Micky was the first to begin to wake up. He moaned softly, moving his hand across a rough surface, and then struggled to open his eyes. It was dark all around him. Slowly he sat up, running a hand through his hair and brushing it out of his eyes. He could vaguely make out the shape of what looked like parallel bars stretching from floor to ceiling on three sides. A brick wall made up the fourth side. Then he realized with horror that he was in a cell with Mike and Davy, both of whom were laying unconscious on the floor. He stared, appalled, and then grabbed each of them by the shoulder. "Hey! Come on, guys, wake up!" he exclaimed.

After a moment the other two groaned. "Don't do that," Mike mumbled, and Davy followed suit.

"We've got trouble!" Micky persisted. "We're locked in a cell and Peter's missing!"

Immediately Mike and Davy snapped to attention. "He's missing?!" Davy cried in alarm. Shakily he stood up and went to the bars, gripping them as he looked out into what appeared to be a laboratory. "Holy frogs' legs!"

Suddenly they heard a raucous, familiar cackle and they all froze. "It can't be! Doctor Mendoza!" they gasped.

The lights came on, and Doctor Mendoza was standing near the doorway. Peter was standing next to him, a calm expression on his face. The mad scientist laughed again. "Tony and the others did well. You're all going to be part of my experiment!" he declared.

"Experiment?!" Mike said in disbelief. "What experiment?! Come on, man, what's going on here?!"

Micky swallowed hard, images of them being turned into werewolves and vampyres dancing through his thoughts. "I don't wanna be a vampyre!" he yelped, gripping the bars.

"What's Tony got to do with it?!" Davy gasped.

"They've all been brainwashed! And now I will demonstrate how even the sweetest person can turn against his friends," the doctor smiled eerily. "I've been making wonderful progress with Peter." He rubbed his hands together. "Show them, Peter." After having escaped from prison with the help of his faithful lackey Groot, he had gone right back to his old tricks. But now, instead of creating Frankenstein monsters, his pleasure was in dealing with the mind.

Peter began moving toward the cell, holding a knife in his hands.

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