The Young Ones Monkees
By Melisssa
Part One: The Meeting

"Well here we are guys, home sweet home," said Mike, stepping out of the passenger seat of a yellow car. His normal casual facade was replaced by a mixture of forlorn disgust as he eyed his surroundings. The place was a drab sort of grey. It looked unkempt and yet it had an almost lived-in quality about it. He stepped closer to the wooden door behind which held his new home. He sighed, shook his head mournfully and turned to face his three companions two of whom seemed to be having a pushing contest in an attempt to get out of the car first. The third, a tall man with long scraggly hair, approached Mike gloomily. He, too, noticed the grim surroundings.
Mike returned to contemplating the door. It seemed to him that something was terribly wrong with this situation, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He noticed his remaining two companions had successfully pushed each other from the car and were glancing around with similar looks of apprehension and dislike.
"God! Just look at this place!" said Rick who had managed to successfully remove a car air freshener from his eye. "What a dump!"
Neil came round to his shoulder. "Oh I don't know, Rick. It's not so bad. I mean look, you can see the beach from here . . ."
"Shut up, Neil!" interjected Rick.
"And look," continued Neil undeterred, "it's even got a front door."
"Our last place had a front door!" shouted Vyvyan, the fourth man, an then for good measure added, "hippie!"
"Well yeah, but it had a huge hole in it," Neil replied indicating a space of about a foot between his hands.
"Yes, which you put there, Vyvyan!" Rick added.
"It was brilliant! We could see who was at the door before we opened it!" said Vyvyan grinning broadly.
"Maybe it would have been brilliant, Vyvyan, if you hadn't then cut it into tiny pieces and nailed it to the ceiling," said Rick.
"Well, I had too. I was drunk."
"That's no excuse young man! And if anything happens to this door," Rick began, wagging his finger at Vyvyan, "I'll ruddy well . . . I'll . . . well, I don't know what exactly, but it'll be bad!" He sighed. "Anyway, it's your fault we were thrown out!"
"It was just a game," Vyvyan said almost sheepishly.
"A game!? And I suppose it was just a game when Hitler annexed the Sudentenlands, was it? I suppose it was just a game when Margaret Thatcher decided to make herself military dictator of England!?"
"I thought Oliver Cromwell was the only British dictator, Rick," said Neil.
Rick glanced at him. "Well yes him too." He turned his attention back to Vyvyan. "Anyway, the point is it's your fault . . ."
Vyvyan, having had enough, backhanded Rick in the face.
"Ow," said Rick, clutching his nose. "Yes, uh," he continued slightly less sure of himself, "as I was saying it's all your fault, Neil, that we were thrown out!"
"Me? I thought it was because Vyvyan set fire to the living room."
"True enough Neil," Vyvyan conceded amicably, "but I was only trying to set your trousers on fire."
"Yeah, while I was in them."
"Exactly!"
"Yeah!" Rick supplied.
"If you hadn't started running around the screaming like a little girl, the living room wouldn't have caught fire!"
"That's right, hippie! It's all your fault," said Rick and was promptly hit once more by Vyvyan.
It was then that Mike, who had been calmly watching the scene unfold, spoke up. "Okay guys, now that the plot's been established, shall we enter?"
"Yes, all right," came the muffled agreement from the other three.
"Right. As one incontinent said to the other, let's go," said Mike. With that the group grabbed their scattered belongings and headed toward 1334 Beechwood.

Meanwhile, inside sat Micky, Peter, Davy and Mike Nesmith. The four were huddled around their small kitchen table oblivious to the mayhem erupting outside. They all had the appearance of men who were trying to think. Judging by the looks on their faces, none of them had had much luck, especially Peter. They had spent the better half of an hour in a state of uneventful silence. Currently, Peter was looking disconsolately at nothing. Mike was involved in a fierce staring contest with the table. Micky and Davy, on the other hand, were engaged in a life or death struggle. For the moment, all was quiet while the battle raged on. Finally Micky broke the silence, shouting, "Tic-tac-toe! Three in a row! You're dead, Dave!"
"Oh!" yelled Davy, "you got me . . . right in the kidney! Help Mike."
Mike ignored the out burst.
Davy went on. "I still say you're cheating, Micky. I demand a recount!"
"Very well," said Micky, glancing at the paper. "Let's see, one . . . two . . . three X's in a row, I win!"
"Anyway, how can you cheat at tic-tac-toe?" asked Peter.
Davy thought for a moment while Micky gave himself a congratulatory pat on the back.
"I don't know, but if there's a way, no doubt Fuzzy here would find it," he said gesturing toward a grinning Micky.
Mike finally spoke up. "Come on guys, this is serious. If we don't find a way to make some money soon, Mr. Babbit says he's gonna throw us out."
"Mr. Babbit always says that," said Micky, still grinning from ear to ear.
"Yeah," replied Mike in his Texan drawl, "and he always means it."
"True, but he's never actually done it," said Davy. " . . . except that one time."
"And don't forget the time after that," Micky added jovially.
"And of course there was that one other time," Davy added catching on to Micky's cheerful spirit.
"Guys I'm serious. We don't have any money, and if we don't have money we can't pay the rent, and if we can't pay the rent he's gonna kick us out," Mike lectured.
Micky grinned. "Come on, he wouldn't really do it!"
"What about Milly?" asked Peter.
"Yeah," agreed Mike. "Remember when he kicked us out and rented the pad to Milly?"
"Oh yeah," said Davy.
Micky turned to Peter. "Ya know, Pete, for dummy you're pretty smart."
"Thanks, Mick." Peter smiled.
"Come on guys, we aren't getting anywhere. What are we gonna do?" asked Mike.
"Why don't we rob a bank?" supplied Micky.
"No."
"We could try our luck in Vegas!" suggested Davy.
"No!"
"We could go on a treasure hunt!" said Peter excitedly.
"NO!" Mike yelled. He stood up and began pacing. "What we need is a good idea."
"Why don't we ask Mr. Schneider?" Micky suggested.
"Ya know Mick, I think that's the best idea anyone's had all day."
Davy grinned. "Sad isn't it?"
Mike walked over to where Mr. Schneider, their wooden advisor, sat and pulled the chord to make him speak. "I am a fish," it said.
A dismayed look crossed Mike's face. "That was helpful," he said sarcastically.
Silence hung over the group as each contemplated what could be done. Suddenly, Peter jumped up from his seat. "I know! I know!" he shouted happily. "Why don't we . . ."
The others leaned in expectantly.
". . . get a gig!"
"Because Peter," Mike tried once more to calmly explain for the third time that day, "if anyone was willing to hire us, we wouldn't be sitting here trying to figure out how to make some extra money!"
"We could get a real job," Davy suggested.
Micky's eyes widened. "Perish the thought!" he exclaimed bringing his hands to his chest in mock horror.
This elicited a smile from all present, even Mike, but as the good humour died so did the discussion. No one spoke for several moments. Peter went back to looking disconsolately at nothing. Mike, acknowledging his prior forfeit, resumed staring fiercely at the table. "We're getting nowhere fast," Micky mumbled as he and Davy began another game.
Picking up his pencil Davy murmured just barely loud enough for the others to hear, "May as well hire tenants." It was then that they heard a very loud thump. It sounded as though someone had hurled their entire body at the door.

"Vyvyan stop it! You're just going to break it!" shouted Rick as Vyvyan hurled himself head first at the door.
"I think you'd better find the key quickly, Rick, or we're not going to have a front door for Vyvyan to nail to the ceiling," said Mike.
"I'm looking," he said searching madly through his trouser pockets. "I know it's in here somewhere."
"Well, there's plenty of room for it in there!" shouted Vyvyan as he staggered backwards and ran once more for the door.
"Oh ha! ha! Vyvyan. I suppose you think you're so clever," Rick said searching through his jacket.
As Vyvyan hit the door the second time there was a distinct crack, but no visible damage. "Yes, I do actually!" he said stumbling away.
"Oh no! Heavy!" cried Neil. "Vyvyan's going to wreck the house and we haven't even moved in yet. Quick Mike do something."
"Rick, I hate to put undo pressure on you, but we need that key!"
"I'm looking, Michael!" he shouted. "Now where did I put it," he mumbled to himself. "Oh I remember," he said pulling a string from around his neck. At the end of the string was the key in question.
Unfortunately for Rick and the door, Vyvyan had already begun his final assault and after a loud crack, he found himself deposited on the floor inside the flat. "Brilliant!" he shouted and promptly stood up to find himself facing four wide-eyed young men. "Hello!" he said cheerily enough. "Who the bloody hell are you?"
Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter found themselves staring mouths a-gape at this strange man, and strange he was indeed complete with spiked orange hair and metal studs in his forehead. Mike was the first to recover himself. "What have you done to the door!?"
Vyvyan looked at the splintered pieces of wood at his feet and replied, "I've broken it."
"Oh very good Vyvyan! Very good! If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, break in the bloody door!" said Rick as he, Mike and Neil picked their way though the remains.
"I just have!"
"Uh, no Vyvyan, that's not quite what I meant. You see . . ." Rick cut himself off in mid sentence having just noticed he was in mixed company. A look of surprise crossed his face but changed quickly to annoyance before he let out with, "Who the bloody hell are you?"
"I've already asked them that!" Vyvyan told him.
"Well have they answered you?"
"No."
"Then obviously you didn't do it right, did you?!"
"Now hold on guys," said Mike coming from behind them with Neil in tow. "Mike TheCoolPerson will handle this. Now," he began, addressing the four confused men, "who the bloody hell are you?"
There was a brief pause while Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter tried desperately to remember who they were. There was a slightly longer pause while they decided if they wanted to give that information to these four strangers. Finally Peter, the most trustful of the group, spoke up. "We're the Monkees," he said.
"Oh, monkeys are you?!" laughed Rick with a snort. "I supposed you hang from trees, eat bananas and play with yourselves in public, do you?"
"Mike, what are we gonna do?" Neil asked nervously. "Vyvyan's broken our door, and we've got squatters in our new flat who think they're monkeys!"
"I've never seen anyone playing with themselves from a tree," Vyvyan said approaching Davy suspiciously. Davy froze in fear, not so much as breathing, while the man looked him over thoroughly.
"I don't think I'd want to see it," added Neil as Vyvyan, apparently satisfied though still watching through squinted eyes, backed away from a very relieved Davy Jones.
Peter was just about to explain when Mike took the initiative and spoke up. "Now wait just a minute. This is our house . . ."
"In the middle of our street?" Rick asked with a smirk.
Mike continued unabated, "Who do you think you are!?"
"I'm Mike TheCoolPerson, and I don't think, baby, I know. Now the question is, what are you doing in our house. Shut up, Rick," he added before Rick could open his mouth. "This is madness, but I'm not talking about the band."
The Texan Mike shot the British Mike a confounded look, but went on. "You must have the wrong address there shotgun, because we live here."
"This is 1334 Beechwood, isn't it?"
"Yes, but . . ." began the tall Texan.
"This is the address Mr. Balowski gave us. Have you considered that you're in the wrong house?"
Mike eyed the shorter man quizzically at an obvious loss for words.
Micky came to Mike's defence. "Of course we're in the right house! Look . . ."
"Right. Rick!"
Rick looked up as though startled to have been brought into the conversation. "Yes Mike?"
"Check the key."
"What?" said Rick, not comprehending.
"Check the key!" said the shorter of the two Mikes.
Confused, Rick took the key from around his neck, held it at arms length in front of his face and began to study it intently. It was obvious he had no idea what he should be checking for. He held the key that way for several seconds while Vyvyan and Neil helped from over his shoulders.
Finally Rick spoke up. "It looks okay to me." Vyvyan and Neil nodded in agreement.
"No, no, no. I mean check it in the door."
Rick looked toward Vyvyan and Neil for support but received none. He headed for the doorway, but thanks to Vyvyan found no door there. He stood eyeing the remains of the door left in the frame, his hand to his chin. The look was similar to that of person in a museum who, in a weak attempt to convince others that they understand art, contemplates a painting which looks like nothing more than a bunch of squiggly lines, but has a pretentious title such as "The Effect of Television Violence in the Desensitization of Youth." In other words, like the museum goer, Rick was completely stumped. Standing amidst the door rubble, he began to study the key once more.
Mike shook his head. "See if it opens the lock!" he called.
"Oh," Rick said, comprehension dawning at last. He found the lock not only in one piece but surprising still attached to what was left of the door. He inserted the key, turned the knob and pushed open the door. A look of triumph crossed his face as the remnants of the ravaged door crumbled to the floor leaving only the handle in his hand. "It works!" he cried throwing away the useless handle and slapping bits of wood grain from his clothes.
"Well lads looks like we're home," said Mike as he, Rick, Neil and Vyvyan made themselves comfortable in the living room. Plunked in various chairs, they seemed to the other four occupants to be as solid and immovable as the pyramids.
Mike Nesmith walked over to the still gaping forms of Micky, Davy and Peter. "What are we gonna do, Mike?" whispered the latter of the three.

"Look don't worry. This has got to be some sort of mistake. We'll get this sorted out," he said sounding more assured than he felt. "I'll call Mr. Babbit and see if he knows who they are. You guys keep an eye on them."