Once the Monkees went back to their pad, Mike picked up the phone, and called his aunt Kate in Texas.
"Michael, I know you've been wantin' to learn to fly that broomstick," Kate said. "But I can't help you. I'm too old to ride a broomstick."
"Aunt Kate, you're only in your late forties!" Mike shouted. "That's not old! Come on, you have to teach me. You know Mom's never around to help me with these things, and you're the only one I know who can help!"
"Look, Michael, the only thing I can tell you to do is practice. That's all I can say."
Mike sighed, hung up the phone, and decided to give the broom another shot. He straddled it, squeezed it, and shot upward once again, this time, banging his head on the ceiling.
"Ow!" he shouted. Then he crashed to the ground, landing flat on his rear end.
"You all right?" Micky asked, coming into the room.
"Oh yeah," Mike said, standing up. "Just banged my head on the ceilin', that's all."
"Mm hmm," Micky said, nodding. "How many times do I have to tell you not to practice flying in the house, Mike?"
Mike picked up his broom and left. What he needed was a good flight instructor. He told that to the other Monkees, and the three of them just started laughing.
"What's so funny?" Mike asked.
"Well, this whole thing," Davy said. "You know 'ow to play the guitar, right? And you can't fly a simple broomstick?"
"What kind of a warlock are you?" Micky asked.
"Oh, stuff it," Mike said. Then he walked off, leaving the other Monkees laughing their heads off about the entire situation.
At any rate, Mike went out back out to the beach again to give it another shot. He dropped his broom, rubbed his hands together, picked it back up, straddled it, squeezed it, and waited. Once again, he shot upward. Davy and Micky walked out once he did.
"Is it supposed to just shoot up there like a bullet coming out of a gun?" Micky asked.
"I dunno," Davy replied. Suddenly, Mike came crashing down, like a dive bomber, complete with sound effects.
WHAM!
"Mike, are you okay?" Micky asked.
"Yeah," Mike said. "I'm all right. Sure."
"Good, 'cause I wanted to ask you something."
"Sure, shoot."
"Is it supposed to shoot up there like a bullet coming out of a gun?"
"Now what do you think?"
"No?"
"Bingo."
Mike stood up, picked up his broom and walked off. Micky looked at Davy and shrugged. Then the two of them followed Mike. They stopped at the street corner.
"What are you gonna do with that broom now, Mike?" Davy asked.
"Try and beat the traffic," Mike said. "Watch this."
"Uhh, I don't think you should try it, Mike," Davy said. "I mean, not 'ere. Especially with your take offs and all. I mean, someone might see you, and you might get hurt."
"Listen, Davy," Mike said. "It's rush hour, and nobody's going to be payin' any attention to me. And it's a perfectly open area! I can't possibly get hurt unless I crash land in the middle of the street."
"But Mike, listen a minute!"
Mike didn't listen. He straddled his broom, squeezed it and shot upward. But he didn't get too far. He collided with the street lamp. CLANG! And then he crashed landed, knocking himself out. Micky grimaced and let out a loud groan.
"You're standing below a street lamp," Davy said.
"Come on, Dave," Micky said. "We'd better get him to a doctor or something."
Davy nodded, and helped Micky pull Mike into a standing position. Then they practically dragged him to the doctor's office. Mike regained consciousness once they got inside.
"Now how did you get that concussion?" the doctor asked.
"I bumped my head on a street light," Mike said.
"Normally, I'd tell you to watch where you were going, but this bump's on the top of your head. Explain please."
"Trust me, doc, you'd never believe it!"
The doctor left it at that, and the three Monkees went back home.
Once back at the Pad, Mike went back to the beach to get some practice in. The other three were watching him.
"If it isn't supposed to shoot up like that, what is it supposed to do?" Peter asked.
"Rise up gradually, and then go forward," Mike said. "I just haven't gotten the hang of it yet."
"Maybe if you got up on the roof and jumped from it," Davy suggested. "That might be your problem."
"Hmmmm," Mike said, thoughtfully. "Could be."
Mike went inside, and ran up the steps. He was now on the roof of the Pad. He straddled his broom and squeezed it. Then he jumped off the roof. He staid in mid air for about two seconds. Then he came crashing down. He landed on top of their landlord, Mr. Babbit.
"Argh!" he shouted.
"Uh, sorry, Mr. Babbit," Mike said, a little sheepishly. "But thanks for breakin' my fall."
"Yeah," Mr. Babbit said, sourly. "Do that again, and I'll break more than your fall!"
Mike shrugged and then glared at Davy. Davy laughed sheepishly, and then went back inside. Micky and Peter others followed, not wanting to get in the way of Mike's temper. Mike shook his head, took his broom, and continued to try flying it. Franky was watching from the window as he did.
"Maybe he oughta watch movies with witches in them," he said. "Maybe he'll be able to pick up what he's doing wrong."
"Good idea," Peter said. "But I have a feeling he won't want to hear it right now."
Franky shrugged and went to the kitchen table to do his homework. Mike continued flying that broom stick for awhile. Finally he crashed directly through the window and hit the floor face first.
"That had to hurt," Franky said.
"You ain't kiddin', buster," Mike said, standing up. "I may have knocked my jaw out of alignment."
"Maybe you should quit for the day, Mike," Peter said.
Mike nodded. He agreed to stop for the day, but he planned on picking up where he left off the next day.
Morning rolled around, and it was back to square one. Mike picked up the broom, straddled it, and squeezed. It shot up in the air like a bullet coming out of a gun (as usual), and then took off faster than a bullet! He had to hold onto the broom for dear life! It was like that broom had turbo speed. He was going so fast, he caused a giant wind wherever he passed. He blew some man's toupee right off his head. Newspapers went flying all over the place. Mike crashed through store windows (coming out without a scratch amazingly), destroyed displays, and he was still going! He continued along a path of destruction, but it was all unintentional. He was flying too low, and too fast. Things got in his way, since he couldn't stop that broom, so whatever was in his path got demolished. Finally, he came back to the Pad, and plowed through the back doors. The other three Monkees had to move out of the way pretty fast to avoid getting hit.
"Heads up!" Micky shouted.
Finally, Mike crashed directly into the wall, which finally stopped him.
"Ooooohhhhhh," the other three Monkees groaned, grimacing.
"That 'ad to hurt!" Davy shouted. "'Ey Mike, ah you okay?"
"Anybody get the license number of that truck?" Mike asked, somewhat in a daze. He shook his head to regain his bearings.
"Seriously, are you okay?" Peter asked.
"Yeah," Mike said. "I'm all right."
"Do us all a favor, Mike," Micky said. "Don't learn to ride that thing."
Mike just glared at the drummer. He was about to go back outside to practice, when he thought better of it. Instead, he decided to pick up his spell book, and study it to see if he could figure out what the heck he was doing wrong. He was so absorbed in it, he was startled a bit when Franky got home from school, and slammed the front door.
"Hey guys!" he shouted. "I need a huge favor!"
"Do me a favor first, shotgun," Mike said, closing his book. "Don't slam the door."
"Sorry," Franky said, a little sheepishly.
"So what's the favor?" Micky asked.
"My school's having a carnival on Saturday," Franky said, "and they need parent volunteers."
"And you told us we'd play, right?" Mike asked.
"Well . . . not exactly," Franky said.
"Then what exactly?" Mike asked.
"Well . . . ." Franky said, a bit hesitantly. "They assigned me and this girl to work at the dunk tank, and . . . ."
"You must be joking!" Davy shouted.
"Wha?" Micky asked. "The dunk tank?"
"I don't know about that," Mike said.
"Why, Mike?" Davy asked, with a chuckle. "Afraid you'll melt?"
"What a world, what a world!" Micky shouted, imitating the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz.
"Cut that out!" Mike shouted, giving Micky a whap in the shoulder.
"Come on, you guys, please!" Franky shouted. "It's for a good cause! The school is talking about getting rid of the art and music programs if they don't get enough money!"
"Yeah, and music is important," Peter said. "Come on, fellas, what do you say?"
"Well . . . ." Mike said, as he thought it over. "Yeah, okay, we'll do it."
"Thanks, fellas!" Franky shouted, giving the Monkees a group hug.