Author's Note: Still silly. Mike, you're a real trooper, taking one for the team.

The events of the morning behind them, and after a quick clothing change for Mike, the group set up for rehearsals. With a show in two nights, they had to stay on their toes. They could worry about Mike's situation later. He could still play, which was the important thing.

"Run-through time," he said, tuning the last couple of strings on the Gretsch. "Let's give 'Sunny Girlfriend' a try." Not even waiting for comments from the others, he launched into the opening chords.

"Mike," Micky called from behind his drums. "Mike?"

The guitarist was so focused on landing his fingers on the right frets, he didn't even hear his band mate. Davy stuffed a maraca under his arm and grabbed hold of one of the tuning keys, twisting it backwards. It sounded terrible.

"Hey!" Mike gathered up the "Blonde Beauty", holding it close. He fiddled with the strings again, retuning it. "The whole middle part of the guitar just…fell out…"

"Best way to get your attention," the little man said with a sneer.

Mike looked hurt. "Are we gonna rehearse or are you gonna humiliate me some more?" He propped his rear against an amp and worked with the 12-string.

"Considering your current state," Micky sighed heavily, "there are songs you're not going to be able to sing."

"I can sing 'em just fine."

"Not as a girl, you can't."

Mike's eyebrows snapped together, then he took a deep breath and removed his guitar. He gently propped it against the amp and held a finger aloft toward the rest of the band. From there, he stepped onto the balcony…and let out an ear-splitting shriek.

He calmly re-entered the house, and took his place back at the band stand. Davy patted him on the back. "There, there."

"We're not picking on you, Mike; it's just that you'd be singing from the wrong point of view." Micky was careful in his explanation. "It's not like we can change all the pronouns and have everything still sound right."

"I didn't even think about that." Mike perched on the amplifier again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally running through their entire setlist and then some. "Okay… Here's what we do. Peter, you take my vocals on that first one, okay? You've got the closest range." Peter nodded. "Micky, you take 'Girl I Knew Somewhere'. We know your key." He gave the drummer a wink. Micky smiled and saluted. "Davy, you've got plenty enough to sing already, so I may hand the introductions and announcements over to you."

Davy cocked his head sideways, curious. "What are you going to do? Anything?"

Mike shrugged. "I can still play. And I've still got enough of my old range left for harmonies, so things should be groovy." He didn't sound entirely sure of himself, but he still had to lead, darnit.

"You could always yodel!" Peter suggested happily.

Mike pointed an accusing finger at the blonde. "That's shower-only singin' an' you KNOW it, Shotgun."

Rehashing their setlist was abruptly put on hold by a heavy pounding at the door.

"OPEN UP, YOU WEIRDOS! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!"

One shared look among friends, followed by one shared word: "Babbitt."

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE NOISE?"

"Amazing," Micky snarled. "He complains about the noise when he's the one who makes the most of it."

Davy set down his maracas and went to the door. "Looks like it's my turn." He opened the tiny peep door, which was of no use to him since he wasn't tall enough to even see out of it. He didn't need to as it was. Babbitt's face was stuffed against the bars. Davy was certain he could feel the landlord's breath over the top of his head. He reluctantly opened the door.

Babbitt, an unhappy man in his 50s, stormed into the house. "Alright—What's with the screaming?"

The four friends looked at each other, each stuttering out a weak excuse. To Babbitt's ears, it was simply more useless noise.

"That's ENOUGH!"

Sudden quiet again.

"I have enough trouble keeping tenants around here without you numbskulls screaming bloody murder," he grumped. "I can put up with the music, but shrieking, howling, barking, calling for pigs—" He stopped mid-way and did a double-take at Mike. "Who's that?"

"No one!" Micky took the sheet he used to cover his drums and threw it over Mike's head. "No one at all. We'll keep the noise down. Bye!"

Babbit stormed to the bandstand and pulled the sheet off of the guitarist. He peered very carefully at his face, his stare cold and icy. "You look kinda like Nizbaum—"

"Nesmith."

The landlord did something unusual: He smiled. "Who is this? Nishwash got a cousin I don't know about?"

"NESMITH."

"That's his sister, Shug!" Peter offered, smiling. He finally got it!

"Sister, eh?" His tone had softened completely. "Was that you I heard earlier, dear?"

Mike felt a little on the queasy side. He faked his best smile and fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh, heavens, yes. I got spooked."

Babbitt took Mike's hand in his and patted it. "Spooked? Whatever for?"

"Uh, um….A mouse! I saw a mouse." He pointed at the flooring near the deck. "Little gray feller, just skitterin' along—eep-eep-eep—an' land-uh-goshun, I just went all to pieces." He wiggled the fingers of his free hand, demonstrating the "mouse's" travels through the pad. He made sure to exaggerate his Texas accent. "He skeered me so much, I must've overreacted." Mike fanned at his face for dramatic effect. "I am so sorry, Mr. Bennett."

"Babbitt."

"Don't take it out on these sweet city boys," Mike went on, really going for his role as a panicked damsel. "It's not their fault. I'll do my best not t'git all riled up again while I'm here." He tilted his head just enough for his hair to fall entirely over his left eye. He added a pout for good measure.

The landlord's cheeks were getting redder by the minute. "Well, as much trouble as they are sometimes…" He looked at the other three boys. "I guess they're not that bad. I'll have that mouse problem taken care of for you, sweetie. Don't you worry."

"The kitchen sink doesn't drain either," Mike added.

"I'll see what I can do." Babbitt patted Mike's hands, then cheerfully went to the door. "You kids stay out of trouble with this nice little lady around. I don't want to have to come back up here!"

Once the door had closed, Mike pretty much collapsed in a heap on the floor. "UGH."

Micky stood and applauded. "That, my good ma—WOman, was AMAZING. Emmy consideration!"

Mike sat in the floor, gagging. "I feel disgusting."

Davy crouched beside him. "What was that look you gave him? That was priceless!"

"That? Oh, that's the look I used to give Aunt Kate back when I was a kid and I wanted my way. She always hated that look." He stuck out his lip in a perfect pout and looked at Davy, who felt his own face get a bit warm.

"That's powerful stuff, that is," he declared, looking the opposite direction. He flailed his hands at Mike. "Put that face away, man!"

"Funny thing is, it never worked on Aunt Kate."

Yes, Mike utilized an old stereotype cliche, but it was to save everyone else's bacon. You KNOW Babbitt wants to kick those boys out. Mike's probably going to have the booboo jeebies for the next six months.

Babbitt did have that brief crush on Micky as Mrs. Arcadian, so now Micky and Mike can commiserate. Here boys, have some ice cream and a blankie while I get to work on part six. *cuddles the wondertwins*