.
Startled, Rick looked up from his notebook, his pencil falling from his hand. "What?"
"What are you writing?" Peter repeated giving him a friendly smile. He sat down at the table.
A boastful look entered Rick's countenance. "Oh nothing very much really. Just a poem!" His smile was full of arrogant pride.
"Oh! You're a poet?"
"That's right! Pretty strange, eh?"
"Wow," replied Peter, "that's pretty groovy."
Rick looked at him, clearly perplexed. "You must think I'm pretty weird, right?"
"No."
"You don't? Well why not?!" he shouted.
Peter's brow creased in confusion. He was silent for a moment. "I don't know," he said finally.
"What do you mean you don't know? This is pretty heavy stuff. Just wait until the kids get into it. Then it'll be all over for Thatcher and her fascist junta!"
When Peter's confused look deepened, Rick proffered his notebook entreating Peter to read. Peter took the book and scanned the page thoughtfully. "'The Fascist Pig'?" he asked. " 'Twas an hour . . .' "
Rick suddenly grabbed the book from him before he could continue. He flipped the page so viciously that he very nearly tore it out. "A bad example," he muttered handing the small book back to Peter. Peter read the page silently smiling to himself.
As he read, a door opened downstairs and Micky entered the kitchen where the two men sat.
"Morning Pete, morning Rick," he said amiably. "Whatcha reading?"
"Oh nothing," replied the Rick, a self-satisfied grin on his face. "Just something I wrote that'll crush the fascist government."
Micky gave him a surprised look and peered over Peter's shoulder. Micky's look of surprise turned in to a wry grin as he read the title aloud. " 'The Fluffy Bunny Playground'? That's gonna crush the fascist government?"
Horrified, Rick grabbed the notebook from Peter and stared accusingly at the page. Micky laughed and went to the cabinet for some cereal as the "People's Poet" looked desperately around for a scapegoat. Rick's eyes fell to Peter, "Uh . . ." he faltered. "I didn't write that! Someone must have put it in there. I certainly wouldn't write something about bunnies," he added unconvincingly.
"I liked it," Peter told him sensing Rick's obvious deception.
Rick rolled his eyes. "You would."
The three men fell silent as the upstairs door swung open, and Mike made his grand entrance. "Enter Mike TheCoolPerson," said Mike stepping on the balcony, "followed by sidekick Vyvyan." Vyvyan stepped up beside him. "Mike looking good as always, descends the stairs. 'Morning guys' he says casually."
"Good morning," greeted Micky, Peter, and Rick.
"Mike strides to the table, Vyvyan in tow . . ." He stopped in mid narration. "Where's breakfast?" he asked returning suddenly to first person.
"Neil's not up yet," Rick told him almost forlornly.
"Oh," said Mike. He took a seat at the table.
Vyvyan moved to hover over Rick from behind. "Sleep well?" he sneered.
"Yes! Very well thank you Vyvyan!"
Vyvyan was about the push the subject further when he noticed the book clutched in Rick's hand. "Oh God! You're not making them read that poncy crap, are you?"
"It is not crap! And it's certainly not poncy!" Rick countered. "Edgar Alan Poe. Was he a ponce? No! He may have dated a cousin or two, but he certainly wasn't poncy! What about Shelly or Wordsworth or Tennyson or Keats, did they camp it up every night? Were they even the least bit poofy?"
"With names like that they'd better be," Vyvyan said and then turned his attention to Peter. "Did he read you the one about the bunnies?"
"You've been going through my things again haven't you?!" Rick accused.
"Yes."
"Well . . ." Rick faltered not having expected an answer to the affirmative. Then, an idea struck. "Going through my poetry, eh? I suppose you fancy it!" Just then, something else struck him, only this time it was Vyvyan's fist. He reeled backwards clutching his chin in pain and bumped awkwardly into Davy and Mike who were making a belated entrance. The unexpected collision caused the three to fall into an unruly pile on the floor.
"Enough," Mike said firmly as the other three struggled in vain. "Vyvyan, go and wake Neil. I want my breakfast."
Vyvyan looked past the pileup to where Neil slept peacefully on the sofa. "No way, Michael. I'm not touching him," he said placing himself in Rick's seat.
"You bastard!" shouted Rick as he finally succeeded in extricating himself from the others.
"So?" Vyvyan responded casually.
"You wouldn't know good poetry if someone crammed it up your bottom!"
"Oh yeah? It just so happens that I have written a poem."
"You?" Rick asked in disbelief. "Now that I'd very much like to see." He stepped over the angry forms of Mike and Davy on his way to the table. Mike and Davy both came to the conclusion that it would be safer to remain seated on the floor lest a brawl break out.
"Alrighty matey," he said and began rummaging through his pockets. Everyone looked on as he pulled from his jacket pockets a knife, and unrolled condom, a dead rat with the head missing, two marbles, a tissue with a strange brown substance on it, a handful of gravel, a biro and another unrolled condom (obviously unused) before finally producing a crumbled piece of paper.
Rick immediately snatched it from Vyvyan's hands. He read a bit and smirked. " 'Crazy Psycho Sex-Machine'?"
"Yeah!" Vyvyan said smiling.
Rick shook his head and threw the paper to the table as though its very thought disgusted him.
Peter took up the sheet and studied it. As he read, his facial expression changed from astonishment to horror to shock before he finally put the poem down.
"Well?" Vyvyan prodded.
Peter thought for a moment before asking him, "What does 'fuck her blue' mean?"
"Well . . ." Vyvyan began as Rick grabbed the paper and began to read it fervently. Vyvyan was about to elaborate further when Mike cut in.
"Enough!" he said firmly. "Now I'm hungry and I want my breakfast." When no one responded he added, "Now."
"It just never ends," the other Mike mumbled as he and Davy dutifully picked themselves up off the floor.
"This is filth!" Rick said, his eyes still moving diligently over Vyvyan's prose.
Vyvyan grinned proudly. "I know."
"It's absolutely disgusting!" he exclaimed trying to place the paper surreptitiously in his pocket.
"The part with the sheep wasn't so bad," Peter offered.
"Yes about that," Rick addressed the author. "How do you finger fu--"
"Rick!" Mike shouted casually from his seat at the table.
"Yes?"
"Go and wake Neil. It's time he made breakfast."
Rick made a show of sighing deeply in annoyance but acquiesced to Mike's demand. He trudged unhappily over to the sofa where the hippie slumbered obliviously.
"You know," said Micky as he swallowed a mouthful of food, "there's cereal right here." As if to further the point, Davy poured some into a bowl, added milk and began to eat.
Mike appeared unconcerned. "Thanks," he replied, "I'll tell Neil when he gets up."
Micky, Mike, Davy, and Peter shook their heads collectively and continued eating their breakfast. Vyvyan and Mike sat and waited for Rick to wake Neil.
Rick stood above the sofa where Neil slept pondering what course of action to take. He tapped his foot for a moment in contemplation and finally decided on a plan. "Neil!" he yelled at the top of his voice. "Neil, wake up! We're waiting on our breakfast!" The effect was negligible. In fact there was no effect at all. The prostrate from on the sofa remained still. Rick looked at it in frustration. "Neil!" he yelled again. His only response was blank stairs from the six in the kitchen. They continued to watch him. The heat was on now. He gazed down at the unmoving form and considered his next move.
The man on the couch was completely covered with a large brown wool blanket. All that poked out of the covering was two shoed feet at one end and a small patch of hair at the other. There being no other way, he resigned himself to the inevitable. He took a deep breath and held it lest the odour from the man gag him and forced himself to take hold of the blanket. With all the might he could muster, he threw back the covering only to find Neil wasn't there. Relief surged though him briefly only to be replaced by confusion. In Neil's place lay a life-size wooden dummy with a stupid grin on its face. He took a step back to take in the scene. "What's this?" he asked.
"It's Mr. Schneider!" said Davy as the six men moved to form a huddle around the sofa. "What's he doing here?"
"Sleeping in Neil's bed by the look of it," Mike answered. "What is it?"
"He's our advisor!" Peter answered jovially.
"Your advisor? No wonder your still living in this shithole," Mike said.
"Ere, wait a minute," Vyvyan said.
"A whole minute?" Rick asked.
"No I meant that figuratively."
"Oh sorry."
"Ere, wait a minute," Vyvyan repeated. "What's this?" he asked pulling on a string by the dummy's neck.
In response, Mr. Schneider said "Your lack of knowledge and imagination will lead you to a premature end."
"It's sounds like a fortune cookie," Rick said as the dummy added:
". . . in bed."
"Brilliant!" Vyvyan yelled pulling the chord again.
"You are the most trumped-up farty little smeghead it has ever been my misfortune to encounter," it said in it's usual monotone.
"Bastard!" Vyvyan shouted tearing the head from the dummy's neck and hurling it malevolently to the floor.
"We never said he was a very good advisor," Micky said shrugging a little sheepishly.
Peter ran to where the head had fallen near Neil's blanket and gingerly picked it up. As he cradled the discarded hulk, he noticed a piece of paper lying nearby. "Look," he said, "Mr. Schneider's left us a note!"
"He's wrong you know," said Rick taking the letter. "It's from Neil."
"What does it say?" the two Mike's said simultaneously.
Rick stared intently at it for a moment.
"Do you want me to have a go?" Davy asked him.
Rick considered this. "Yes you'd better . . . uh . . ."
"Did you lose your glasses again?" Peter asked.
"Yes that's it!" Rick said in relief. "I've lost my spectacles. That's the trouble with invisible spectacles, you know, you can never ruddy find them when you need them."
Davy read the note. It said:
Okay lads, I've gone off to kill myself right because you all hate me so I'm going to like throw myself into the ocean and you'll never see me again. And oh shit my pen's running out of ink! Even my biro hates me! Why can't we all just live in an undeveloped utopia where everyone like gets on well and evil pens don't try to piss on you and bring you down. Damn damn damn. Sorry lads, just had to go find another pen. Not that any of you'd miss me. It probably took you forever just to find out I was gone. Anyway, I don't even know why I bother writing this at all since none of you care whether I live or die so good-bye. I hope you all have a really awful time without me.
Peace
and Love,
Neil
There was a pause while everyone digested this new information.
"He's kidding right?" Micky asked. "I mean he's not serious, is he?" he
added when no one answered.
"Well that puts the rent up by one seventh," Rick said clapping his hands.
Micky, Mike, Peter and Davy stared at him in shocked disbelief.
"Wait a minute, man, are you serious?" Mike asked him. "He's really gone
to kill himself?"
Rick nodded.
"And that's all you can say?" Mike continued, anger creeping into his voice.
"Well what do you want me to say!? Oh no! Boo hoo! Neil's gone what ever
will we do?!" Rick yelled back, equally angry.
"Well shouldn't we do something?" Peter asked near tears.
"Like what?" Rick replied haughtily.
"I don't know. Go look for him?" Peter suggested tentatively.
"Yeah!" Vyvyan jumped in. "I've never seen a corpse before."
Rick looked a bit taken back. "What about that one bloke you found?"
"Uh, no Rick, he wasn't dead," Vyvyan told him.
"But you said . . ."
"He wasn't dead!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Oh, no wonder he thrashed about so much when we tried to flush him down
the loo."
"Yes, and that's why he kept screaming we tried to throw him out the window!"
Rick grinned. "I guess everything does look 20/20 in hindsight. Will wonders
never cease?"
"Right, so shall we go find Neil's bloated corpse?" Vyvyan asked excitedly.
"Now wait a minute," Mike said, speaking up at last. "I'm not combing the
beach looking for Neil's rotting carcass. At least not until I've had some
breakfast." He looked pointedly at Peter.
"What is wrong with you three?!" the other Mike shouted. "Your friend is
probably dead and all you can think about is eating!? You guys are
deranged!"
"No we're just hungry!" said Vyvyan as he stomped back over to the kitchen
table and hurled himself into a seat. Rick and Mike followed him.
"There is something very wrong with them," Davy commented.
"He wasn't our friend anyway," Rick told them upon hearing Davy's remark.
"Yeah, more of an acquaintance," Mike said.
"More like a smelly hippie we all hated," Vyvyan added. Rick and Mike nodded
in agreement of Vyvyan's assessment.
"We've got to do something. Shouldn't we phone the police?" Davy suggested.
"Great! Bring the pigs round. That's just what we need," Rick said sarcastically.
"We've got to do something," Peter said still clutching the wooden head
like a baby holding a security blanket.
"Well I'm going to look for him," the taller Mike stated.
"Yeah, me too," chimed Davy.
"I'll go," Peter added.
"Micky?" Mike prodded.
"Well I'm certainly not gonna hang around here with them."
Vyvyan looked up. "I wouldn't bother if I were you."
"Why not?" Mike asked, exasperated.
"Because he's standing right there," he said pointing to the doorway.
Six faces turned to follow Vyvyan's hand.
Peter, Micky, Mike and Davy gasped collectively turning paler than a sheet.
They looked as though they'd seen a ghost and in fact, for a brief moment,
they thought they had, for just as Vyvyan predicted there stood a bedraggled
looking Neil. His clothes and hair were soaking wet, and he was covered
from head to toe with sand. Around his neck like a boa hung a long green
piece of seaweed and peeking out from his collar was a fish's wriggling
backside. All of this he ignored as he trudged unhappily past the stunned
four and toward the kitchen where three calm figures sat at the table.
He stopped in front of the table and to no one in particular complained,
"Just my luck, low tide."
"Neil, you're alive!" Peter shouted in delight dropping the severed head
of their advisor. He looked as though he wanted to bear hug the dirty figure,
but he restrained himself.
Neil sighed laboriously. "Yeah."
"Neil!" Rick shouted suddenly. "Where's our breakfast!?"
"Well look I'm sorry Rick, but I was a little too busy dying to put any
lentils on, okay?"
"That's all fine and well, Neil," Mike joined in, "but while you were merrily
trying to snuff it, three college students went hungry. Now what
are you going to do about that?"
Neil glared at the assembled group.
"Look, we want our breakfast and we want it right now!" Vyvyan shouted.
"Now?"
"Now!" Rick, Mike and Vyvyan yelled.
The remaining four looked on in sheer amazement as Neil, a man who had
only minutes ago attempted to drown himself, scurried worriedly around
the kitchen while the three others sat boredly watching him. Having had
no time to prepare, Neil improvised. He grabbed a nearby plate, took the
now deceased fish from out of his shirt, wrapped it in the seaweed and
placed it in front of Vyvyan.
"What is this?" Vyvyan asked.
"Uh, it's sushi, Vyv."
"Funny, it looks like a dead fish wrapped in seaweed."
"Yeah, it's sushi."
"Oh," said Vyvyan and began to devour it happily as Mike and Rick looked
on in disgust.
"That is disgusting!" Rick exclaimed.
"Absolutely, so where's ours?" asked Mike expectantly.
"Sorry guys, that's all there is."
"Oh great! Well I guess we'll just have to have cereal," Rick said and
proceeded to pour himself a bowl.
"That's what I suggested in the first place!" Micky said as Mike took the
box from Rick.
"So what? I suppose you want an award?" asked Mike.
"Yeah, an award for stating the bleeding obvious," added Rick.
"Actually I do," Micky said in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
"Okay. Vyv?" Mike prodded.
"Yeah?" said Vyvyan finishing the last of the "sushi."
"Give it to him."
"Righty-ho, Michael."
"Oh no!" Micky said as Vyvyan approached. He picked up his drumsticks which
were laying nearby for protection and began edging for the door.
"Oh yes!" said Vyvyan giving chase.
Micky ran out the doorway screaming followed closely by Vyvyan. Peter,
Davy and Mike looked on impotently.
"That guy is a psychopath!" Mike exclaimed, for once unsure of what to
do.
"Yeah!" Peter agreed. "He's crazy, too!"
"You needn't worry. He won't kill him or anything," Neil said and then
added, "well probably not."
"That's very encouraging. Thank you Neil," Davy said sarcastically.
They needn't have worried. Well not too much anyway. When Vyvyan and Micky
showed up an hour later, both were very much alive. Although Micky seemed
to be limping and strangely enough to be clutching his bottom, he seemed
otherwise unharmed.
During the pair's absence, Mike, Peter, and Davy had contented themselves
on the bandstand. They hadn't actually played anything due to anxiousness
but merely sat around worriedly fussing with their instruments.
Mike, Neil and Rick meanwhile, in the absence of a working telly, sat around
and idly listened to the group "tune" on the bandstand. Occasionally they
would throw out the odd comment or piece of advice such as, "if you don't
stop making that fucking noise I'm going to smash that guitar over your
head," but other that a few such remarks very little was said between the
two discordant groups. So it was a great relief when the two missing factors
showed up more or less unscathed.
Vyvyan was the first to enter. Everyone glanced up from what they were
doing which at that very moment was absolutely nothing. He smiled contentedly
at the questioning eyes and took a seat near his comrades. Rick, Mike and
Neil accepted his presence without much fuss and went steadfastly back
to ignoring each other and more importantly to ignoring the three men fiddling
nervously with their instruments. Vyvyan, catching the mood, joined in
the festivities and promptly said nothing. Instead, he allied himself with
his friends in their task. Their task, for the time being, was to glare
unhappily at the table as though it were the cause of their present trouble.
Their present trouble was that they were excruciatingly bored, and they
were being forced to listen to the racket coming from the stage.
"Dum, dum, dum," sang Mike's guitar as though it were asking the question
frozen on all their lips: "Where is Micky?" Mike, Peter and Davy looked
expectantly from the door to Vyvyan. The latter was now engrossed in trying
to drill a whole through the table with his eyes alone. Neither seemed
prepared to answer the question. "Dum, dum, dum," asked the guitar again.
"Ching, ching," came the answer from Davy's tambourine. Perhaps if anyone
had spoken Tambourine they might have learned the answer to their question,
and just maybe they wouldn't be sitting there nervously waiting to see
if Micky would reappear. However, if any of them had in fact spoken
tambourine, they would have discovered that it knew bugger all about Micky's
whereabouts and was merely stating it's annoyance at being knocked about
all the damn time. "Ching!" it complained again.
"Boom, boom, boom, boom," Peter's base said in an attempt to supplicate
the ailing tambourine.
"Dum, dum, dum," the guitar asked again hoping this time for a more satisfactory
answer. None came. Mike would have asked the question himself, albeit in
English, had he not feared some form of retribution from Vyvyan. So the
question remained unasked and the three Monkees contented themselves staring
anxiously at the once doored doorway.
Luckily, they hadn't long to wait, for only seconds after this instrumental
conversation, Micky entered the pad, alive if not exactly well.
"Micky!" Peter yelled throwing his bass aside. He jumped up and bear-hugged
his limping friend.
"Are you okay, man?" Mike asked running over to assist.
"We were worried sick," Davy added. "What happened?"
Micky hazarded a nervous glance at Vyvyan who merely put on his best menacing
smile in return. "Oh, nothing really," he lied in his best casual tone.
"But you're limping," Peter said.
Micky tried to laugh. "Just a sprain. I'm sure it'll go away in no time."
He put his free hand on Peter's shoulder for support, the other gripped
a broken drumstick, and carefully balanced his weight on both feet. When
it showed every sign of supporting him unaided, he released Peter. "See
no problem." He tried unsuccessfully to grin.
"Come and sit down," Mike said leading him to the sofa.
At this point, Vyvyan gave up on the table and began to watch the proceedings
intently. Rick, Mike and Neil who had taken no interest in the goings-on
noticed Vyvyan's enthusiasm and turned to watch.
As Micky, still clutching furiously to the drumstick, cautiously made for
the couch, Peter, strange though this may seem, was struck with a thought.
"Hey Mick," he began. "What happened to the other drumstick?"
Vyvyan tensed.
Micky paused, his bottom only inches from the cushion and seemed to think
better of it. He straightened slowly back up his feet, his free hand moving
to his bottom as though in pain.
Vyvyan relaxed into a dejected frown.
"I . . . uh . . . I must have dropped it," he answered staring resolutely
at the floor. "I think I have to go to the bathroom," he added and half
walked, half waddled out of the room.
In the kitchen, Mike started laughing. "You gave it to him all right, Vyv,"
he said. Vyvyan joined him in laughing. Rick stared blankly at the two
for several seconds before comprehension finally dawned. He gave a shocked
look, but soon he too joined in the merriment. Neil remained drearily unaffected
although it was clear he understood.
Slowly, Davy and Mike got the joke, but neither thought it at all funny.
Peter looked at their shocked expressions, but his face remained a mask
of confusion.
"I don't understand. What did you give him?" Peter asked.
The question only served to illicit more giggles from those assembled in
the kitchen.
"Only what he deserved," Mike finally squeezed out between gasped breathes.
"Yeah, maybe if you'd pull the stick out of your arse, you'd understand,"
Rick said before the laughter resumed with renewed vigour. Even Neil allowed
himself a brief grin at Rick's joke.
"You guys are sick, do you know that!?" Mike asked furiously. When he received
no response he yelled, "Stop laughing!" He steamed impatiently and waited
for the hilarity to die down.
"You're one to talk," Mike said.
"Just what do you mean by that?" the green-hatted Mike replied angrily.
"Oh please!" Rick exclaimed picking up the thread. "Don't you get all high
and mighty with us. What Vyvyan put in his bottom was no worse than what
you shoved up there last night! That's right, we know what you get up to,
you dirty little perverts!"
"Yeah!" added Neil. "We know about the cats!"
"What are you taking about?" Mike asked, more confused that angry.
"He means menage-a-quatre," Rick explained.
"Which means?" prodded Davy.
The shorter Mike explained. "Two rings, four Monkees and a ramrod."
"Now wait a minute," Mike began. He might have finished his thought if
Micky hadn't chosen that moment to come out of the bathroom. All eyes were
immediately drawn to his posterior. As he entered the room, his walk seemed
appreciably less encumbered and certainly more natural. On his face was
a look that can only be described as intense relief.
"Feeling better?" asked Peter.
"Much," replied Micky still declining to sit.
Silence settled over the room. It mucked about for a while and did the
sort of thing silences usually do. It inspected the place being generally
oppressive and making rather a nuisance of itself before finally deciding
this "wasn't it's scene." It felt this place was too dreary even for it
and left immediately to find someplace "more cheerful" like say a morgue
or a graveyard.
Mike took a deep breath to calm himself. "Okay, this has got to stop."
"What?" the other Mike asked.
"This! All of this!" he shouted, exasperated. "The violence, the sexual
innuendo! All of it!"
"That's right," Davy agreed. "We're not gay. We're as straight as . . ."
"A telephone chord?" Neil volunteered.
"No!" Mike shouted. "This is just what I'm talking about!"
Vyvyan who had been strangely silent, finally jumped in the conversation,
"Would you all just shut up!" he bellowed.
"No I won't," Mike continued throwing caution to the wind. "I can't take
it anymore. You, all of you, are nothing but a bunch of . . ." he tried
to come up with a suitably nasty phrase, but could think of nothing.
"Randy Scouse gits," Micky whispered in his ear.
". . . randy Scouse gits!" Mike hollered.
"That is simply not true!" Rick shouted, furiously jumping up from his
chair. "It's ridiculous! I've never even been to Liverpool."
The argument would have gone on longer and probably would have caused quite
a bit of damage, both bodily and property, if it hadn't been a for a knock
on the door frame.
"Hello?" called out a voice tentatively. A female voice.