Mike closed the back door of the Monkeemobile with his foot, balancing two large paper bags, one full of cans and the other full of bread, butter, and milk. He was glad to finally be home. After a gig like they'd had last night, it was time to stock up, and he'd had to go a little into town for all of this.

Assuming no one would be inside on a beautiful day like this, he put the second bag carefully by his feet and fiddled around with the keys, having trouble, not because of the number of keys, but the number of keychains Micky and Peter had been accumulating.

Eventually, he got the key in the lock and pushed the door ajar, picking up the bag and using his hip to push it fully open.

"Miiike!"

Mike would not have seen anyone in the room if it hadn't been for Peter's cry for help. He looked up to see Peter suspended, by his feet, from a rope attached to a hook on the ceiling, that he'd never noticed before, and subsequently to the balcony. He looked miserable and his face was going red.

"Peter!" Mike put his groceries down in a hurry. "How'd you get up—"

"Mike!" someone hissed urgently. It took him a moment to find Davy crouched behind the couch. He darted out and grabbed Mike's arm, dragging him over.

"What—? Davy, I've got to get Peter down. What are you—"

Davy pulled him down and shushed him. "Quiet! He's coming!"

"Coming?" Mike said, annoyed and still trying to get up. "Who?"

"Micky! He's finally lost it! I always thought that 'e would, but 'e'd gone so long I was beginning to change my mind, but now 'e's gone 'round the bend!"

"Mike," Peter beseeched, starting to sob. It suddenly occurred to Mike to wonder how long Davy had neglected Peter out of fear of Micky. He went to stand up again and Davy was immediately hanging onto him. Then he whispered loudly, "He's coming from the deck!" and grabbed Mike's waist, dropping them both down with his full weight.

Mike fell completely, and, having no time left, quieted down for Davy just as the door opened.

Peter whined as Micky came in, hoping for sympathy anywhere at this point.

"Peter?" Micky said, sounding to Mike's ears quite like his normal self. "How did you get caught in my snare?"

Snare?

"Let me get you down."

Mike nodded contentedly. "Let me go help," he whispered to Davy. Davy waved his hands about in a big "no."

Micky's footsteps stopped by the front door. "Mike?"

Mike stood up. "Hey, Micky." Micky smiled in welcome. "Come on," Mike said. "Let's get Peter down."

Micky just stepped sideways and looked down at Mike's feet. "You!" he shouted.

Davy let out a girly shriek and jumped up. Micky gave enthusiastic chase and the two ran around the pad. Mike could hardly keep up with his eyes. He had never seen Micky run so fast, let alone Davy. In fact, he was surprised Davy stayed ahead considering how much shorter his legs were. Just above his head, Peter whispered, "Mike. I'm starting to feel sick."

Mike looked up in some alarm. Peter's hair looked funny from this angle. "Sorry, Peter. I'll get you." He looked for an opening in the circles being run around him and took the first opportunity he could to get to the stairs.

"Mike! Help! He's crackahs!"

Micky giggled maniacally in response, which did not help his case. Mike ignored them for the time being and made it up to the balcony. He looked with consternation at the knot on the rail. It was not something a boy scout or even a toddler would approve of. This might take awhile. He got to work, pulling at loops and congested tangles at random.

The chase continued, now accompanied by slamming doors and crashes. "Sorry, Peter. You're going to have to hang on a moment."

"I'm already hanging," Peter mumbled.

The cymbals crashed and Mike looked up. Davy was trying to tug his jacket on over the pair of red maracas in his hand, dancing around the drum set and open guitar cases. "Hmm." Mike got back to work on the knot.

"I'm going to Samantha's!" Davy screeched.

"Oooh! Ow!" Mike had caught his finger in a loop that had a lot of weight on it. He pulled his finger out and the knot gave, rope zipping away from him. Peter and Mike both yelped and Mike grabbed the rope for Peter's life. It ended up pulling him up till his feet were the only thing hooked in the railing. Peter jerked to a stop with his head just above the lounge.

Mike now found himself also suspended above the scene playing out below. Davy now had an armload of swimming trunks and clothes, tambourine clanging with every step, over his head like a necklace, and he wasn't slowing down because neither was Micky. Peter was also observing. "Davy, you forgot provisions!" he called.

Davy jumped the couch and Peter squeaked. Davy missed him, but Micky shouldered him and set Peter—and Mike—swinging.

"Micky! Geez!"

"Thanks, Pete!" Davy threw over his shoulder, scooping up the groceries Mike had just set down.

"Davy, where are you— Wait!" Mike yelled as Davy sped through the front door and slammed it behind him.

Micky, still in hot pursuit, ran full tilt at the closed door. "Micky, no!" Mike and Peter chorused. There was a thunk and he fell flat out on his back, unmoving.

It was suddenly very quiet without all of the shouting and running, with the best of Davy's percussion accompaniments. "Micky?" No response.

Peter groaned.

"I know," Mike grunted. He waited a few moments while the pendulum slowed, hoping he could hold on and lower them both safely to the floor. His muscles were burning.

He looked up and looked down and gulped. Growing up in Texas, he'd never done much climbing—of trees, rocks, or ropes—and only hoped he could manage this.

"Okay, Peter." He looked down at Peter, who was trying to brace himself against the couch. "I'm going to jump off here so hopefully I can reach the ground and then lower you, okay?"

Peter nodded wordlessly.

"Okay..." He measured the fall. He should land beside the couch. He just had to try not to kick Peter. "Three. Two." He pulled one foot out. "One." He pulled the other.

Successfully holding onto the rope and successfully missing Peter, he did not successfully make it to the ground. He heard a cracking noise and cautiously looked up at the makeshift pulley that only allowed he and Peter to come level.

The plaster was cracking.

"Oh, man."

"What?"

"Watch your head, Pete."

They both fell, in a tangle of arms, legs, and ropes, approximately on the couch.

~M~

Micky opened his eyes and immediately closed them because of the light. He threw his hand up to shield them but hit himself on the forehead through a towel full of ice.

"Ah!"

His head throbbed all sorts of terrible and he groaned.

He heard dishes clinking. "Look who woke up."

The voice sounded like it wanted answers. Micky wasn't ready to give answers. He indulged in another groan.

He felt the someone sit on the couch with him. That someone started knocking on his arm. "Hey. Open up."

Micky sighed and carefully opened his eyes. He spotted a hole in the ceiling first, then he focused on what Mike had in his hand.

"What is this?" asked Mike, with all of the rhetorical sting of a mother who knows exactly what this is.

Micky answered anyway because it was better than explaining it. "A Baby Ruth bar."

Mike's eyebrows rose. "Why was it sitting in the middle of the floor?"

Micky tried to read his expression. He wasn't sure why Mike was so upset about the candy bar. Usually, as per their Officially Living Together Agreement of 1965, Micky could keep whatever he could hide, and if Mike found one he just sold it to the neighbor kids for a nickel.

It hurt to think so hard, which is why he was grateful when a bowl of steaming soup was set on his stomach. He looked up at Peter's worried face.

"My mother always said that a bowl of hot broth will get the truth out of anyone."

At that Micky grimaced. He didn't like how everyone seemed to be blaming him. It wasn't his fault.

"Thanks, Pete," he mumbled, still grateful for the bowl that was warming his middle. Peter smiled happily, as only Peter could, and returned to the dishes in the sink. Micky noticed his pant cuffs were rolled up and his ankles looked chaffed.

Micky looked down at the soup greedily, then, feeling Mike's glare, decided it could wait. He didn't like that glare. He tried to sit up and had to catch the ice pack while Mike caught the bowl of soup.

Micky looked around and was suddenly alert despite the headache. "Where's Davy?"

Mike set the soup aside and opened each of Micky's eyelids in turn, comparing pupils. "You scared him off with all of his worldly possessions and our groceries. Then you ran into the door."

Micky grimaced. "Oh." He rubbed his temple.

Mike looked unamused. He threw the candy to Peter, effectively letting the matter slide. In return, though, he wanted more answers. "What's with the trap?" he demanded. "And who were you trying to catch?"

Uh oh. He couldn't answer that. "Umm..." He frantically looked around the room, trying to think of why he would need a giant snare in the middle of the living room. "...uh, I was trying to catch... a... raccoon!"

Mike's interest was piqued. "A raccoon?"

"Oh yeah. A real vicious one, pointy teeth and— and bright eyes, foaming at the mouth..." Micky swatted at the air as he described the rugged beast. From across the room, Peter was intently listening, making horrified faces at every adjective Micky pulled out.

When Micky was finally done describing said raccoon, Mike was already intent on a solution. "Well, then, I guess I'll just call animal control so they can get the raccoon before it causes any damage."

He got up to reach for the phone and Micky yelped, "No! I mean... ah, I've got it completely under control. No need to call anyone."

Micky had leapt off the couch and immediately regretted it, partially because he was feeling extremely light-headed and partially because of the look on Mike's face. He slowly breathed in and held his head as he sat back down on the couch.

Mike looked at him again. "You have it completely under control?" he asked skeptically.

Micky ignored the fact that Mike was looking pointedly at the ceiling and the tangle of ropes stringing from the balcony.

"Yep," he got out, still concentrating on the pain in his head. When Mike didn't say anything, Micky looked up. Apparently, he wasn't convincing. He had to lay down his ace. "It'll be a lot more money to call them." He half-heartedly put on an act—really just the voice—of a salesman. "I'll do the job at no charge to you, and I'll see it gets done right, oh don't you worry. Now, is it a deal?"

Mike relented. "Alright, fine. But try not to catch any of us." He got up and returned the bowl of broth to Micky. "Now you rest up. It'll probably take some time for that mark on your forehead to go away."

"Mark?" Micky felt his forehead, alarmed.

With a slight, less-than-sensitive smile, Mike said, "You ran into the peep-hole."

After a pause of realization, Micky sighed and lay back down on the couch, imagining the wrought-iron design printed in red on his face.

"Peter?" Mike questioned. Micky looked over at the sink because of the tone: the Mike-is-in-a-mood-and-better-not-do-anything-that-isn't-sensible-tone. "Why are you feeding the birds again?"

Peter looked up in confusion from the kitchen windowsill where he was carefully portioning out and placing the pieces of candy bar. "Well, because... they like food? It's nice to them."

Mike closed the window but left the candy where it was. "Come on. I'll help dry before I go back to the store."

As the other two finished the dishes, Micky settled in to think, studying his failed trap, the front door, and the bandstand.

Davy would have to wait.