A/N: So we say good-bye to Peter and Mike for a while, but fear not, good and faithful readers, we shall see them again soon. A huge, huge thankyou to anyone who has read and reviewed this humble submission of mine. You are what makes this worth it!

Incidentally, I lied. By accident, but a lie nonetheless. I do have two Monkees which I tend to favour (though not so much in fic writing) more than the others. Can you guess who they are? But I'm pretty sure the answer doesn't really appear in this fic...I hope it doesn't!

Happy reading!

Micky Dolenz was notorious among his small group of friends for his crazy schemes, and even more so, for the uncanny way in which most of them seemed to work. The drummer had always had a flair for the ridiculous, and that tendency had been the catalyst in pulling the Monkees out of many a difficult situation. In his first few months of knowing Micky, these plans had caused Davy no end of worry, but the English boy had come to trust his friend much more since those days.

But this, Micky's newest plan seemed so much more crazy than usual – not because it involved any really strange means, but because it had, in Davy's mind, so little chance of success. There were just too many things that could go wrong.

They had stolen police evidence. They were planning to march straight into what could potentially be a death-trap, despite being expressly ordered by the police to stay out of trouble. They had no real idea of where they were going, or who and what they were up against. Their plan was almost doomed to failure.

"Impersonate thugs, join a bloody gang. Absolute suicide." he muttered softly to himself, letting the hot water pouring from the shower head run in rivulets down his exhausted face. He had only caught about four hours of sleep last night, and the night before had been even worse. Micky had hardly fared better; he slept more, due to his concussion, but his mood when the boys were not planning was unusually quiet and pensive. When planning was in progress, however, the curly haired boy regained his old rambunctious vigour.

But worry was taking its toll on both of them. Davy could see the frown lines beginning to form on Micky's face from the almost constant working of his mind, and the drummer hadn't shaved since the morning before everything had gone wrong. Every time the English boy looked at his own face in the mirror he could see the dark circles under his eyes just a little clearer. It had only been a couple days since Mike and Peter had been kidnapped, but they had heard absolutely nothing from the police. Davy knew that, for both their sakes, he and Micky had to act as soon as possible. The idea of sitting around in the pad while their two best friends were facing God-knows-what was abhorrent to both of them.

Suddenly Davy heard a knock on the bathroom door, and Micky's voice call through the door to him. "Davy, babe, you almost done in there? I need to get in there."

"Give me a moment," Davy called back. "Just gotta dry off."

He went about finishing up as quickly as he could, and when he came put, he looked and felt cleaner and better than he had in a while. Micky looked him over with a mischievous grin that made Davy feel rather uneasy. When he asked Micky what he was thinking, the drummer merely shook his head.

"Nothing, man," he said with a chuckle. "Just don't get to used to feeling clean. Oh, and go and eat something downstairs. Big day ahead!"

With that, he practically skipped past Davy and into the bathroom, leaving his shorter friend staring at the door he had just closed behind him.

Davy slouched over to the kitchen, where he poured himself a small bowl of the cereal Micky had left out. The milk had gone bad; however, there was a little orange juice left, and so Davy decided to tear a page from Micky's book and pour that on his cereal. It was not so bad, he thought, as he ate it and waited for Micky to come out of the bathroom.

Almost half an hour later, Micky had still not emerged. Davy had called multiple times to his friend to make sure everything was alright, but whatever the curly-haired boy was up to was taking a long time. Davy had washed up the bowls and was lounging on the fainting couch with a magazine when the Micky emerged.

"Well, I'm glad you finally decided to grace the room with-" he began, then stopped, looking at Micky in shock. "What on earth happened in there?"

"You like it?" Micky replied proudly. "Meet Mitch Dillon."

Davy could only stare. Micky had always been good with disguises, but he had really outdone himself this time. His wild curls had been smoothed using grease into a dirty looking ponytail. He had applied a small amount of stage makeup to his face with the touch of an artist, adding just about a decade of lines. Now Davy realised that Micky's neglect in daily shaving had not merely been from forgetfulness and worry, but a premeditated act. The infant beard, no more than a light shadow, was just enough to give him an unkempt, scruffy look, aided by the dirt he had rubbed into it. But the real change was not in any physical appearance, but in the very way he carried himself. Within minutes he had gone from an eager boy of nineteen to a scowling, mean looking man of at least thirty, hardened by years of living on the streets. And it was this change, more than any material disguise, which made him almost unrecognisable.

"Wow," Davy breathed, incapable of saying anything else for the moment, and Micky strutted. A moment later, however, he dropped his well-earned pride and marched over to his English friend, seizing him by the shoulders and steering him in the direction of the bathroom.

"Your turn, babe," he said, almost bursting with excitement.

"Oh, no, Micky, please," Davy pleaded, almost desperately. "I just washed."

"Aw, c'mon, short stuff, be a man. No pain, no gain."

Davy hesitated a moment longer, but finally let out a sigh of resignation and marched with Micky into the bathroom.

Micky found it a little harder to give Davy the transformation he had worked in himself. For one thing, the younger boy couldn't grow any sort of beard, not even a shadow, to save his life. And the childlike features were also an issue. It had been hard enough with himself, for trying to make any skinny boy in his late teens look like a hardened thug of thirty was no easy task; however, a little make-up and a studied facial expression had made it unnoticeable to anyone who did not study his face deeply and for quite some time. Finally, Micky decided to go for the what he called the "rough, grubby, street kid look" by giving him a scar and giving his hair a messy tousled look using some of the grease he'd used in his own hair. Then he covered patches of Davy's face with dirt, and rubbed the rest beneath his fingernails, all the while humming like an artist working on the high of sudden inspiration. Davy scowled into the mirror during the entire process, but Micky only grinned harder, saying it completed the look.

Needless to say Davy was far from pleased. However, he did understand the reasons behind his forged identity, and was willing to put up with it for the sake of their friends. In the space of around forty minutes, Davy stood in front of the mirror, regarding his new face with mixed emotions. Part of him admired the change Micky had managed to work in his face, but the other part of him, the small, slightly vain part, missed his old good looks.

Oh well. All for a good cause - the best of causes.

Then suddenly he realised something, and inwardly scolded himself for not thinking of it before.

"Micky, what about clothes? We can't wear our regular stuff!"

Micky, however, didn't miss a beat. "All taken care of, m'boy, all taken care of! Mike's got an old pair of jeans buried in his bottom drawer which'll just look bad enough on you. He never wears them and anyway he wouldn't care if we destroy them considering the circumstances. And I have a really old pair of beat-up sneakers you can borrow, and a pair of gumboots for myself."

"Yeah, that's great," said, Davy, pressingly. "But that's only one pair of pants, and the shoes. What about everything else we need? We don't really have any clothes that would work. Maybe one old tee, but the rest-"

The smaller boy stopped, realising his friend was no longer looking at him, but past him out the small bathroom window. His face wore an expression of thoughtful mischief, and Davy, nervous, turned and followed Micky's gaze. What he saw made him blanch in horror.

"No way, man," he said, shaking his head. "I mean stealing police evidence is bad enough, but this..."

The object of Micky's attention was Mr. Babbitt's laundry, waving gently in the soft sea breeze where it hung on the man's porch, just adjacent to their own pad. The cranky landlord had just returned from his trip to New York, and apparently had forgotten to do his laundry before leaving. On the clothesline hung at least thirty articles of clothing, including one battered, oversized white T-shirt and another equally worn collared shirt of a blue-grey cotton, as well as a holey pair of jeans. Mr Babbitt's brother had a very large garden or something, Micky guessed, and their landlord had probably spent time working in it. But the items he had set his mind on were perfect for his and Davy's purpose. Behind him, Davy was still moaning.

"Micky, we can't just go around stealing people's laundry! Haven't we done enough? How about we just head down to the clothing bank and pick some stuff up there?"

"Because if we go there dressed in the clothes *we* own, their would be too many questions asked. And we can't afford word getting around like that."

"I dig," Davy nodded. "But can't we rob someone else?"

"You scared, babe?" Micky said slyly, knowing that if he wanted the Englishman to do anything, the way to accomplish that was to suggest he was afraid of it. Being short had developed a fierce pride in Davy that compelled him to show as little weakness as possible. And though being one of the Monkees had mellowed this trait considerably, for he knew his friends would not care two figs if he was the worlds biggest scaredy-cat cum cry-baby, he still retained a little of it for cases such as these. Micky's tactic worked, for within seconds Davy had thrown his customary caution to the winds.

"Of course not," he replied, hotly. "If we've gotta rob Babbitt, let's go ahead and rob him! But let's pay him back, sometime, okay? As much as he's a mean old bloodsucker, I don't like to steal and run."

"Well, "steal-and-run" is the usual way to do it, but I know how you feel. You think fifteen'll pay for that outfit? A bit much just for those old clothes, but we are taking them right off his clothesline. Anyway, that way he won't go to the police, because they probably will want to take the money to analyze and he won't want that." Micky said the last almost to himself. Then he looked up at Davy in sudden surprise. "Say Davy, just so as he doesn't evict us afterwards or call that old crank Carstairs at the police station on us, is their anything we can cover our faces with? Nylon or something?"

"I dunno 'bout nylon, but their are a couple of old balaclava-things sitting in the back of mine and Peter's closet. I think the last tenants left them by mistake or something. They'd be perfect." With that, Davy dashed into the room he shared with Peter. In a few moments, he returned excitedly, clutching the ski masks in his hands, though his expression was a little troubled. "Well, maybe not *perfect*."

Micky snorted. The things Davy held were indeed balaclavas, but instead of the traditional black colouring, the knit fabric was dyed a brilliant neon orange. "Y'know I think we're gonna have to pay Babbitt some more, to pay the hospital bill for his heart attack after he sees two walking lighthouses running off with his laundry. You know what we should do to complete this..." Micky then suggested to his younger friend something that sent them both into a fit of giggles.

Drying tears of much needed laughter, the boys tried on the shockingly bright masks, which covered all but their eyes. Then while Davy sorted out the money to give to Mr Babbitt and set the Pad in order, Micky filled a backpack with everything he thought they would need, for once they left the Pad they could not return unless they had Mike and Peter with them, due as much to a personal vow as necessity.

Mr Henry Babbitt was lounging in his bedroom, relaxing after long flight and piles of laundry. He had made himself a coffee, picked up a good book and settled in his personal chair, a large leather one by the window with the view over the porch (attached to the room below) to the sea beyond.
In the background quiet music- Mozart, not that horrible stuff those long haired, weirdo tenants of his played - was playing on his old record player.

Suddenly his peace was disturbed by a rustling from his porch. Thinking that it must be those pesky seagulls messing around again, he got up and went to the window to shoo them away verbally. At the window, however, he received the shock of his life.

It was not the seagulls. Two figures were sneaking through his washing lines. Babbitt supposed they were human, though they looked more like the space aliens on those dumb science fiction shows than any humans he had ever seen. Each was wrapped entirely in an old, billowy bed sheet, covering its whole body save for the head, which was covered by some sort of mask of a bright glowing orange that was almost painful to look at.

The two blundered madly around on his porch, until finally they came to the part of the clothesline on which hung the old clothes reserved for gardening and other such dirt-attracting recreation. The ridiculous creatures then seized these articles and made off with them, the sheets blooming out behind them like sails as they ran.

The whole scene was so bizarre it took Babbitt a full minute to realise that he was being robbed. When the man finally clicked, however, he was furious. How dare these -these *things* steal his laundry! Shouting loudly after the figures to stop, he charged down the stairs, through the living room, and out onto the porch with all the fury of a bull in the ring.

His efforts were in vain. By the time he reached the place the crime had been committed, the two things that were probably men here no more than two small, white shapes on the horizon, the bright orange of their heads now tiny dots no larger than the eye of a needle.

He sighed angrily and shook his head, and turned to go in. He'd hadn't walked a foot before his face collided with the tough wire of the clothesline, one of the wooden pegs catching him in the eye. Mr Babbitt opened his mouth to curse, but only felt further frustration as it filed with paper. Spitting madly, he saw a small piece of paper with two bills attached floating to the ground, which he bent to pick up, still clutching his wounded eye. When he straightened, he examined the paper closely, finding fifteen dollars attached with a note in typewritten font, which read:

Dear Sir:
The Society for the Protection of Primatal Persons, otherwise knows as S.P.P.P., thanks you for your kind gift and offers you this humble token of our undying appreciation.

Sincerely,

G.M. Thomas, Secretary