Monkees of Anarchy A bunch of long-haired weirdos and some vicious people

Remember this scene?

INT. The Henry Cabot Lodge

“Hold it! What’s all the noise about? Hold it! — Oh, of course! You must be the boys in the band! Wonderful, wonderful!”

“Wonderful? It is?”

“It’s amazing how quickly you got up here.”

“Thank you. We, uh, we pack sort of fast. And we unpack sort of fast too.”

“Isn’t that dumb?”

Well, what if the guests at the Henry Cabot Lodge were members of another motorcycle club…?

· · ·

“What kind of people have you got coming up here? Senior citizens visiting their grandparents? Ha ha ha!” Peter giggled.

“We get a nice selection of elderly folks up here,” Mr. Blauner confirmed, “But don’t worry; this afternoon, we have some old ladies coming.”

“Oh, well,” Mike commented sarcastically, “That should be fun”.

A rumbling noise approached the lodge. “That must be them now,” Mr. Blauner reckoned. “Now get out there and show them a good time!” he ordered.

In walked four women: Gemma Teller, Tara Knowles, Luann Delaney, and Cherry. The Monkees perked up. The musicians exchanged grins and scrambled to help the women with their luggage.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Micky said, grabbing Gemma’s bags.

“Back off, Fuzzy,” Gemma said, pushing Micky to the floor, “I can take care of myself.”

“’Ey, wot’s that you’re workin’ on?” Davy asked Tara, who was carrying a pile of books and papers.

“My doctor’s thesis,” she replied.

“Ohh… why can’t your doctor work on ’is own thesis?”

Tara raised an eyebrow at Davy.

Mike strummed his mandolin. “Her name was Luann,” he sang, “And she rode into town on a ho-ah-ah-ahhhhhhhhg.”

Luann yawned.

“A jug of bread, a loaf of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness,” Peter recited to Cherry.

“Oh, Peter, you’ve quoted the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever heard.”

“Does that mean we can go out together tonight?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I only date bikers,” Cherry said.

“Bikers?” the Monkees echoed. Suddenly, they were all dressed in leather jackets.

An even louder rumbling than before approached the lodge. In rode the Sons of Anarchy: Clay Morrow, Jax Teller, Tig Trager, Opie Winston, Chibs Telford, Bobby Munson, Piney Winston, Juice Ortiz, and Half-Sack the prospect.

Clay grabbed Micky by the collar. “Alright, punk. What’s the name of your club, punk?” he growled.

“Uh, we’re… the Chickens!” Micky gasped.

“Right! Right!” the other Monkees agreed quickly.

“We used to be called like, the Fearful Four,” Mike added, “and we used to be called like, The Cowards.”

“The Ye-ye-yellow Bellies,” Davy stammered.

“Right, the Yellow Bellies,” Mike said.

“I ain’t never heard of no Chickens,” Clay said skeptically as he inched closer to the cowering musicians.

“Come on, Clay,” Gemma said, “Leave them alone. They’re harmless.”

“So you turned my old lady against me?” Clay asked.

“No we didn’t!” The Monkees insisted.

“We don’t even like her!” Peter added.

“You sayin’ my old lady ain’t good enough for you?”

“Now, listen, Clay —” Gemma interrupted.

What’d I tell you about diggin’ into club business?” Clay scowled at Gemma. He turned back to the Monkees. “Well, if you punks think you’re so tough, be outside the lodge tomorrow at noon, and we’ll see who’s tough.”

In the lodge basement…

“Order, order, can I have some order please?” Mike said as he banged his gavel on the table.

“Uh, a bagel with cream cheese and a cream soda.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Oh, excuse me.”

“We,” Mike began, “the Order of the Chickens —”

“Bwack, bwack, bwack!”

“— have been challenged,” Mike continued. “As president of the Chickens —”

“Bwack, bwack, bwack!”

“— I move that we take some course of action immediately.”

“Right.”

“We leave,” Mike proposed. “Right? Let’s put it to a vote. All in favor? …Yay.”

“Yay,” Peter agreed.

“Yeaaaah,” Micky growled, nodding intensely.

Davy sat silently for a prolonged amount of time for dramatic effect. “Yay,” he finally said.

“Yay!” all the Monkees cheered.

Mike banged his gavel on the table. “Then let’s go!”

The band made their way upstairs, but they were soon met by Clay and Tig. The Monkees turned around and gave a pained look to the camera. Clay and Tig exchanged confused looks.

In the lobby…

“Alright, Davy,” Mike coached. “Here’s the plan. There’s a group of girls staying upstairs; they’ll be leaving for lunch any minute now. When they do, you cause a distraction, and I’ll slip out the front door and go get help!”

“Right!”

“Go get ’em, tiny!” Mike punched Davy in the arm.

Davy giggled nervously and walked out into the middle of the lobby. He glanced at Jax and Opie, who were keeping guard by the front door. Davy glanced at his watch and bounced around anxiously.

Soon, a crowd of girls appeared at the top of the stairs. “Oop!” Davy ooped. He grinned and winked cheesily at the girls.

The girls stopped suddenly, gasped, raced down the stairs towards Davy, then past Davy, then surrounded Jax.

Davy blinked, confused, and then, realizing what had happened, crossed his eyes and grabbed his stomach. “Oh, Mike — Mike!” he cried, staggering towards his bandmate.

Mike patted Davy’s head. “There, there. It can’t be you every week, little fella.”

Later, in the lobby…

Micky and Peter entered the lobby, dressed in pinstripe suits and fedoras. Bobby and Piney were standing guard by the entrance. Micky and Peter stuck their hands in their pockets and whistled, attempting to nonchalantly stroll out the door.

“Hold it. Where do you guys think you’re goin’?” Bobby asked.

“Eyyy,” Micky said coolly, “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Uh… nowhere,” Bobby answered, confused.

“Exactly,” Micky replied, poking Bobby’s chest. BOINK, BOINK, BOINK.

“Stop that!” Bobby said, annoyed, as he batted Micky’s hand away from him.

“I don’t think you know who this is!” Peter said to Bobby, “This is the Big Man!”

“*I* know who he is,” Piney said, “And he ain’t no Big Man”. Micky and Peter jumped, noticing the gun Piney had pulled out.

“Hey, wh-what’s with the gun?” Micky asked nervously, breaking character.

“Whaddaya think’s with the gun?” Piney growled.

“Hey, Bob, that’s not right!” Peter complained, looking off-screen.

Bobby looked around, confused. “Who’s he talkin’ to?”

“I think they called the cops!” Piney remarked.

“You ratted?! You RATTED?!” Bobby cried incredulously, shoving Peter.

“Okay, you dirty rat,” Micky said, grabbing Peter, “I’m gonna get you, you dirty rat!”

“Micky! It’s me — Peter!”

“You’re the rat that killed my brother!”

“No, Micky, I never — hey, wait; you don’t have a brother!”

“I — oh yeah. Hey, sorry, man; I don’t know what I was so upset about.”

Piney cleared his throat and pointed his gun at the musicians.

“Oh, right!” Micky remembered.

“AAAAHH!” cried the two Monkees as they raced off to their room.

Once again, in the lobby…

Peter and Davy entered the lobby and looked around for the motorcycle club. Peter spotted Chibs and Juice standing by the door and approached them.

“Oh, hello there!” Peter smiled.

“Wayawan?” Chibs replied.

“Um, well, I was wondering, my friend over there is from England, and I was wondering if maybe, you know, you Brits could work something out?”

“HabahrehbehsabasahbahabarabaSHITE,” Chibs spat.

“Uh, I, uh —” Peter scratched his head and made a face, trying to comprehend what he had heard.

“Aysad,” Chibs mumbled, bringing his face close to Peter’s, “HabahrehbehsabasahbahabarabaSHITE.”

Peter’s bottom lip began to quiver.

“Wauhyagucrana?” Chibs taunted.

Peter blinked repeatedly, trying to hold back his tears, but it was no use.

Davy, who had been examining his nails, glanced at Peter, then back at his nails, then his eyes widened as he glanced back at Peter again. Davy approached Chibs. “’Old on, ’old on. Did you make ’im cry? If you made ’im cry, I’ll make you cry, nyahhh!” Davy made a mean face.

“Hey, y-you can’t talk to Chibs that way!” Juice interjected.

“Oh yeah?!” Davy challenged him.

“N-n-no…” Juice started to sob. Seeing Juice cry made Peter start crying harder, and seeing Peter cry harder just made Juice cry even more.

“Not again, Petah!”

“Nauhgehn, Jiwseebah!”

“Ah, come on, let’s go!” Davy said, frustrated, pulling Peter back to their room, while Chibs did the same with Juice.

Once more, in the lobby…

“Come on, Mike!” Micky begged his bandmate, who refused to come out of the upstairs guest room. “You’re… our last… chance!” Micky propped his foot against the door frame, reached into the room, and pulled Mike out. POP! Mike steadied himself and stood in the hall uncomfortably, wearing a blonde wig and a green dress.

“I’m not gonna do this, I’m not gonna do this…” Mike murmured.

“Get down there!” Micky ordered, pushing Mike towards the stairs.

Mike cleared his throat, smiled sweetly, and then glared at Micky. Mike made his way down the stairs. “Oh ho ho, don’t mind me, just an innocent young girl,” Mike squeaked, “Nothing to see here, hm hm!”

Mike walked daintily towards the door to make his escape. He turned around and glared at Micky again, then continued walking backwards towards the door until he bumped into something. Mike reached behind his head to feel what had stopped him; he winced upon realizing it was a person. Mike turned his head around slowly until he was face to face with Tig.

“You’re beautiful,” Tig said, mesmerized. Clay, who was standing nearby, put his head in his hands.

Mike glared at Tig, then shifted his gaze to glare at Micky.

“You know, you remind me of someone very close to me,” Tig continued, his gaze fixed on Mike.

“Oh, isn’t that nice,” Mike smiled sarcastically and patted Tig’s face lightly. Mike surveyed the area quickly, and then attempted to make his escape.

Tig grabbed Mike by the waist and pulled him back. “I have her picture here, would you like to see it?” Tig asked, pulling out a photograph.

“Mick. Get. Overhere,” Mike his gritted teeth and called to his bandmate while struggling to get away from Tig.

Micky obliged and hopped down the stairs. “Ah, so I see you’ve met my friend,” the drummer said to Tig, stifling a giggle.

“She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Tig replied.

“Cool it, Tig, cool it,” Clay instructed. Tig absentmindedly started twirling a strand of Mike’s wig in his fingers.

“Why I oughta…” Mike murmured, making a fist.

Micky elbowed him hard. “Stay in character!” he whispered.

“Ow!” Mike pulled Tig’s hand away from him and smiled sarcastically again. “Why, I mean, uh, aren’t you just a doll? Hm-hm.”

Tig froze. “How could you say that?” he asked, offended.

“Say what?”

Tig stared off into the distance with a horrified look on his face. “I don’t like dolls…”

Micky and Mike looked at each other for a beat, and then burst out laughing. “Bwahahahaha!”

Clay pulled Tig aside. Tig shook his head and came out of his trance.

“Hey, are you just gonna take that?” Clay asked him. “Whaddaya think we should do with these punks?”

“I say we fight,” Tig said, “Our honor has been smirched.”

“What?”

“Smurched.”

“What?”

“Bedirtied.”

What?

“Well, they hurt my feelings,” Tig pouted.

Clay approached Mike and Micky, who were still laughing hysterically. When they didn’t stop, Clay shoved them both up against the wall. The Monkees gulped. “Go get the rest of your crew,” Clay growled, “Meet us out front in ten minutes. No weapons. No witnesses.” Mike and Micky exchanged exaggerated worried glances.

Outside the Henry Cabot Lodge…

The Monkees and the Sons stood on opposite sides of the road in front of the lodge. A crowd of spectators gathered to watch.

“Okay, which of you wants to fight me?” Clay asked.

“Well, we all wanna fight you —” Mike started.

“I’ll take you all on!” Clay challenged.

“No! Uh, we can’t, because, it’s against, uh… it’s against club rules!” Mike claimed.

“Right, right, the rules!” Davy repeated.

Clay raised an eyebrow, “Oh really?”

“You see,” Micky explained, “whenever a member of the club gets in a tense situation that demands courage, valor, honor, and everything, it’s his loyal duty as a member of this club to chicken out.”

“Chicken out!” the other Monkees echoed. “Bwack bwack bwack!”

“Well, we have to settle this somehow,” Clay said, rubbing his chin. “What do you suggest?”

The Monkees grinned.

As the Sex Pistols’ version of “(I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone” begins to play, the Monkees and the Sons engage in various competitions to determine which club is the winner, including:

  • Half-Sack and Davy having a boxing competition!
  • Bobby and Micky having an Elvis impersonator contest!
  • Opie and Mike having a wool hat tug-of-war competition!
  • Juice and Peter playing Go Fish!

Meanwhilst, several nonsensical vignettes occur, such as:

  • Tig mistakes Micky for a girl!
  • Jax and Davy have their shirts off for some reason!
  • That homeless woman shows up!
  • Piney disappears for the entire romp and no one notices!

As the song comes to an end, Clay steps out into the middle of the road. “Alright, we won! Which one of you wants to be destroyed first?”

“Him!” Peter pointed to Davy.

“Nope, no,” Davy shook his head.

“Micky?” Mike volunteered.

“Draw straws?” Micky suggested.

Clay grabbed Micky by his collar. “Should I tear you apart with my hands, or run you over with my bike?” The other Sons surrounded the Monkees.

“Oop!” Davy ooped, as the Sons inched closer.

“Is there a problem here?” Police chief Wayne Unser approached the feuding clubs.

“Oh, hello, officer! Certainly glad to see you!” Peter said, relieved.

“Officer!” Mike cried, “Arrest these men!”

“Why? Whadda they do?” Unser asked skeptically.

“Uh, threats of violence!” Peter said.

“Yeah!” the other Monkees chorused.

“Possession of illegal firearms!” Micky added.

“Yeah!” the other Monkees chorused.

“An’ uh…” Davy looked around, then jerked his thumb at the girls surrounding Jax. “They think ’e’s prettier than me.” The girls giggled and batted their eyelashes at Jax, who smirked back at them.

Unser surveyed the area and saw Clay lifting Micky off the ground, Jax holding Peter in a headlock, Bobby getting ready to swing a guitar at Mike, and Opie resting his arm on Davy’s head.

“There’s been no crime here,” Unser declared, “and there won’t be one here.” He turned to Clay, “Let me know if these kids give you any more trouble.”

Clay nodded at Unser, then turned back to Micky. “Now, where were we?” Clay asked.

“Hold it just a minute, buster,” came a voice from a nearby police car.

“’Oo’s tha’?” Davy asked.

“Agent June Stahl, ATF,” the woman replied, showing her badge. “I’ve been alerted to the presence of wanted criminals here at the lodge.”

“We’re saved!” the Monkees cheered.

Stahl approached Micky. “Baby Face Morales?” she asked, “You’re under arrest for illegal alcohol trafficking.”

Wha?” Micky asked incredulously, as one of Stahl’s men prepared to handcuff him.

Stahl approached Mike and Peter. “And you’re under arrest for unauthorized use of explosives”.

“Now wait just a minute!” Mike protested.

Stahl approached Davy.

“Wot about me?” Davy asked nervously. “Wot am I under arrest for? Heh heh, uhhh…”

“You,” she said, tilting her head sideways and staring intently at Davy, “are under arrest for being far too good looking for your own good.”

The other Monkees glared at Davy, who shrugged and smiled.

“I think he’s kinda cute,” Tig remarked.

“You would,” Clay replied.

“Come on, boys,” Stahl called, heading back towards her car, “Let’s go down to the station.” The other cops proceeded to handcuff the Monkees.

“Hold on now,” Mike said, “This isn’t right at all!”

“Yeah, we’re the good guys!” Micky explained.

“We’re the Monkees!” Davy added.

“This is our show!” Peter persisted.

“It seems this show is different,” Clay said smugly.

The police officers led the musicians, who continued to protest, to the police car.

“Hurray!” cheered the Sons of Anarchy.

And the bikers all hugged each other and lived happily ever after.