Same Old Story: Every Monkees Fanfic Ever Written
- Fan Fiction
- Laugh 1
- Laugh 2
- Paul Is Sick
- Same Old Story: Every Monkees Fanfic Ever Written
- Spice Up Your Life
So there I was, in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar surroundings. There was some object, not larger than a breadbox, but not smaller (nor was it the same size, smarty pants). It appeared to be an everyday object, yet, there was something about it… I took a closer look, and suddenly, it happened. It was indescribable, but I’ll describe it anyway. Nothing to say, nothing to hear, and nothing to see, and yet everything at the same time. And although that was an inappropriate reference here, there will be many, so get used to it.
And then, suddenly, I could feel the sand beneath my feet, I could feel the sunlight caressing my face, and I could smell the Californian ocean breeze. I knew it was California, despite the fact that I had never been there, and yet, somehow, I knew that I was always meant to be there…
Someone walked by humming an old familiar tune, something like “Do Wah Diddy”, and I noticed that they were not, in fact, old enough to be my grandma, but instead, just a young kid. A slightly familiar looking young kid, but nevertheless. I looked up to the conveniently located nearby street and saw a shiny old hot rod. And then another, and another! They must be on their way to a car show. Oh, those crazy cars.
And then, out of nowhere, I will feel something. Maybe I’ll be hit with a volleyball, or bump into a person I didn’t notice was there, or step on a wool hat that just happened to be lying on the beach. A young man will speak to me. Perhaps he will ask if I’m alright, or maybe he will laugh and do an impression of the inimitable James Cagney, or perhaps he will tell me to watch where I’m goin’, or maybe, with stars in his eyes, he will tell me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Which, you know, now might be a good time to expand on that thought, because he’s right, of course. My hair is gorgeous and shiny like silk in the morning sun, and my eyes, well, you could get lost in them for days. They are an absolutely stunning shade of brilliant colour. There is also a long list of positive personality traits with which I am associated, but enough about me. More about what’s happening to me.
I looked further down the beach and noticed a familiar beach house, and even further, a familiar rock formation. It suddenly clicked. I smirked and looked down at the sand below my feet. “Why must it always be the beach?” I wondered, as I emptied the sand out of my shoe. “How unoriginal.”
It was then that I decided I wasn’t going to let this play out as it always does—oh no. After all, there’s only so many times you can get involved with some foreign spies and secret microfilm or a princess being forced to marry. Well, I guess what I mean to say is if you’ve read one time travelling Monkees fan fiction, you’ve read every time travelling Monkees fan fiction.
“Uh, excuse me, miss…”
“Ah, here it comes,” I thought, grinning to myself, “The old ‘meet cute[*]’”. I turned around. “Oh, hello there,” I said.
A tall, slim Texan stood before me. Texas just oozed out of his pores, so I could tell he was Texan. I also knew he was Mike Nesmith, but I’m not supposed to use his name yet. “That, uh,” the lanky guitarist cleared his throat, “seems to be my hat, there.”
“Oh, is it?” I asked innocently. I picked the hat up. “Here you go,” I said, handing it to him.
“Thanks,” he replied, dusting the hat off.
When he didn’t leave, I smiled and said, “Well, have a nice day.”
He gave me a strange look. “Uh… are you alright?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not, uh… you’re not, you know, shakin’ or nothin’.”
I raised my eyebrow. “And that indicates I’m not alright?” I asked.
“Well, usually girls who just appear on the beach here do that. Shakin’, or faintin’. We’ve had a few fainters.”
“No, I’m alright, but thanks for your concern,” I shrugged.
“Oh, well, okay.” He walked backwards a few steps before reconsidering. “Um, should I send Davy over?”
“Who?” I asked, pretending not to know.
“Um, cute little British guy, ’bout this high?” he said, putting his hand at just about hip level.
I shook my head.
“Alright, uh, if you say so,” he said, and walked off, scratching his head.
As soon as I turned around, there was another Monkee in front of me.
“It won’t work,” the bass player said, shaking his smooth and shiny blonde hair.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you know where you are?”
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“There are rules here. Things have to happen a certain way: the same way they always have, and the same way they always will. There’s no use trying to change it, and there’s no use trying to leave.”
“How do you know all this? Are you TV Peter, or real Peter?”
“I’m the good parts of both combined.”
I nodded. “I probably should have known that.”
“It seems you have two choices,” he said.
“Well, you can play along, or—
I shuddered. “Phew! What was that? It felt terrible!”
Peter smiled sympathetically.
I thought about what he had said for a few moments. “You say I can’t change anything?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You mean, I’ve gotta be a… a Mary Sue?”
“Well, that’s certainly no fun,” I thought and sighed. “Alright, so what do I have to do?” I asked resignedly.
Peter leaned closer and peered deep into my eyes. I stood there nervously. After a few moments, he leaned back and licked his lips. “Miiiike!” he called. I looked at Peter inquisitively. “You’ll know what to do,” he assured me.
Mike returned. “Hey Peter,” he whispered to his bandmate, “What’s goin’ on, man? Is she supposed to be here?”
Peter smiled widely. “Yeah. She was just a little confused is all. I’ll leave you two alone,” Peter said and walked away.
Mike wiped his hands nervously on the front of his pants and approached me cautiously. “Well, uh… I guess you must be hungry after all tha… uh, no, I guess you didn’t really, um…” he trailed off. “Er, why don’t we go to the pad, and I can I get you something to eat?”
I sighed. “If we have to.” We walked over to the Monkees’ back patio. Mike held the door open for me, and we went inside. He walked over to the fridge, and I sat down on the chaise longue.
“You don’t look very impressed,” Mike noted, nervously.
“What should I be impressed about?” I asked, looking around skeptically at the uncoordinated decor.
“Well, people always seem dazed when they walk in here for the first time. Never did understand it myself.” Mike muttered and opened the fridge. “Gee,” he said. “All we’ve got is—”
“Cream of root beer soup?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said dejectedly.
“That’s alright. I probably wasn’t supposed to be hungry anyway.”
Mike walked back into the living room and sat down next to me. He tilted his head and looked into my eyes as if he was searching for something. “There’s somethin’ different about you,” he observed. His previously uncertain and nervous demeanour had disappeared, and he suddenly became quite serious.
“Different?” I asked, intrigued. I rested my chin on my hand and smiled at him. We sat in silence for a few moments before I noticed a fluttering feeling in my stomach. Somehow, Mike seemed to notice it too, as I could detect a slight hint of a smile forming on his lips. I laughed nervously and quickly looked away before I could get sucked into those deep, gorgeous, brown…
“No! I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen!” I reminded myself.
I jumped up abruptly and wandered over to Mr. Schneider’s chair. “So, uh, wh–what do you do for fun around here?” I stammered, not really interested in the answer. I absent-mindedly knocked on Mr. Schneider’s head, contemplating how to make my escape.
“Well, uh, there’s the beach, and the discotheque. Me and the guys were going to head down there later.” He smiled, “Heh, you see, we’re a rock and roll group called The Monkees, and—”
“I know you are,” I said impatiently.
“Oh… Well, hey, look, I’ve got this new song, if you’d be interested in—”
I grimaced. “Oh, a song, great,” I said sarcastically, then, with feigned excitement, added, “Maybe later, Mr. Babbitt will drop by for last month’s rent payment, and then we can go to the Vincent Van Gogh Gogh and run around doing silly things completely unrelated to the plot! No thanks, buddy,” I said, heading for the door. I didn’t care what Peter said; I was getting out of there. “It was nice meeting you, but I have some things to do that don’t involve being a walking cliché. Have a nice life. Goodbye,” I said, with a short, quick wave. I reached for the door handle, when suddenly… BANG!
“Hiya, Mike! You won’t believe what I—hey, when did we get a girl here?”
“Ah, Micky, now look what you did! She’s out cold! I’ll get some ice.”
The drummer kneeled down over my unconscious body. “Gosharooney; I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there! Are you alright?”
My eyes fluttered open. “What the…?”
“Oh, good, you’re awake! Well, hi, I’m Micky, and—”
“I know who you are,” I said groggily, sitting up. I rubbed my forehead where the door had hit it and grabbed onto a nearby coffee table to lift myself up.
“Whoa, careful there; don’t get up too fast,” Micky warned, taking my other hand to steady me.
I looked at Micky.
He looked back at me.
There was that damn fluttering again.
Mike began to approach with some ice, but he stopped abruptly. “Ah, no. Not this again.” He threw the ice down on the kitchen table and slumped down in one of the chairs.
“Not what again, Mike?” Micky asked obliviously.
“Ah, you know,” he said, waving his hand towards me and Micky, “The thing where we all gotta fall for the same girl. It’s just too stressful. I’m just, I’m done with it. I’m through. I don’t wanna do this any more, man.”
“Well, hey, wait a second, Mike,” Micky said, approaching the guitarist. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Yeah, but you did the whole door bit, and the looking into her eyes thing, and that’s not cool, man. You know better.” Mike walked over to me and wagged his finger, “Now look, Jinny, you’ve got a make decision here.”
I flinched. “How did you know my—”
“Now, I’m not interested in playing any silly little games, nosiree bob, and if that’s the way you want it, babe, then I just don’t want any part in…”
I stopped listening; I couldn’t take it any more. When he looked at me like that, I didn’t care about being a cliché. I wanted him. Originality be damned.
“…so what do you have to say for yourself?”
I looked down at my feet and blushed. “Um… the fish eat my furniture?” I said sheepishly.
Mike didn’t move a muscle.
“My clothing is radioactive?” I continued.
“The house glows…”
“…with almost no hel—” I threw my arms around him in a frenzy, and he furiously pressed his lips against mine.
In between sucking each other’s faces off, Mike managed, “Where are you staying?”
“Here, duh,” I gasped.
“Groovy,” Mike grunted.
“Uh… I’ll just let you guys, um… yeah,” Micky said, backing out the front door. He headed to the beach in search of Peter.
Instead, he ran into Davy.
“Hey, have you seen Peter?” Micky asked.
“Eh, I think ’e’s over there,” the Englishman pointed towards the shore.
“Thanks,” Micky said and began to leave.
“’Ey, wait!” Davy called. “Why don’t *I* get to be in the story?”
“She’s with Mike,” Micky informed him.
Davy rolled his eyes. “Oh. Well. That explains it.” Davy shook his head and crossed his arms. “Those ones are nevah nice to me.”
“Hey Peter!” Micky called to the bass player. Peter turned towards him. Micky grinned and gave him a thumbs up.
“It worked!” Micky announced.
“Are you sure?” Peter asked cautiously.
“It’s definitely a Mike,” Micky assured him.
“That’s good,” Peter smiled, but his expression quickly changed. “Oh no!” he cried.
“What?” Micky asked, alarmed.
“There weren’t any time travel references!” Peter facepalmed.
“Well, I’m not going back and redoing it!” Micky shook his head defensively.
Peter sighed. “Did Mike call her ‘shotgun’ yet?”
“Then it’s not over.”
Meanwhile, at the Vincent Van Gogh Gogh…
“So…” I asked Mike, “Do you take all the girls who appear on your beach here?”
Mike smirked as he played with his soda straw. I picked up a French fry and was about to take a bite when Mike said, “Ah wouldn’t do that if ah was you.” I looked at the fry dumbly. “It’s rubber,” he informed me. I looked at the cheeseburger. “It’s plastic,” he said.
“I know,” I said. I bounced the fry on the table. “So, uh, what’s the plan here exactly? What’s on the agenda for this act?” I asked.
“Well, ah suppose there’s gotta be a song soon.”
“Aw, do we have to?” I groaned.
“Yeah. I don’t see any way around it. You got any preferences?”
“Well, in that case…” I thought for a moment. “Are you going to be singing the song yourself?” I asked. Mike nodded. I smiled slyly. “‘The Day We Fall in Love’.”
Mike’s face fell. “You must be joking,” he said. I grinned. “You know, I don’t have to do this,” Mike warned.
“I think you do,” I said smugly. I leaned forward. “I think just like *I* can’t get away from you guys, you can’t stop playing your part.”
Mike leaned forward and whispered. “You’re right.”
“So how do we get out of here?” I whispered back.
“Shh!” Mike shushed me. “Not so loud!” He looked around anxiously. “If you don’t play along, bad things can happen.”
“Like what? Who’s making bad things happen?” I asked.
Mike looked down at his soda as if there was something he wanted to say, but couldn’t.
“Me?!” I asked incredulously.
“Well? Who else?” Mike shrugged.
“Whoa. This is getting way too meta,” I said, sitting back. “If I’m controlling everything, why can’t I do what I want? Why can’t I leave?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he said. “No one’s ever wanted to leave before.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. I bounced another French fry on the table. “So how long have you guys been bringing strange girls into your pad and falling in love anyway? How many times have you been married? How many kids do you have? What do people do to you?” I asked.
Mike shook his head. “I’ve seen some bad things; there are some people with real messed up ideas out there. I’m just glad you’ve been benevolent so far.”
“I would never hurt you,” I assured him.
We sat in silence again, pondering our predicament.
“Mike?” I asked nervously.
“What happens when it ends?”
Mike was silent.
“Lissen, you’re a nice girl. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Mike!” I repeated urgently, “If you know something, you have to tell me!”
“Well…” he hesitated, “It’s just like… I go to bed one night, and you’re there, and then the next morning… you’re just… gone. Like ya never existed in the first place. Like nothing we did even matters.”
I could feel tears forming in my eyes. “How long do I have?” I asked quietly.
Mike shook his head resignedly. “Could be a few years, could be a few minutes.”
I nodded silently.
“Hey. We’re gonna find a way out of this, okay? We’ll make sure you stay here until we can get out. Both of us.” I gave him a half-hearted smile. “You okay?” he asked.
I nodded; it was a lie.
Later, back at the pad…
“Come on, guys, we need to rehearse,” Peter said, tuning his bass. The other Monkees got up on the bandstand and started getting ready. I sat on a chair in the living room.
“Any requests?” Mike asked. I smiled and started to open my mouth. “Not that one,” he said.
I shrugged. “Surprise me,” I said.
People come and people go
Movin’ fast and movin’ slow
I’m in a crowd, yet I’m all alone
The road is long, the road is rough
I do believe I’ve had enough
I’m gonna turn around and head for home
And I hope you’re there
And you still care
And if you do
I’ll spend my life with you
There was a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it!” said Davy, jumping down from the bandstand. He attempted to check the peephole and then opened the door. Three cute young girls were standing there. “’Ello, luv!” Davy said, leaning against the door.
I looked at Mike quizzically. He put down his guitar and stood next to me. “Do you know them?” he asked nodding towards the visitors.
I looked at the girls. “I don’t think so…” I said.
“We get a lot of groups of friends here,” Mike told me. “It’s always the same; you’ve got the ditzy one, the wacky one, the sensitive one, and then of course, the normal one,” he said, nudging me and smirking.
I looked closer at the girls. Peter and Micky had now gone over to talk to them. None of the girls were as good looking as me—eerily so. “Can we get rid of them?” I asked Mike.
“You brought ’em here,” he shrugged.
“So what do we do?”
Mike squinted at me and asked, with a hint of jealousy in his voice, “Why are you so eager to get rid of love interests for the guys?”
“Huh!” I scoffed, “Have you ever tried keeping track of eight characters at once?” I approached the girls, still unsure of what I was going to do.
“Hey there, gals,” I smiled politely. I glanced at the other Monkees, who were waiting for me to say something.
I leaned in closer to the girls. “Um… rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,” I mumbled in a low voice.
“I’m sorry? Did you just say… ‘rhubarb’?” the blonde asked.
“rhubarb rhubarb” I mumbled even more quietly.
The girls stared at me.
“RHUBARB RHUBARB RHUBARB! WHY ISN’T THIS WORKING?!” I yelled in frustration.
The brunette spoke up. “Um, I think we’d better be leaving. Come on, girls,” she said, and the girls ran off.
I turned back to Mike and grinned. “Eh? Eh? D’ya see that?” Mike nodded approvingly.
The other Monkees were glaring at me. “Wot did ya go and do that for?” Davy asked incredulously.
“I told you she was a Mike,” Micky said, bouncing back to the drum set.
“Come on, guys. Let’s finish the song,” Peter said.
“Nuh-uh, not me. I’m gonna go find those birds,” Davy said, determined.
“You can’t!” I said.
“Why not?” Davy asked.
“Because, um…” I quickly glanced back at Mike before grabbing Davy and kissing him.
Davy was dumbfounded. “What a kiss!” he said. “I’ve never felt—”
“Oh, shut up!” I said, wiping my mouth.
“Hey, that’s not right!” Peter said. “That line doesn’t come yet!”
“You aren’t the one writing this, buddy,” I warned him. Peter flinched.
“Uh-oh,” Micky said. “Now he’s gonna cry.”
Peter began to sniffle.
“Oh, Peter,” I said. “Come here.” I put my arm around him. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”
Peter burst out crying. I looked to Mike for help, but he had his arms crossed and was giving me a look. I looked to the drummer. “Micky?” I pleaded. Micky bounced over next to Peter.
“It’s alright, Big Pete,” he said, patting his bandmate on the back.
While Micky comforted Peter, I dragged Mike out to the back patio. “Don’t tell me you’re mad because I kissed Davy! Come on, it’s not like I wanted to!”
“Then why did you?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Mike shook his head. “No, it’s alright. It’s good. There needs to be conflict.”
I nodded seriously. “Right. How long do we have to keep this up?”
Mike avoided my gaze, and once again, it looked like there was something he wasn’t telling me.
“What?” I urged.
“Well, if we stop fighting, that means there’s no story, and no story means…”
“You wake up tomorrow, and the radio’s playing ‘I Got You Babe’ again.”
“Never mind. What were you going to say?”
“I was gonna say that means we live happily ever after, which means…”
I sighed. “Well, come on then. Let’s go back inside and create some more conflict.”
Inside the pad…
Davy and Micky were nowhere to be found. Peter was sitting on the bandstand with his guitar, writing a song. He looked up as we entered. “Are you guys still fighting?” he asked, concerned.
I looked at Mike. He looked away. I looked back at Peter and made this face: :/
Mike went into the bedroom, and I sat down next to Peter and sighed. “What should I do, Peter?” I asked him.
Peter continued working on his song. “About what?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he’s mad at me. I don’t think he likes me any more.”
“Pfft. I didn’t notice. You two are always together,” Peter said sarcastically.
“Is that jealousy I hear?” I asked teasingly.
“Maybe you should give him some space. It’s just, the band comes first, you know? We’ve got rent to pay.”
“I guess so,” I said. “Hey Peter?”
“You remember what you told me on the beach earlier? That I’m stuck here?”
Peter looked up. “What about it?”
“Well, I was thinking… aren’t you stuck here too?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you can’t get out either. But maybe if we all worked together—”
“Wait, hang on. Why would you want to get out?”
“Well, it’s kind of a boring life, you know? Always doing the same storylines over and over—”
“It’s not boring; we like it here!” Peter stood up, angry.
“No, that’s not what I mean at all; this place is awesome, but don’t you think there could be something… more?”
“How could you say that?! We’ve got all we need right here! Good friends, good music; what else do you need?”
“Freedom, Peter!” I cried, “Freedom!”
Mike emerged from the bedroom. “Hey, what’s goin’ on out here? I heard some yellin’…”
“Michael!” Peter said, running over and clinging onto the guitarist. “Talk some sense into her! She wants to leave!”
“Hey, now wait a minute. It’s gonna be alright, Pete; we can all leave together.”
Peter backed away, shocked. “You too, Michael?”
Just then, Micky and Davy came through the front door.
“Hey guys! Good news! The girls said they would come over tomorrow night!” Micky announced.
“Good!” Peter said happily and clasped his hands together. He turned back to me and Mike. “See? You can’t leave! There’s lots more story going to happen! Davy hasn’t even gotten starry-eyed yet! Come on, guys, let’s play a song!”
“’Ang on, ’ang on,” Davy said, putting his hand on his chest and standing up straight. “Wot’s goin’ on ’ere?”
“We’re leaving,” Mike announced.
“What?” Micky cried, “You can’t leave The Monkees! We can’t be a trio! We need you, Mike! Wahahaha!”
“No, the story, Micky,” I said. “We’re leaving the story, and you can too, if you want.”
“How are you going to leave?”
“Well, I’m in charge; I’ve got to be able to get us out of here somehow,” I reasoned.
“Oh, you’re not in charge!” Peter sneered.
“Then who is?” I asked.
Peter sat down on the steps of the bandstand and started to sniffle. “I just wanted us to be together again, like we used to be, and now look what’s happened.”
“Peter?” Mike asked cautiously, “What are you talking about?”
“We had so much fun when we were a real band. I thought we could do it all over again. Please don’t be mad at me.”
“Wait, you mean, you’re in charge?” Jenny asked.
“Petah? Is wot they’re sayin’ true?” Davy asked. “Am I to understand you’re the one that brought us ’ere?”
“Hang on, so…” Micky looked down at his body. “Am I… real? Do I even exist? Wha—whaa!?” Micky bit his nails and had a pained look on his face.
“Of course you exist; you’re The Monkees!” Jenny said.
“Micky’s got a point, you know. People are always sayin’ we aren’t a real band. What if… what if they’re right?” Mike asked.
“Petah,” Davy said, getting mad, “Now, look, man, you brought us ’ere, so you better get us out, or I’ll—”
“No, Davy!” Mike said, holding the little Englishman back. “Don’t make him angry! You don’t know what he’ll do to you!”
Jenny and the other three Monkees backed away from Peter.
“No! Please, don’t!” Peter pleaded. “I would never hurt you! I just want us to be happy! Like we used to be!”
They all stood in silence, Peter on one side of the pad, and everyone else on the other.
“Please don’t do be like that,” Peter sobbed. “We used to be so happy. We were a family.”
After a few moments, Micky relented. “You know, he’s right. We were a good little band. And we’ve got a nice life here. Why would we want to give this up?”
Peter smiled at Micky. “Thanks, Mick.”
“Come on, Davy,” Micky said to the tambourine player. “You get a new girlfriend every week. Every day sometimes. You must be happy here.”
“I guess you ’ave set me up with some nice birds, Petah.”
The three Monkees looked at Mike. Mike looked at Jenny. “Will you stay with us?” he asked her.
“It’s not right,” she said, blinking back tears. “This isn’t real.”
“How do you know what’s real?” Mike asked.
She shook her head and looked down at her feet.
“I’ll tell you what’s real. Look at me,” Mike said. She looked up at Mike. “How I feel about you. That’s real.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll stay. On one condition.” She looked at Peter. “You don’t write any more cheesy lines like that.”
“Deal,” Peter agreed.
“Now how about a song?” Mike asked. She nodded. The group got up on the bandstand.
All men must have someone, have someone
Who would never take advantage
Of a love bright as the sun
Someone to understand them
And you just may be the one
And they all lived happily ever after.