I wanna be free
Like the blue birds flying by me
Like the waves out on the blue sea
If your love has to tie me
Don’t try me
Davy reached out to the crowd. The audience screamed. The girls in the front row reached up. The Monkees were on Top of the Pops, singing their hit song “I Wanna Be Free”. Suddenly, Micky froze.
“What’s wrong, Micky?” Peter asked, concerned.
“Micky!” Mike growled.
Davy obliviously continued singing and being fondled.
“Who is that…?” Micky wondered aloud, staring into the audience with a faraway look in his eyes.
“Not now, Micky! Focus!”
“Oh, uh, right, Mike…” Micky shook his head and started playing again.
We can make it to the end, babe
Again, babe, I’ve gotta say
I wanna be free
I wanna be free
I wanna be free…
As soon as the song was over, Micky jumped out of his seat and over the drum kit, squinting against the spotlights. He continued forward until he reached the edge of the stage.
“Micky! We love you!” the girls below cried.
Micky began to motion as if he was going to jump off the stage, but Mike grabbed him and pulled him back. “Mick, what are you doing? You can’t go out there, man, they’ll tear you to bits!”
“M-M-M-Mike! Over there! I, uh, wha—th-that girl!” Micky cried, grabbing his head in frustration and pointing frantically.
“Micky, come on! We’ve got to go!” Davy said impatiently. The Monkees pulled their drummer towards the stage exit, while Micky continued to protest and blabber nonsensically.
A reporter and his camera and sound crew were readying themselves for their next big scoop. “We are about to see The Monkees, fresh from their performance on Top of the Pops!” the reporter announced to the camera. “They will be coming down this hallway in just—oof!” The reporter was suddenly knocked to the ground by a flurry of people.
The reporter dusted himself off and looked back at the crowd. “Th-that was them!” he stuttered, “I thought you said they were coming this way!”
The camera man shrugged.
“Ah, can’t you do anything right?!—Well, hurry, catch them!” The reporter ran after The Monkees, but it was too late; they were already gone.
“Alright,” said Mike as they walked towards the exit, “if we go out back, we can get right on the bus and outta here. I think this is the door we’re s’pposed to use…” He pulled on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “Oof… err…ah, ohh…!” he said, struggling. He mustered up all the strength that he could and proceeded to kick the door open. “Hmph!” he said as he brushed himself off and walked through the door triumphantly.
The others followed behind him. Peter stopped for a moment to examine the door. “Hey, Michael? It says ‘push’.”
To the boys’ surprise, a crowd was waiting around the corner. The Monkees made their way through the group of screaming girls blocking the way to their bus.
“’Eyyy!” Davy cried, throwing his hands in the air and grinning. He and other Monkees waved and signed autographs, but they were quickly ushered to their Monkee Mobus—an unnaturally large tour bus transformed into a house on wheels, with a kitchen, bathroom, and four bedrooms.
Once inside, Peter went to his room and picked up a book, Mike headed for the kitchen, Davy took a seat in the lounge, and Micky bounced in after him.
“Wot’s this?” Davy exclaimed, picking up the latest issue of Tiger Beat. “Why, look who we ’ave ’ere!” The cover was adorned with a giant picture of Davy Jones. “Wot’s the count? I think tha’ makes it four ’undred twenty-eight for me and… three ’undred ninety-two for Micky!” he said and began marking the score down.
Micky grabbed the magazine from Davy’s hands and opened it. “Tch! Only one colour photo of Davy Jones? What a disgrace!” Micky remarked, feigning disappointment as he continued to flip through the pages.
“A waste of a magazine, I’d say!” Davy replied.
Suddenly, a cry came from under Peter’s bed. “OWW!”
“Hey Pete! What happened?” Mike asked.
Peter poked his head out from under the bed, looking dazed. “I can’t find my beads!” he pouted.
Mike scanned the room quickly and immediately spotted Peter’s love beads. He rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re around here somewhere…”
“Ohh!” Micky gasped gleefully.
“Did you find them?” Peter asked hopefully.
“No, even better! Horoscopes!” He held up the magazine and giggled. Peter hopped over and looked at the open page.
“Aw, come on Mick, don’t tell me you really believe in that stuff,” Mike remarked, sitting on his bed.
“I’m a believer, I’m a believer! ” Micky replied. “See, you don’t believe because you’re a… Capricorn.”
“Eh! Don’t you start on Capricorns!” Davy interjected defensively.
“Aw, come on, man, Capricorns are a drag; everyone knows it,” Micky joked.
“Boy, Micky, your beads sure are far-out!” Peter remarked, admiring them. “Heeey… waitaminute!” Peter jumped up. “I forgot to look in the couch!” He started throwing around the cushions, searching for the lost love beads.
“Petah! Don’t interrupt!” Davy scolded, then turned back to Micky. “You better stop insultin’ us Capricorns… or I’ll… I’ll…”
Micky grinned at him tauntingly. “Or you’ll what…?”
Peter continued to search through the pillows frantically, when suddenly…
…one of them hit Micky right in the back of the head!
Soon enough, all three Monkees were hurling pillows at each other while Mike sat on his bed, shaking his head.
“Will the real David Jones please stand up?”
“…I am standing up!”
“Ha ha ha! Who writes this stuff?!” Mack Pickelson laughed. He was watching The Monkees’ television show.
“Hm…” he thought aloud, “These guys already have a number one song and a hit television series. Tthe obvious next step would be a movie…” he scratched his chin and stood up.
“And I’m just the person to do it!” he grinned.
Why am I standing here
Missing her and wishing she were here?
She only did me wrong
I’m better off alone
“She devoured all my sweet ’n’ low…”
“Hold on, hold on!” Mike interrupted, annoyed. He glared at their new back-up singers.
“Did we do something wrong?” one of the singers asked.
“Sweet ’n’ low?” Davy repeated and shook his head. Peter and Micky giggled softly.
“Why don’t you take a look at the lyrics sometime?” Mike rolled his eyes and covered his mouth to stifle a laugh at their ridiculous interpretation.
“Hey guys!” called a voice from the back of the auditorium.
“Phyllis!” Mike cried, putting down his guitar. He ran over to greet his wife. The other Monkees and the film crew, who had been following the group around for the past week, gathered around.
“Would you shut that darn thing off?” Mike yelled at the crew, pushing the camera away. The crew paid no attention and continued filming. Mike turned to Phyllis and asked quietly, “How you doin’, babe?”
“He’s been kicking all day,” Phyllis replied. Mike gave her an encouraging smile and held her hand.
“Boy, Phyllis, it’s times like these that make me glad I’m not a woman!” Davy said, laughing. The Monkees looked thoughtfully off into the distance…
“Er… on second thought… naah,” said Micky.
“The Monkees again?” Rob Roy threw the newspaper down in disgust.
“Well, they’re ‘in’ right now,” Brad, his assistant, said. “As long as they’re popular, we have to keep publishing articles about them.”
“But I’m sick of them!” Rob Roy complained. “We need a new angle!” he groaned and began pacing around the room. “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” he said suddenly. “The Monkees’ live show: cancelled… The Monkees’ TV show: cancelled… The Monkees… split up!” Rob Roy yelled, banging his fists on the desk.
“I like it!” Brad said, impressed.
“Think of all the papers we’d sell! We’d be rich!” Rob Roy squealed, twirling his mustache and throwing back his head. “Mwhahahahahahahaha!”
“Gee, guys, do you think I should wear the blue eight-button shirt or the red eight-button shirt?” Davy asked, going through his closet. “And then there’s always the white eight-button shirt…” Everyone rolled their eyes as Davy continued mumbling and throwing clothes around.
Micky came from the kitchen carrying a bag of potato chips. “Man, this is so much better than the old pad!” he said gleefully, sitting on his bed.
“Check,” said Mike as he moved his bishop. He put his elbows on the table and looked at Peter.
Peter thought for a moment, looking at the chess board. He scratched his chin, scratched his head, scratched his back. Finally, a big smile came over his face. “Go fish!” he declared.
“What?!” Mike asked, incredulous.
“Uh oh…” Peter said, recognizing the look on Mike’s face, “Did I do something wrong?”.
Mike sighed. “This is chess, not Go Fish. We’ve been over this, Peter.”
Peter frowned. He bit his lip and surveyed the board. “…Mr. Green, in the hall, with the revolver?”
“Oh Peter,” Mike said. He shook his head and went off to his bedroom. Peter’s lip quivered and he started sniffling. Micky noticed this and bounced over to him.
“Hey Big Pete, what’s wrong?” he asked. Peter shook his head and bit his lip. “Aww… it’s okay, man, don’t—”
“WAAAAAAAAH!” Peter wailed. Micky sighed and patted him on the back. A few minutes later, Peter finally was able to squeak out, “Why am I the dummy? I’m always the dummy!”
Davy was lying on his bed listening to Peter and Micky. “Well, at least you don’t ’ave to be the cute one. Now that’s an ’ard role!” Peter burst out crying again.
“Yeah, you know, people are really shallow,” Micky said. “But you know, Pete, when we’re sixty-four, no one’s gonna remember that you were the dummy.”
Peter smiled at this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Hey Rob, I think I’ve found your guy! He’s the best, he’ll get you more dirt than you ever wanted on The Monkees!” Brad said, coming into the office.
“Huh. What’s his name?” Rob Roy asked, skeptically.
“Damien? Damien what?”
“I dunno, don’t think he has a last name.”
“Alright. Send him in!” Rob Roy instructed. A man wearing all black entered the room. “How do we know this guy’s any good?” Rob Roy asked, jerking his thumb in the man’s direction. Damien took a manila envelope out of his coat and presented it to Rob. Rob’s face went pale as he saw the pictures; they were all of him.
“August 16, 8:12 a.m.,” the man said, pointing to one of the pictures, “you, at the bus stop.”
“August 17, 4:32 p.m., you, in the lift, pickin’ yer nose.”
“He’s good…” Rob Roy said. He continued to sift through the pictures. “He’s very good…” Suddenly, Rob Roy looked up. Then he looked at Brad. Then they both looked at the camera.
“Man, everyone always dresses so over-the-top at these things!” Micky said, adjusting his table cloth poncho. Mike nodded and tipped his cowboy hat.
“Hey guys, can we have a word with you for a minute?” a reporter asked, approaching the group. Several others followed, and soon enough, they were blinded by the light of the flashing cameras.
“When is your next album coming out?”
“Davy, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Has success changed your life?”
“Is it true you don’t play your own instruments?”
At that question, everyone quieted down and moved in closer to hear the answer.
“Well, of course we do! I mean, we just played live in front of a bunch of people, man, and if we aren’t playing our instruments, we’re in a lot of trouble,” Mike said, defensively.
“I heard you had a band backstage, you just faked it like on TV,” one reporter commented.
“DAAAAAAY-VEEEEE! MARRY MEEEEE! DAAAAAAY-VEEEEE!” a young girl cried, pushing through the crowd. She managed to grab onto Davy’s arm, but was quickly pulled away. Davy grinned.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough. These boys have got to get going,” their manager said, shooing the reporters away.
But the damage had already been done. Slowly, Damien, the mysterious photographer, lifted the tablecloth he was hiding under. He snapped one last shot of the group and disappeared once again.
“For Pete’s sake, Mick, will you stop all that dancing around?” Mike complained, looking up from his book.
“I can’t help it, Mike! I have to use the john, uh, comfort room!” he complained.
“Then why don’t you use the one in the back?”
“Then why don’t you use the one in the front?”
“It’s broken too!”
Mike sighed and turned down the corner of his page before calmly laying it on the table. “I’ll ask them to stop to bus so you can go outside.”
Micky grinned. “Thanks, Mike.”
Mike returned a minute later and the bus stopped. Micky hopped outside and ventured into the nearby forest. He went in a little farther than he should have, because soon enough, he couldn’t remember which way it was back to the bus.
“Uh… guys?” he called. No reply. “Huh, that’s strange…” Suddenly, the ground shook violently, causing Micky to fall over backwards. There was a mighty crash just beyond the large tree in front of him and for a second, he was blinded by a very bright light. Cautiously, he stood up and hid behind the tree. When he didn’t hear anything for awhile, he peeked out.
“AAHHH!” he cried, mediumly scared. A few feet away was a dark green creature that could only be one thing: an alien.
“Mrphfgkklnvicmrtpqrff?” it asked.
“Yeah, Micky Dolenz, that’s me,” Micky said.
“Nah, I’m not an alien, I’m a Monkee.”
“No, no, no! The kind that sings!”
“Aww, I’m sorry, all the tickets are sold out.”
“TBTBATMPACJFNBDJBH!” the alien cried.
“Hey, well, is there anything I can do to make up for it?”
“Sure, what do you want me to sign?” Micky asked, grabbing a pen from his back pocket. The alien produced a photograph of Micky and handed it to him. Micky autographed the picture and handed it back to the alien. “Here you go!” he said happily. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to the bus, we’ve got a long way to go…”
“Gbkkrterkfwedvj,” the alien said, “jaumchsyfmalsifp?”
“Oh, no no, that’s not a pussycat. It’s a telephone,” Micky explained.
“No problem!” Micky said. He waved as the alien retreated back into its spaceship.
“So, what’s this all about, Mack?” Mike asked, pulling up a chair next to Mack Pickelson. The other Monkees followed suit.
“Listen guys, I have this really great idea for a movie,” Mack said enthusiastically.
“But we’ve already done a movie, 33 1/3 is coming out next week,” Peter reminded him.
“No, Peter, that’s just a TV special,” Micky told him, “but yeah, you know, I could really dig doing a real movie!”
“I think we should try a new angle: action flicks! We’ll call it—get this—The Monkee Men!” Mack suggested.
Davy frowned uncertainly. “Action, huh? Couldn’t I break a nail?”
Mack laughed, “Ha ha ha, don’t worry about it, Davy, baby. Besides, there’d be a cute girl for you to save.”
Davy grinned. “Oh, well, I think we could work something out then.”
“Can you just picture it? The merchandising… action figures… lunch boxes… a Saturday morning cartoon series!”
“Okay, okay, so tell us more. What’s the story?” Micky asked.
“Well, first, there’s Peter. He’s not the best flier, but by the end of the movie, he’ll be a pro. Then Micky, he’s great at distracting and confusing the bad guys. Davy can charm anyone into doing anything. And Mike is a master of disguise.”
“Hmm…” Mike thought back to the last time he wore a disguise when fooling around with his friends. He seemed to recall something about a green dress and a blonde wig… “Uh… y’know, Mack…” Mike said, “Thanks, but I think we’ll pass. We’ve got to be going now, but if you come up with any other ideas… uh… don’t tell us!” He and the boys scurried off, leaving Mack sitting alone, disappointed.
“MONKEES TV SPECIAL BOMBS!” screamed the headlines.
“Look at this! Isn’t it wonderful?” Rob Roy Fingerhead screeched, shoving the paper in his assistant’s face.
Brad grinned. “You’ve done it again, Rob Roy!”
“Brad… my face! What’s happening to my face?”
“I think you’re smiling,” Brad informed him.
“HEE HEE HEE HEEEEEEE!”
“MONKEES TV SPECIAL BOMBS!” screamed the headlines.
Mike threw down the paper in disgust.
“C’mon, Mike, it’s not that bad,” Micky told him.
“You know, I knew it from the start, I knew this would happen,” Mike said.
“Well I ’ate to say I told you so, but I told you so! I said, ‘we need more close-ups of me’ but no one would listen!” Davy yelled at him.
“Pffft! There were more shots of you than necessary,” Mike snorted. “I told you guys ‘Listen to the Band’ should’ve been longer!”
“Longer, man? That scene was a drag!” Micky cried.
“Not as much of a drag as you!”
“Yeah! At least I didn’t go and ruin a perfectly good song with my James Brown impersonation!”
“Lissen, you girls can stay here and argue, but man, I’m outta here!” Mike announced.
“Yeah!” Davy yelled. “I’ve been wantin’ to go back ’ome anyway!”
“That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in a long time. Maybe you oughta stay there!”
“Maybe I will!”
Both Davy and Mike now gone, Micky stood in the middle of the bus with Peter sitting nearby, sniffling. Micky smiled at Peter apologetically. “I really should be going, too,” he told him, heading out. “Hey,” Micky paused before closing the door, “it’s not like we’re breaking up or anything.” Peter swallowed and nodded, but wasn’t convinced.
After a long walk on the beach, Davy had found himself back at the old beach house. He smiled at the “Keep off the grass” sign and pulled at the doorknob. It was open.
He stepped inside. It looked just as he remembered it, but now it was empty. No more posters, no more instruments, no more Mr. Schneider.
He made his way up the familiar staircase to the upstairs bedroom. No more beds, no more beads, just cobwebs and dust. He sighed and turned to leave.
“Don’t do that!” they both cried.
Suddenly there was a noise from downstairs.
“Who’s there?” someone called.
Peter leaned over the railing. “Micky!” he greeted him happily.
Micky emerged from the downstairs bedroom and smiled up at Peter. “Big Pete! It’s good to see ya!” All three made their way to the empty lounge.
“It looks so… so…” Peter started to say.
“Empty? Big? Old? Haunted?” Davy suggested. Peter bit his lip and looked over his shoulder nervously.
“Oof, hey!” came a voice by the back door. It was Mike, he had tripped trying to get inside.
“Don’t do that!” Micky cried.
Mike approached the others. “What are you guys doin’ here?” he asked.
“Same as you,” Davy replied coolly.
After a few moments of silence, Peter spoke. “Guys, let’s not fight anymore… please?”
Peter looked at Micky. Micky looked at Davy. Davy looked at Mike. Mike looked away.
“Fine with me,” Micky said.
“Me too,” Davy said.
They all looked at Mike. He nodded. Peter grinned.
“Hey, I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Babbitt…” Micky wondered.
“Yeah, we still must owe him a few months’ rent!” Davy remarked.
“A few months?” Mike chuckled.
Peter leaned up against the wall. “Guys… have we changed?” he asked. “I mean… we never get together anymore for fun, it’s always business… we never get time off, and I know Mike’s hardly even home for Phyllis, and with the baby coming soon…”
“Yeah…” Micky agreed. “Before it was ‘where’s our next meal coming from?’ now it’s ‘where’s our next single going to?’”
Mike rubbed his hands together, trying to keep warm. The windows had been smashed, letting the cool air from the ocean into the house. “Well, I, uh, should probably get back home. Phyllis is probably worried,” he said. “Uh… do you guys… want to go for dinner?”
The others looked to each other, then to Mike. “Sure!” Micky said and smiled. They all linked arms and walked out of the house together.
After stopping at the Nesmith’s home to pick up Phyllis, The Monkees soon found themselves at a nearby club. Davy immediately approached a pretty girl and started chatting, while Mike and Phyllis sat down at one of the tables.
Micky and Peter went to watch to the band, who soon noticed that they had a special audience. They tried to convince Peter and Micky to come up on stage to play a number with them. Peter quickly agreed and the guitarist handed him his instrument. Micky scanned the room for their other singer, then hurried over to Davy and pulled him away from a group of girls. He then made a motion for Mike to follow.
Mike shook his head and waved Micky away. “No, you guys go on without me,” he said smiling.
Not one to take ‘no’ for an answer, Micky approached Mike’s table and pulled him on stage as well. Phyllis smiled and waved back to him.
“‘Clarksville’?” Peter suggested. The others agreed and Mike started into the opening riff. The audience began to cheer as they realized who was on stage.
Halfway through the song, the beat began to slow down and finally stop. Mike turned back to look at the drummer, fed up that this seemed to be the start of a trend. But this time, he did not see a look of love or amazement as he had at Tops of the Pops. This time, Micky looked rather distressed.
Mike followed his gaze and it landed on Phyllis. She was clutching her stomach and had an awful look on her face. Mike immediately put down the guitar and pushed through the crowd to his wife. Micky followed after him, and soon Peter and Davy saw what was happening. Peter quickly apologized to the audience and ran after his friends.
“Phyllis, are you okay?” Mike asked, bending down beside her.
“I think it’s time!” she groaned.
“Oh my god,” Davy muttered. “Does anyone ’ave a cell phone?” he asked loudly. Receiving only confused looks, he ran to the pay phones near the restroom.
“There’s no time!” Micky yelled. Davy hung up the phone and ran back to the group.
“C’mon, let’s get you onto the bus and we’ll drive to the hospital,” Mike said, helping Phyllis up. They hurried out the door towards the Monkee Mobus.
“Hey, where’s the driver?” Peter asked as they began climbing onto the bus.
“I think it’s his day off,” Davy replied.
Mike jumped into the driver’s seat. “Get Phyllis onto the couch,” he instructed, “I’ll drive.”
“No way!” Micky told him, pushing Mike aside, “You go in the back with Phyllis, I’ll drive.” Mike started to argue, but bit his tongue and nodded. Once all the Monkees were on board, Micky turned the keys and they were off.
Phyllis lay down on the couch and the other Monkees sat around her.
“Uh, guys, what happens if the baby comes out right now?” Peter asked uncertainly.
“That’s not going to happen,” Mike told him. Phyllis groaned and clutched her stomach again.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Davy asked, alarmed.
“I don’t know what we can do,” Mike said. He turned to Phyllis. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? Pillows, water?”
“That would be nice,” she said before letting out another groan. Mike began rushing around the bus trying to find things for Phyllis.
Soon enough, they were at the hospital. Phyllis and Mike were immediately taken to a room while the others Monkees were left in the waiting room. They started absentmindedly looking through magazines that were sitting on the coffee table.
“Uh, excuse me…” a woman approached them and said, “You’re The Monkees, aren’t you?”
Davy smiled quietly. “Yes we are, wot can we do for you?”
“Well, you see, my daughter, she’s in a coma, and I was hoping you could…”
Peter stood up and patted her hand. “Show us the way,” he said.
The woman led them down the hallway and they soon found themselves in a small hospital room. In the middle of the room was a small girl lying in a bed.
“What’s her name?” Micky quietly asked.
“Melanie,” the mother replied. “Could you maybe try talking to her?” Micky nodded and walked up to the bed.
“Hello Melanie,” he whispered, “This is Micky Dolenz.”
“’Ello Mel, I’m Davy Jones,” Davy said quietly.
“AND I’M PETER TORK, MELANIE!” Peter yelled. Micky and Davy glared at him. Peter looked down, embarrassed.
“Sooo… now what?” Micky asked.
“Heh heh, maybe you should take your shirt off, Davy,” Peter suggested jokingly.
“Pfft, he does that enough already,” Micky said, rolling his eyes.
Davy glared at the others. “It wouldn’t work anyway, ’er eyes are shut.”
Suddenly, the girl’s eyes fluttered open.
“Not now they aren’t.”
Soon, all four Monkees were in Phyllis’ room, whose contractions had now stopped. They’d been there for at least an hour and the baby had still not arrived.
“I spy with my little eye… something that starts with, uh… H,” Peter said.
“Hospital,” Micky said dully.
“Shut up,” Davy said equally as dully.
Two nurses came in soon after to see how Phyllis was doing. When they were done, they chatted for awhile in the hallway.
“So, what are you doing tonight, Vicky?” the first nurse asked.
“I’m going to see The Monkees!” the second nurse said gleefully.
“Aw, why isn’t that nice?”
“Oh yes! I’ll see you guys later,” Vicky waved to The Monkees, “…hopefully.” She giggled and left the room.
“You guys have a show to do, you don’t need to be here. The baby may not even arrive until tomorrow!” Phyllis said, getting up.
“Yeah, you guys should go,” Mike told the others, “at least give them three quarters of The Monkees.”
“We said we’d stay, so we’ll stay,” Micky said firmly.
Phyllis smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
The phone rang and the nurse answered it. She held it out to Peter, the nearest Monkee. “It’s for you,” she said. Peter took the phone and stood beside the receiver.
“Hello?” he said.
“Who is it?” Davy asked.
“It’s the concert hall,” Peter told him. “Uh huh… uh huh… I know… yeah… we know… we’ll be there, okay?” he hung up the phone.
“What is it, Petah?” Davy asked.
“They said we were supposed to be there an hour ago, but we have more important things to do,” he said and smiled.
“AAAAHHHHHH!” Phyllis cried. “I think this is it!” The nurse ran over to her and instructed Peter to find a doctor. Mike held Phyllis’ hand and Micky and Davy backed away and clutched onto each other.
A doctor arrived quickly, and soon enough, the baby was born, perfectly healthy and already wearing clothes, too!
“Guys, you’ve got to get to that concert,” Phyllis told them, “and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer!” The Monkees knew better than to argue with her, so they quickly ran down the halls towards the exit.
Suddenly, a tall man wearing a doctor’s uniform ran towards The Monkees and bumped into Peter.
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, man, are you okay?” Peter asks, stopping the man.
“I don’t believe it—’e’s got a camera!” Davy says, pointing at the man. The other Monkees whirl around to look at him.
“An… an… emergency!” the “doctor” yells, running in the opposite direction. The Monkees run after him.
Suddenly, the man crashes to the ground, and the boys come face to face with their tabloid tormentor.
The doctor-photographer gets all choked up. “You know what, boys, I’ve been living a terrible, meaningless lie.”
“WHAT?!” you ask. How did this happen? Suddenly, he’s this wimpy little guy? This can all be explained in one simple sentence and that is…
Oh, wait! Now The Monkees are on the bus, but once again, the driver is nowhere to be found!
“Where’s the driver?” Peter asks.
“Didn’t you hear the narrator? He’s nowhere to be found!” Micky tells him.
“I’ll drive!” Davy volunteers.
“You?” Mike laughs, “You can barely see over the wheel!”
Davy smirks and runs back to his room. He returns with a large phone book, puts it on the driver’s seat, and sits down. “I can see just fine,” he says proudly.
Mike rolls his eyes and ushers the others into the back. “Step on it!” he orders Davy.
Suddenly, The Monkees are on top of the bus! Peter begins to slip, but then Mike grabs him! But then Mike slips, so Micky grabs him! But then Micky slips, so Davy…! No, wait, Davy’s driving the bus! So now they’re all slipping and sliding back and forth on the top of the bus! Luckily, they fall into the bus and land safely on the couch!
Just as they are about to cross over the bridge, Davy cries out, “Oh my god! The bridge is goin’ up!”
“AAAAAHHHHH!” yell the other Monkees.
“What are we going to do!?” Peter cries.
“We have to turn back!” Mike yells.
“There’s no time!” Micky screams.
Do they turn back? These are The Monkees! They’re not going to turn back! Davy puts a determined look on his face and pushes down on the gas.
They made it! They’re over the bridge!!!
Suddenly, Micky opens a compartment in the floor of the bus. “AAAAAHHHHH!” he screams. It’s a bomb!
“AAAAAHHHHH!” yell the other Monkees.
“WHAT?!” you ask. How did this happen? Where did the bomb come from? Haven’t they suffered enough? Well… I suppose you’re right.
The Monkees run out of the bus and up the stairs to the concert hall.
“Hold it!” comes a voice from behind them. They turn around. “Where do you think you’re going?” the police officer asks.
“Well, we’re late for a concert and…” Peter starts.
“Shut up,” he says, pushing Peter away. “Okay, weirdos, just what were you doing back there?”
“Uh… in the bus… you mean?” Micky asks.
“Yeah,” the officer nods. “You! Fuzzy Wuzzy!” he points to Micky.
“Well, uh… um…” Micky stutters.
Mike pushes Davy forward. “Talk to him!” he whispers.
“What do I say?” Davy whispers back. The Monkees shrug. “Well, uh, you see, we were in an ’urry to get to the concert because we were late for the show, you see, and, uh we promise to never ever do it again,” he says and smiles sweetly.
“Weeeell…” the policeman says, taking off his cap. “I guess I can let you go…” and smiles.
“The police officer lets them go and then the Monkees come barging in that door right there—!”
“Somehow I don’t think your movie is gonna work,” the reporter whispered to Mack Pickelson. The filmmaker, reporter, crew, and the Monkees’ manager were gathered in the dressing room, waiting for the band to arrive.
The manager was pacing around the room impatiently. “Where are they? The concert is about to start!” He plopped himself down on a chair and turned to the reporter. “Alright. The curtain goes up, the lights come on, the crowd goes wild, I walk on stage… and hang myself.”
“Go in for a close-up!” the reporter whispered to his crew.
“My final words are, The Monkees, I hate them—”
Suddenly, The Monkees burst through the doors.
“’Eyyyy! Wot are you doin’ sittin’ around? We’ve got a show to do! Come on! ” Davy cried, running past the manager and into his dressing room.
“Some people have it dead easy!” Mike remarked.
The manager smiled, “I love those boys!” he cried and ran off.
The reporter sighed. “Well, there goes our perfect ending.”
Then I saw her face
Now I’m a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I’m in love
I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried
The Monkees put on a wonderful show, right on schedule, and everything went off without a hitch.
But I know what you’re thinking…
What happened to the bomb on the bus?!?