Writing Wrongs
Not your average fanfiction.
By Ellen Barnhart
It was a typical day in the Pad. The
Monkees were outta work, Babbit was pounding at the door, and Davy and
some hapless girl were locked in a birds-twittering-stars-in-their-eyes
stare.
“Screw this. This is what always happens,” Mike
cried. “Why can’t we do something off the wall?”
“Aw, come on. Wait long enough and we’ll be forced
to chase spies or rescue some silly girl pretending to be suicidal. Off-the-wall
happens every day,” retorted Micky.
Mike casually knocked the girl out onto the beach
and locked the door behind her. Davy snapped to attention. “Where’s Petah?”
Micky jumped up and down and squealed like a school
girl. “We get to play ‘Where’s Peter’!”
Mike grabbed his hands and started to jump up and
down, too. “Wahoo!” Davy gave into peer pressure and joined the squealing,
giggling group.
Peter walked out of the downstairs bedroom. “What’s
going on?!” he shouted gleefully and ran to join the happy trio. Everyone
stopped suddenly.
“Dammit, Peter, you sure know how to ruin our fun.”
Mike glared at the blond young man.
Madame Olinsky burst into the room, followed by
Boris some minutes later. “Give us dee microfilm, or vee kill da dummy!”
She waved a gun in Peter’s direction.
“Mr. Schneider! Noooooooo!” Micky screamed and dove
for the group’s advisor. Davy crawled under the couch and cowered, whimpering.
“Not dat dummy! Zis dummy!” she shouted, grabbing
Peter’s arm.
Micky squealed again and hid in the closet. Davy
tried even harder to squeeze under the couch. Mike covered his eyes and
started counting.
“Madame, vhat are dey doink?” Boris rumbled.
“I don’t know, Boris. I know you have dee microfilm!
Give it to us, or your friend shall die!” she shouted, losing a little
control of her outrageous accent. She hated it when Boris upstaged her
with his accent.
Mike peered through his fingers. “Jeez, you guys
are gonna to lose your head start if you don’t get goin'. I’ll start counting
again. One... Two... Three...”
Madame looked around, bewildered. Still, she was
never one to give up a head start, so she dashed out the door with Peter
in tow. Seconds later, she dashed back in and dragged Boris out, too.
Once Mike got to one hundred, he uncovered his eyes
and pulled Micky out of the closet. Micky flopped down on the couch and
Davy shrieked. He jumped back up and he and Mike pulled the distressed
Brit out.
“Petah... He’s gone!” Davy wailed.
Micky pulled the green wool hat from Mike’s head
and put it on his own. Affecting a Texas accent, he said “And once again
brave American youth leap into the fore... or five.”
“You stole my line, you bastard!” Mike shouted and
beat Micky senseless. “Wardrobe!” A fresh green hat sailed into the room,
and Mike carefully put it on his head. “Now, what was that, Davy?”
“Petah... he’s gone,” Davy said with somewhat less
emotion.
Micky started to get up, but Mike punched him again
and he fell back. “We need a plan to get Peter back, but first we must
find this microfilm they’re after.”
Mike stood in a superhero like pose. “Or we can
just steal some from CIS and give ‘em that instead.”
“Smashing.” Davy started for the door. “Come on,
Mick!” He dragged the curly haired Californian’s unconcious body towards
the front door.
Mike and Davy just finished loading the now groaning
Micky into the back seat of their car when a blue convertible came to a
180 degree screeching stop. A blonde girl opened the door and stepped out
delicately. “Hi!” she said cheerfully. “The producers sent me. I’m the
love interest!”
Mike hit Micky once more for good measure. “That’ll
teach him to upstage me,” he muttered.
“You’ve just killed Mistah Bahbbit!” Davy said,
pointing to the corpse lying in the middle of the road.
“Oopsie.” The blonde pulled a large sandwich from
her glove compartment and started gnawing on it.
Mike groaned. “Rescuing Peter’s just fine and dandy,
but now we have to steal some microfilm AND dispose of a body.”
“Eww. I’m not riding in a car with that!” Davy said,
moving away from the corpse with a look of disgust. “Isn’t there someone
we can call to take it away?”
“It’s not a dead racoon, Davy. He... was our landlord.
We have more respect for him than that.... Davy!” Mike cried in alarm.
“What?” Davy looked up from poking Mr. Babbit with
a long stick. “Maybe 'e’s not dead.”
The girl exploded into a fit of giggles and nearly
sent bits of sandwich flying everywhere. “Not dead. Good one! Look,” she
said, calming down and swallowing, “just call the police.”
“Uh, they’ll know it was you from the car’s registration.”
Mike chuckled. Imagine not knowing that!
“It’s not my car. It’s Regis Philbin’s.”
Davy jumped up. “Oh, I’ll call, let me, let me!”
Mike sighed and started to drag Micky back into
the Pad. “Fine.”
An hour later, Mike, Davy, and the mysterious girl
sat around the TV and watched the live coverage of Regis being arrested.
“It wasn’t me!” Regis cried to the policemen, the
reporters, anyone who’d listen. “It was that bitch Kathie Lee! She’s out
to get me!”
“Who wants to be a millionare now, Mr. Philbin?”
the girl asked cryptically.
Micky pulled himself off the floor. “Ow.”
Mike and Davy grunted, still glued to the TV.
“Where’s Peter? Did I miss the rescue? And who’s
she?” Micky asked groggily.
Davy slapped his forehead. “D’oh! Petah!”
Mike peered at the girl. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Eulalie Delcross. Call me Della, though. Everyone
does. I told you, the producers sent me.”
“Riiiiiiiight,” Micky looked at Della suspiciously.
“So, are we gonna save Peter or what?”
“Hm?” Davy and Mike looked up from the TV, where
Regis was being soundly beaten by the police for resisiting arrest and
eating up all the prime time spots on ABC. “Oh, yeah, Peter. Where’re we
gonna get the microfilm, though? The author lacks the ambition to write
a break-in to the CIS offices,” Mike said, basking in the knowledge that
he was the author’s favorite, so nothing too horrible would happen to him.
The author, however, thought he was getting a little too cocky and dropped
a rabid lemur in his lap.
“Hey, Mike, keep it down, we’re trying to think!”
Micky said to the screaming ball of fur and flailing limbs.
“Aw, hell.” Della pulled a small black cylinder
from her purse. “I guess we can use this microfilm.”
“What is it?” Davy asked. Monkees are naturally
curious, you know.
“Naked pictures of Rush Limbaugh.”
“There are laws against cruel and unusual punishment!”
Micky cried, cringing at the very thought.
Della shrugged. “Either that or a documentary on
the making of pasta. I forget which.”
A few stitches and a rabies shot later, they were
off to find Peter.
Meanwhile, in Secret Spy Headquarters....
“Vhere are your friends, Peter? Dey don’t care enough
about you to tell us vhere the microfilm is, and save your life.” Madame
Olinsky tried to walk around Peter and slammed into the wall. “Boris! I
told you to tie him to a chair, not duct tape him to the vall!”
“But Madame.... Dere vere no chairs here...”
That, at least, was true. After they bungled their
last attempt to relieve the Monkees of stolen microfilm, their superiors
weren’t about to shell out for anything fancy in the way of hideouts. Calling
it Secret Spy Headquarters certainly made Boris and Madame feel better,
but there was no denying that it was just a phone booth. How they got both
spies inside and Peter duct taped to a wall is anybody’s guess, really.
As it was, they attracted more attention than the parade going down the
street did. In fact, they attracted the attention of the marchers in the
parade as well.
“Boris, who are ve kidding? Really?”
“Madame?” Boris was perplexed. Not that hard to
imagine, is it?
“I give up, Boris. I’m changing my name to Lorelei
and moving in with my uncle.” (Get it? Hahahaha.) With that, she stormed
out of Spy Headquarters. (Alright, I know, it’s hard to storm out of a
phone booth.)
Boris followed her, leaving Peter alone and covered
in duct tape. Not again, he though to himself. Why did he
always have to play dumb? Why couldn't he play smart once in a while?
Sorry, Peter, I guess I'm just a little prejudiced.
You're always the dummy, and I don't like you enough to make it any different
today.
"Who.. who are you?" Peter asked the mysterious
feminine voice. He knew it had to be someone important if they were
speaking in italics.
The author, duh!
"Really? Then I want to complain! How
am I supposed to free myself from this wall? I'll never get the tape
adhesive off this shirt, you know, and these beads are just ruined!"
Do I need to drop a small, enraged primate on
you, too?
"I'll be good!" Peter cowered as best he could while firmly taped
to a phone booth wall.
Scene: The Monkeemobile, flyin' down the highway lookin' for a
place to laaaaand... Sorry.
"Here we come," everyone in the car sang, "drivin'
down the street... We get the funniest looks from everyone we meet!"
"Guys?" Della said suddenly. "Do you think
we'd get all those funny looks if we weren't all singing with our arms
around each other?"
"Do not question the ways of the Monkee,"
Davy intoned seriously.
Della looked at Davy with suspicion obvious on her
face, and scooted away from the diminutive Brit. "Ooookay...
So we're looking for Peter, right?"
"Right!" the three Monkees chorused.
"Where are we going to look first?"
"Umm...." No one had thought that far yet.
"Hey look!" Micky shouted. "That guy taped
to the phone booth looks kinda like Peter, doesn't he?"
Mike shook his head. "The hair color is all
wrong. Peter's colors are earth tones... That guy looks like
he should stick to pastels."
Della and Davy nodded in agreement. Micky
shrugged. "True, Peter's a fall. That guy's a winter."
They drove past the struggling youth duct taped to the booth. "Now,
that's Peter!" he said as they came to the next phone booth.
"Hey, Pete! Where're the spies?" Mike asked
as they peeled the tape off him.
"I think they gave up. Davy, get your hand
off my leg."
"Sorry, Petah. Thought you were someone else.
Ow!"
"Oopsie, did I just hit you with my purse?
I'm so sorry." Della smiled a little too sweetly at Davy, and turned
to Peter. "You know, those beads are just ruined."
Chapter
Two: Alternate Title
The continuing story of Bungalow Bill... er, I mean Della
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