Alternate Title
The (horrifying) sequel to Writing Wrongs.

By Ellen Barnhart

    The four Monkees, Mike, Micky, Davy, and Peter, lounged around the pad with Della, the mysterious and slightly crazed blonde they managed to pick up in the process of saving Peter from some spies.  After all that excitement, they were understandably bored.
    "I'm bored!" shouted Micky to the world in general.
    "Quiet, man, Mistah Babbit'll hear you," Davy said, looking at the door apprehensively.
    "He's dead, Davy.  You poked him with a stick, remember?" Mike said with the strained patience that came with leading this little group of lunatics.
    "Oh, yeah."
    Micky looked at Della suspiciously.  "Don't you feel any remorse for killing off Mr. Babbit?"
    Della shrugged.  "We're all here at the whim of the author.  She could resurrect him if she felt really bad about it.  Then again, she could turn you into a trout if she really felt like it."
    Mike attempted to crawl into his hat like a limpet into a shell.
    "What's with all the fish references?  Anyway, don't worry, she does feel sorta guilty for all the needless violence in the last story.  You're probably safe."  Della picked a piece of lint off Mike's hat.
    "Oh, I feel so much better."  Micky grimaced, then stopped to think.  Maybe the author felt guilty about beating him up in the last story.  Maybe he'd get some action this time around.
    "Not bloody likely," Della murmured.
    The front door burst open, and a hand shoved another young woman through the door.  This one was a brunette.  "Ow!  Damn producers.  You didn't have to shove me, Bob!" she shouted.  She shook a fist at the door, then brushed herself off.  "I'm Lola Delcross, Della's... cousin.  Yeah, that'll work."
    "What producers?  Who's Bob?" Micky wailed.
    Peter looked up from where he was picking tape adhesive off a strand of love beads and shrugged.  "Probably better not to ask."
    Lola, meanwhile, had wandered over and started playing with Micky's hair.  "Oooh, sproingy!  Heeheeheehee."
    "Oh, man..." Mike and Della said at the same time, then shot each other identical shocked looks.  "Don't do that," they said in unison.
    "I've never been to Unison, is it nice?" Peter asked absently.
    "You stole that from the Al and BT Chronicles.  Shame on you."  Lola tried to look reproving but her heart just wasn't in it.  It was in her chest.  Hahaha.
    "What they don't know won't hurt them, love," Davy said, trying to look charming in Lola's direction.
    "Who said that?  Oh," Lola looked down at Davy.  "Hello down there."
    "Ooh, Mike, she got me, right in the kidney, ooh, that hurts, Mike, it hurts."  Davy fell over dramatically, mildly concussing himself in the process.
    "Hey," Della poked Davy in the arm.  "Hey.  Why do you always tell Mike that?  Why should he care more than, say, Peter?"
    "'E's the father figure leadery guy."  Davy shot Della a very "Duh!" look.  It missed.
    "Daddy!" Lola shrieked and attached herself to Mike's leg.
    "Faster than the speed of dumb.  And they say blondes are stupid!"  Della shook her head and pried Lola loose so she could explain some things to her.
    "And you thought Della was scary..." Mike muttered.
    "No, man, YOU thought Della was scary.  I was unconscious most of the last story."  The pointedness of Micky's remark went unnoticed.  Well, almost unnoticed.  Peter, now more than slightly dizzy from the solvents he was using to clean his beads, whispered "Oh, pointy!" right before he passed out.
    "'Ey, what's wrong with Petah?" Davy asked, radiating British cuteness in vain, since the girls weren't paying any attention to him.
    "Who knows what's ever wrong with Peter," Micky said philosophically.  "Me, I think it was a traumatic childhood."
    "Not that, Micky, man, he's passed out!" an alarmed Mike said.
    Della looked up from where she was patiently tutoring Lola with sudden alertness.  "There's more than one Mike?  Where?  Where!?"  Three confused looks greeted her.  "Oh, sorry.  Uh... go back to whatever you were doing.  Hey, waitaminute, why were there only three confused looks?"
    "Peter passed out."
    "Oh."
    "Hey, wait," Davy said.  "Which one of us just said that?"
    "It wasn't you," Micky said.  "Whoever it was said 'Peter', not 'Petah'."
    "Well, at least we've narrowed it down to two, but may I remind you that something is wrong with Petah?"
    Peter sat up.  "What's wrong with Peter?"
    Mike frowned in a charming and cute manner that made Della lose track of what she was doing again.  "We don't know.  He's unconscious!"
    "Oh, no!" Peter wailed.
    Everyone stopped and tried to figure out what was wrong with this picture, besides Lola making faces at her reflection in one of Micky's cymbals.
    Della suddenly raised her hand and bounced up and down.  "Ooh, ooh, I know, I know!"  She pointed at Peter.  "He's awake!"  Della crossed her arms smugly.
    "Oooohhhhh!" everyone said, except Della, who was smug, and Lola, who was easily amused, to say the least.
    Della gave Lola a look of disgust.  "Maybe she's on drugs or something."  Lola stuck her tongue out at her blonde counterpart.
    No one noticed Lorelei "Madame Spy" Olinsky sneak in and fasten something around Davy's neck.  In fact, no one noticed her until she said, a bit too dramatically, "Davy Jones, you vill be Dracula reborn!  Ahahahahaha!"  Lightning flashed outside the window and cheesy thunderstorm sound effects filled the room.
    "Hold it right there, shotgun!  We've already done the whole 'Dracula reborn' thing!" Mike shouted, and the thunderstorm effects stopped.
    "What a kiss..." Davy said dreamily.
    "She didn't kiss you," Lola said, waving her hand in front of his eyes.
    "Go on, scram."  Mike frowned at Lorelei, who glared back at him.  "An' take yer 'Magic Necklace' with you."
    Lorelei slammed the door, muttering some unflattering things about Mike on her way out.
    Della nudged Lola.  "She's the kind of actress that gives us a bad name, ya know."  Lola nodded vehemently.
    "Vehemently?" Davy asked, but was quieted by the twin stares of the Delcrosses.
    "Actress?" Peter asked, but was ignored.
    "Where were we?" Mike asked.
    "Ummm..." everyone said in a lovely five part harmony.  Lola was too busy digging through the ice box.
    "Hey, you, author!" Della suddenly shouted.  Mike winced, since Della was standing right next to him.
    Yes?  What do you want?  I'm very busy, you know.
    Della tried to stifle her giggles.  "Uh, we need some kind of plot device.  Oh, and can you maybe bump Lola's IQ up a few notches?  If that's not to much to ask,"  she added hurriedly.
    Oh, no, of course, no trouble at all.  There was a sarcastic edge to the disembodied voice.
    "Oh, crap, we're in for it now!" Davy squeaked and dove for the couch again.  Unfortunately for him, Lola was curled up under there with a teddy bear and a fluffy pink blanket.  There was definitely an ominous atmosphere, but after two minutes it got bored and wandered away.
    "Mike."  Della started poking Mike's arm.  "Mike."
    "What?"
    "Nothing."  Della wandered into the kitchen with a sudden craving for grilled cheese sandwiches.
    Micky suddenly frowned and said "Peter Jennings says there are too many bananas.  Chiquita, NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
    Everyone stared at him, except Lola, under the couch, and Davy, trying to extract Lola, and Della, making lunch, so really, only Mike and Peter stared at him.
    "Um."  Micky looked around, and backed slowly into the downstairs bedroom.
    "Strange boy," Mike muttered.
    "Why am I under a couch?"
    "Lola?"  Peter bent over to look underneath the couch and fell on Davy.
    Lola stood up and dusted herself off.  "Where's Sprongy-Hair?"
    "You mean Micky?" Davy asked from underneath Peter, who didn't seem to notice.
    "Yeah, him."
    Right on cue, Micky burst from the room.  "I've done it!"
    "Done what?" the other five people in the room chorused.  Della was slightly harder to understand, as she had a mouthful of sandwich.  Davy stole the uneaten portion out of her hand and snickered, but in a genteel, British way.
    "Uh, actually, I don't know.  I made this thing with a button on it."
    Lola frowned. "Where is that ominous and foreshadowing music coming from?"
    "Oh, sorry."  Peter put down his cello, trumpet, and various other orchestral instruments..
    "How do you play all those at once?"
    Peter shrugged.  "Twelve years of Yoga classes."
    "Oh."
    Micky was growing annoyed.  "Hey, guy with a mysterious object with a big inviting button over here, d'ya mind?"
    Della, who had wandered over to the window, suddenly shrieked and jumped into the nearest Monkee's arms.  Sadly, it was Davy, who was promptly squished, being so teensy tiny.
    "Mmmph!"
    "What's wrong, Della?" Mike asked.
    "I saw someone out on the beach!  It was," she shuddered, "Bobby Sherman!"
    Lola snickered.  "Bobby Sherman..."
    "PAY ATTENTION TO ME, DAMNIT!" Micky shouted.
    "Some people are so needy," Della muttered.
    "Can't..... breathe....."
    "Whoops, sorry there, Davy."
    "HELLO!?  WHY ISN'T ANYONE LISTENING TO ME?!"  Micky was growing frantic.  Peter, on the other hand, was growing daffodils, but they couldn't compare to Micky's annoyed or frantic, which were lovely in the spring.  That's why Micky always won first place at local garden shows.  In fact, he was cultivating a particularly fine bed of annoyed outside the front door.  And the sprigs of frantic..... um.
    Anyway.
    Micky pushed the button.  The other Monkees leapt toward the drummer, shouting "Noooooooooooo!"  Everything seemed to be in slow motion.
    "Nooo," the girls said disinterestedly examining their respective nails.
What will happen in the next exciting chapter!?  Who cares!?
And who said anything about exciting!?

Back to Chapter One: Writing Wrongs
On to Chapter Two and a half: Tapioca Tundra
Back to the Fanfic section

*