Disclaimer: I had a lot of help on this 'un. I got my info on Michael Nesmith's life from the Monkees fic list, and those people got some of it from "Total Control" which I can't find anywhere, but that's a whole other story. Madame Spy told me she thinks Michael is right-handed, so if that's wrong, blame her. :)

I don't own the Monkees, I don't even know them. Oh, and I don't have any money, so please don't sue me. If you are a Monkee, please email me because it would make my life. That is all.

Michael Nesmith sighed and rolled over slightly as he drifted into awareness. "Phyllis?" he mumbled, reaching out for her. His arm met empty air.

He opened his eyes then, looking around blearily. It was early yet, the alarm hadn't even gone off, so what was she doing up? He snapped awake and sat straight up, dark eyes flashing. "What the - ?"

His king-sized bed had been replaced by a twin, and there was another twin bed on the other side of the room. Peeking out from under those covers was a very familiar fuzzy head.

"Micky!" No answer, just an incomprehensible mumble as the head disappeared even further under the covers. "Mick!" With an exasperated sigh, he swung his long legs out of bed and stalked over to Micky, shaking him vigorously. "Micky, cut it out, is this some kind of sick joke?" Micky still didn't respond.

Michael let out a low curse and looked around again. The room wasn't at all familiar. There was a nice-sized window to the side, so he looked out . . . and saw endless beach. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he shook Micky with renewed vigor. "George Michael Dolenz, get up right this minute and tell me what the hell is goin' on!"

Micky sat up with a snort. "Hungh . . . what? Mike, what'd you wake me for? It's only . . ." He squinted at the clock on the dresser. "Five forty-three a.m.!"

"Okay, joke's over. Where are we, how did you get me here, and where's Phyllis?"

"Where . . .? We're at the pad. Are you feeling okay? Who's Phyllis?"

"Quit fooling around," he growled angrily, "You know exactly who Phyllis is!"

"I do not!"

"She's my freakin' wife, you idiot, an' I wanna know where she is!"

Micky's mouth dropped open. "W . . . w-w-w-wife?!"

"What's the matter with you?"

"Since when do you . . . wife?!"

"Okay fine, I'll bite. Since June 24, 1964. An' where's Christian?"

"Do I even wanna know who that is?"

"MY SON!!!"

"Mike . . . I think you oughta lie down, you're obviously not feeling well . . ." Micky eyed his black silk boxers with a critical eye. "You've probably caught a cold. Where's your nightgown?"

"Not funny, Dolenz!" Giving up, he slammed out of the room - and stopped short at the top of a spiral staircase, gaping soundlessly at the room below him.

It was the pad, complete with totem pole and red-haired dummy sitting in the living room. The only difference was the fourth wall that completed the room. "What the hell . . .?"

He trudged down the steps, clutching the banister for dear life, his eyes taking in every inch of his surroundings. There was the "Money is the Root of all Evil" sign, the fire extinguisher with instructions to "RUN" in case of fire, that familiar kitchen area, the walk-in closet with the stuffed bird above the door . . .

A thought suddenly occurred to him and he whipped around, staring at the closed door that led to . . .

With a shaking hand, he turned the knob and peeked in. Sure enough, there lay Davy, lying on top of the covers of the bed closest to the door, wearing a pinkish nightgown and boots. In the other twin bed, snoring lightly and clutching a teddy bear, was Peter Tork, wearing orange pajamas with a cap and footies, a single blue bunny on the left side of his chest.

Michael bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and stepped back, closing the door once again.

"You okay?"

He jumped and whirled around to see Micky at the top of the staircase, regarding him seriously.

"I'm . . . I'm . . ." He gulped and forced a neutral expression onto his face. If this was a joke, if they had somehow pulled this thing off, he was not going to give them the satisfaction of freakin' out. "I'm just goin' outside for a minute, Mick."

"Okay . . ." Micky watched him leave, confusion evident in his expressive eyes.

Michael stepped outside, shivering slightly from the early morning chill. His light boxers didn't provide much warmth. He shielded his eyes from the rising sun. Dawn was just beginning to blossom over the beach, and the sky was lit up in hues of orange and pink. He turned around, his heart dropping into his feet. There was the beach house, the same one he'd seen a million times on the show - only it was real.

Michael did something he hadn't done since he was three. He screamed.

Buzzing. Something was buzzing.

"Michael, wake up, honey. Come on, you'll be late."

Someone was shaking him gently, murmuring into his ear. "Go 'way," he muttered, trying to roll away from the voice. "Lemme 'lone."

"It's time to get up," the person insisted, pulling at his bedcovers.

"Micky, go away."

"MICKY?!" His covers were suddenly and violently yanked all the way off, and his eyes flew open, meeting those of a very angry female.

"Aaagh!" He jumped backward so violently that he fell out of the bed, landing with a thump on the floor.

"What is the matter with you," the irate female hissed. "Do I look like Micky to you? And if you answer yes I'll deck you! Now stop this nonsense or you'll wake Christian!"

"Chr . . . Christian?"

"Your son," she growled, her tone infinitely cold, "Or have you forgotten him too? And what is with that ridiculous nightgown, and that hat!?"

"My . . . son? Wait a minute lady, I don't know who you are or what you're talking about, but - "

"Don't you start with me, Michael, you know better than to mess with me in the morning! Now get up and get dressed, you have to be on the set in less than an hour!"

He shrank back, cowed by her fury. "Okay, okay . . . on the set, right . . . I'll play along . . ."

She let out on final growl and turned on her heel, stalking out of the room. She slammed a fist into the alarm clock as she left, and it finally stopped buzzing. "'Bout time," he muttered, picking himself up off the floor. "Thing was givin' me a headache."

Peter Tork watched in amused silence as the Nesmiths pulled up to the studio entrance. He had been about to go inside when he saw them, and something made him stop and watch. Phyllis was driving, for some reason, and her whole body was rigid, hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white. Michael was slouched in the seat beside her, looking to all the world like a little boy who'd been denied his candy bar. He was already sort-of in wardrobe - the green wool hat was perched on his head. That gave Peter pause. How had he snuck that thing out last night? And why?

Finishing off the odd picture, Christian was in the backseat, playing merrily with an action figure, totally oblivious to the fact that his Dad was very obviously sleeping on the couch tonight. "Or in the doghouse," Peter snickered to himself under his breath.

"Bye," Michael mumbled as he stepped out of the car. He got only a "Hmph" in response as Phyllis floored the gas pedal and screeched off. Michael gave a distinctly un-Michael-like flinch.

"Hiya Michael," Peter said merrily, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "What did you do to get her so steamed?"

"I dunno," he sighed. "Pete, what's goin' on here, where are we?"

Peter frowned a bit. "Don't call me Pete, I've told you a thousand times."

Michael gaped at him. "You have?"

"Of course I have!" Peter took a closer look at him - Michael looked awfully pale. " . . . Don't you remember?"

"Where are we?" Michael asked him plaintively.

"The set."

"Set of what?"

"Our TV show? Y'know, the thing about four out-of-work musicians? The Monkees?"

Michael went five shades of white. "TV show . . .? What . . .?" He suddenly grabbed Peter by the lapels. "Who are you?"

"You've gotta be kidding me," he barked, wrenching himself out of Michael's grasp, but he found himself staring into desperate eyes - the eyes of a drowning man - so he relented. "Okay, I'm Peter Halsten Thorkleson, a.k.a. Peter Tork, musician and sometimes actor. Who are you?"

"I'm . . . I'm . . . in Hell."

And Mike slid to the ground in a dead faint.

Davy and Peter awoke immediately when they heard the scream. They both leapt out of bed and burst into the living room, looking around wildly. "Wha - ?"

"What's goin on," Peter finished.

Micky flew past them out onto the beach. "Mike's freakin' out!"

"Wha - ?" Davy repeated, but he followed Micky out.

Mike was staring at the beach house, his mouth hanging open and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He spotted them coming out and fixed them with a desperate stare. "Who are you?"

Davy shot Micky a look. "Wha' you mean, Mike, you know who we are."

"Humor me," he ordered grimly.

"Okay . . ." Davy shrugged and decided to play along. The sooner Mike came to his senses, the sooner they could go inside. He didn't fancy being out here in his nightgown. "I'm David Jones, that's Micky Dolenz, and that's Peter Tork."

"Full names."

"Same. 'Cept Micky's name is George Michael Dolenz if you wanna get technical."

"Yeah, but don't call me George."

Mike gulped and stared at Peter. "Peter Tork is your real . . . your full name?"

"Yes."

Mike turned to Micky, grabbing at his shoulders. "Have you ever in your life gone by the name of Braddock?"

"Braddock? No . . ."

"You're really a drummer?"

"What else would I be?"

"Oh God . . ." Mike sank down to the sand with a moan and buried his face in his hands. "We're really a band, aren't we?"

"Sure," Micky shrugged. "What did you think we were?"

"And we live here . . . together."

"Yeah . . ."

"I'm in Hell. I've died and gone to Hell."

"I'm afraid I don't - " Peter began.

"Just . . . come inside, I'll try to explain," Michael sighed, gesturing toward the pad as he stood.

"Okay, sure Mike," Davy agreed. "Whatever you say."

"Call me Michael."

"Right. Michael."

Peter dragged Mike into the studio, grunting with exertion. "A little help here?"

"What the hell - ?" Bob Rafelson was at his side in a second, taking Mike's legs and assisting Peter in lifting him onto a couch.

"I dunno," Peter gasped, dropping Mike's head unceremoniously onto a pillow. "He was acting really odd and then he just keeled over."

"'Ey, what's wrong with him," Davy Jones asked, entering the room and speaking with a mouth full of donut.

"No idea," Peter answered. "Hey, where'd you get the donut?"

"Focus, Peter," Rafelson snapped, slapping lightly at Mike's cheeks. "What do you mean, he was acting 'really odd'?"

"He and Phyllis had some kinda huge fight this morning, I think. And then he asked me where we were and who I was."

"He asked you what?!"

"Yeah, he was very confused for some reason. I think he's sick."

"Wonderful," Rafelson sighed. "Just what we need." He did a double-take. "Why's he wearing that hat?"

Mike moaned a bit and tried to roll over. He only succeeded in falling off the couch.

Rafelson flinched as he hit the floor. "Michael? Michael, baby, what's the matter with you? You feeling okay?"

"I'm in Hell," Mike muttered again. "Peter's not Pete and there's a lady in my bed."

"Hell is a lady in 'is bed?" Davy raised an eyebrow and wande red out again. "'E's definitely sick. That's gem stuff, that is."

"Open your eyes, Michael," Rafelson ordered.

Mike did, and fixed a terrified gaze on him. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"Who - I'm your producer, baby, I'm Bob, you know that."

"Producer?"

"Of the TV show," Peter reminded him.

"Oh right, the TV show." Mike sat up slowly, backpedaling away from Rafelson. "And you're not Pete."

"Right, baby, right." Peter knelt in front of him and grabbed the hat. "Where'd you get this?"

"It's mine--" Mike tried to grab it back but Peter held it away from him.

"It belongs in wardrobe, you know that. We're not allowed to take this stuff home."

"But . . . but it's mine!" Mike managed to snatch it from Peter and plunked it back down firmly on his head.

"On the show it is . . . you're a bit confused, Michael. Are you feverish?"

"What's this I hear about Nesmith being sick?" Bert Schneider wandered in, his eyes landing immediately on Mike. "He doesn't look sick."

"Hey Michael, why don't you talk to Mr. Schneider," Peter suggested, backing away.

"Mr. Schnieder? Where is he?"

Schneider shot Rafelson a concerned look. "I'm right here."

"You're not Mr. Schneider, Mr. Schneider is our dummy."

"That's on the show Michael, see, this is real life."

"Real life?" He repeated it slowly, eyes darting around the room.

"That's right." Schneider stepped a little closer and Mike struggled to his feet, backing away. "Now just relax, Michael, everything will be okay . . . I think you just need a good rest--"

Schneider reached out for him, and Mike did the only thing he could think of - he bolted.

"SECURITY!"

"So let me get this straight," Micky said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "You're Robert Michael Nesmith, aged twenty-four, you're married and have a kid, and until this morning we were all just a TV show and now you have no idea why we're real and how you got here?"

"That's about the size of it," Michael nodded wearily. "And that means Mike probably woke up in my bed this morning . . . with Phyllis . . ." He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "Oh God, Phyllis . . ."

"I don't get it," Peter said slowly, wringing his hands.

Michael glared at him and snapped, "Well, if you'd pay attention for once in your life--!"

Peter's face crumpled and he let out an anguished sob. Michael rolled his eyes as Micky rushed to comfort Peter.

"'Ey, you didn't haveta say that," Davy reproached him, reaching out to pat Peter's shoulder. ""E didn't mean it, Pete."

"Yes I did!" Michael glowered at the blonde-haired man. "You're not an idiot, so why do you act like one! It's dumb, is what it is!"

"I'm . . . I'm not dumb," Peter wailed, scrubbing at his leaking eyes.

"I JUST SAID THAT!"

"Now you listen here, Michael whoever-the-bloody-heck you are," Davy burst out, "I don't care where you come from, you 'ave no right to treat him like this! You owe him an apology!"

Michael rolled his eyes again and sighed, mumbling to himself. "I ain't apologizin' to no TV character."

"'E's not a TV character now, is he? And if you don't apologize, I'll . . . I'll pop you one!"

Michael stood up and drew himself to his full height, where he glared down at Davy. "You and what army, short stuff?"

"STOP IT," Peter sobbed, leaping between them and shoving them apart. "Stop fighting, you're not helping anybody!"

Michael was about to scream at him when the truth in those words suddenly occurred to him. He bit back his anger and stepped back. "Okay, okay, you're right. I'm . . . sorry, Peter."

"Yeesh!" Micky wiped exaggeratedly at his brow and made a comical face. "You guys are a handful!"

Michael sank back down into his chair and glared at the fourth wall. "I feel sorry for Mike . . . he's probably in the nuthouse by now . . ."

Mike wasn't in the nuthouse, though he was quite close to being put there. He huddled in a dark corner in the studio, his knees held close against his body in an attempt to make himself small and invisible. That Schneider person had the fuzz after him and he had no intention of getting caught. People were everywhere, sometimes coming this close to stepping on him, but he'd been lucky. His little corner provided just enough darkness to hide him.

He waited until it had been quiet for quite awhile before venturing a peek out into the light. It was deserted. He stood slowly, his eyes darting around, ears straining for any sign that someone was coming. Nothing.

"Okay," he murmured to himself. "Now to find a way outta this funhouse . . ."

Peter stepped off studio grounds and looked around, trying to gather his thoughts. If he was Michael - scratch that, if he was Mike - where would he have gone? He would have left the studio, first off. Peter smiled to himself, he had that part covered. Now which direction?

He'd read somewhere that people who thought they were choosing directions at random most often went the direction of their dominant hand. Now, was Mike right-handed or left-handed? Michael was right-handed, so of course he (and Mike) played guitar right-handed. But something was nagging at him . . . he went back over the episodes they'd filmed, one-by-one in his head. In what episodes, if any, had Mike written anything down?

"That's it! Episode fourteen: 'Dance, Monkee, Dance.'" Mike had signed the contract for dancing lessons left-handed. Of course, Michael had only done that because of the camera angle, but it made things a bit complicated.

Peter thought about it for a moment, then crossed his fingers for luck and turned right.

Mike wandered down the street, casting nervous glances behind him every few seconds. People were staring at him and it made him nervous. Were they all insane? Was the whole world suddenly after him?

He shivered, then laughed nervously. "You're just being paranoid, Mike," he tried to assure himself.

A woman passed by him and nudged her companion, whispering, "It is him!"

Mike flinched. "Of course, it isn't paranoia if you're really being followed . . ."

Peter spotted him a mile away - he was still wearing that dumb hat. He reached into his back pocket and fingered the identical green wool hat he'd found in wardrobe . . . where it belonged. "Okay Mike," he whispered under his breath, "Let's find out exactly what's going on here."

Mike leapt almost three feet into the air when an excited girl grabbed him by the arm and shrieked. "Mike Nesmith! Oh my GAWD, you're Mike Nesmith!"

"I . . . well yeah, I--"

"Oh my GAWD, can I have your autograph?"

"Hey, uh, keep it down . . ." He tried to pull away from her. People were staring. "They're looking for me, please . . ."

"I am your BIGGEST FAN! Well, I think Davy is cuter but it's mostly the accent, really. You're the most talented one and I love your hat. Can I touch your hat, oh

please can I touch your hat?!"

"I . . . uhh . . ."

"He loves it when you touch his hat," said a baritone voice behind him, and Mike paled. They'd found him.

"PETER!" The girl screeched and let go of his arm, leaping on Peter and squeezing him tightly. "OH MY GAWD IT'S PETER TORK!"

"Hiya darlin," Peter said calmly, hugging her back. "Would you like an autograph?"

"Oh, would you? Oh my gawd, I would just die!"

"Well, don't do that. Anyone have paper, a pen . . .?" Peter quickly threw an arm around Mike's shoulders, sensing that he was preparing to bolt. "Where were you headed in such a hurry, buddy," he asked, keeping his voice light. Someone handed him a pen and a pad of paper. "Oh, thanks."

He winked at Mike and whispered in his ear. "Stick with me, I want to help." Then he lifted the pen and paper and gave the crowd that was gathering a dazzling, dimpled grin. "Okay, who do I make this thing out to?"

"Laura," the excitable girl gushed, making moon-eyes at Mike.

"Okay Laura." Peter signed his name, then handed the pen and paper to Mike. "Your turn."

Mike took them, and with shaking hands, wrote To Laura, from Mike Nesmith. Peter realized with amazement that his handwriting matched Michael's to the letter.

"Okay, who else," he said jovially, taking the pad and pen back from Mike and handing the first sheet of paper to Laura. "We've got plenty of paper!"

When the crowd finally thinned and wandered off, Peter turned to the still-shaky Mike. "Okay, I'm going to get right down to business. I know who you are."

"I'm glad you do, 'cause I'm confused as heck."

Mike looked ready to bolt again so Peter made it quick. "Make a fist."

" . . . What?"

"Make a fist. With your right hand, make a fist."

Mike slowly raised his arm and did as he was told - making an absolutely perfect fist.

Peter let out a low whistle. "I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

He gave a triumphant grin. "Michael Nesmith has a finger that doesn't quite work. He can't make a complete fist with his right hand. But you can."

"Okay . . .?"

"So . . ." Peter shrugged. "You're not Michael Nesmith. You're Mike. From the show."

"I'm from the show . . ."

"You sure are. I don't know how you got here, or why you came, but you've stepped right out of the TV into real life."

"I didn't step anywhere, I just woke up here! With a lady . . . in someone else's bed."

"In Michael's bed. See, he plays the Mike character on the show. I play Peter."

"But . . . your names--"

"They just named the characters after us. Well, except they shortened mine, it wasn't 'commercial' enough."

" . . . Oh." Mike said faintly. He was beginning to sway. "How did you figure all this out?"

"Well, I'm not as slow as my television character." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the green wool hat. "I found this in wardrobe, so obviously Michael didn't take it home with him. But there you are, wearing it. And you didn't know Phyllis and Christian, or Bob and Bert, and you didn't recognize the studio. Plus there was the comment you made about Mr. Schneider. It all makes sense in a nonsensical kinda way."

" . . . Oh . . ." Mike swallowed hard and his knees buckled.

Peter grabbed his elbow. "Oh no you don't, you're not passing out on me again! Come on." He started pulling Mike along beside him.

"Where are we going," Mike slurred, trying to keep up.

"My place. You gotta stay somewhere until we figure this thing out."

"Oh, okay. So long as the fuzz don't get me."

"You don't have to worry about the fuzz, Mike. We'll fix this, you have my word."

"Well, okay, if I have your word . . ."

"Don't get smart with me, son."

" . . . And what is with that ugly car?"

Peter rolled his eyes and asked himself for the millionth time why he had let Mike talk him into showing him the pilot episode. So far he'd complained about Micky's hair, the Rudy character, the songs and instruments they used, the layout of the pad, and now the car. "They got rid of that car right away, don't worry."

"Well good, 'cause that's an ugly car."

The phone rang and Peter jumped up, eager to get away. "Be right back!" He retreated into the kitchen and sat down, shaking his head in frustration before answering the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey Pete!"

"Oh, hello George."

"Okay, okay, sorry Peter," Micky amended with an aggrieved sigh. "Hey, we weren't sure if you knew since you left early and all, but Nez never got home tonight! Phyllis is having kittens."

"Oh . . . is that right?"

"Yeah! And Bob and Bert are freakin' out too . . . they're trying to figure out if they should call the police or something, but then the media would find out, and that wouldn't be good--"

"Micky . . ." Peter paused for a moment, shooting a glance toward his guest in the living room. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Sure, what's up?"

"Well . . . Mike's kind of with me."

"What?! Hey Davy, he's with Peter!"

Peter flinched. "Great, Micky, way to keep a secret. Jeez . . ."

"What's he doin' at your place?"

"It's a long story. Seriously Mick, you can't tell anybody!"

"Not even Davy?"

"Well, you can tell him I guess, but that's it!"

"Deal. So spill it, what's going on?"

"What would you say if I told you that I had Mike . . . of the Monkees . . . in my living room?"

"Well duh, Peter, what other Mike would he be?"

Peter blew out an exasperated breath as he tucked the phone underneath his ear and let it rest on his shoulder, freeing up his hands to rummage through the cabinet for some tea. "No, Micky, not the Monkee from the TV show, the Monkee from the band! The real band!"

"There is no real band!"

"Yes there is, just not in this universe," he confided smugly.

"Hey Davy, Peter's gone crazy too! You think it's catching?"

"I'm not crazy!" Peter threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes, dropping his newly acquired teabag on the floor.

"You have gone off the deep end, my friend. You are stone gone!"

"Okay, look, just come over here, okay? I'll prove it!" He peeked out into the living room and moaned silently as he saw Mike still watching the television intently, now scribbling something on a pad of paper.

"He says Michael's Mike! No, the character! For real! I'm serious! He wants us to come over!"

"'E's crackers," Peter heard faintly in the background.

He rolled his eyes again and removed the phone from his ear, snapping into the receiver. "Just get here, okay? I gotta get back to Mike, he's taking notes."

"Taking notes? What--?"

But Peter had already hung up the phone.

Michael sighed as he stared out the bay window, watching Micky and Davy frolicking on the beach outside. He glanced at his watch - 11:37 a.m. On a normal day he'd be at the studio, filming the latest saga in the life of those lovable long-haired weirdoes, The Monkees. "I liked it a lot better when I wasn't livin' it," he muttered aloud, frowning deeply.

"What was it like," Peter asked suddenly from behind him.

"Peter!" Michael whipped around, his hand flying up to his pounding heart. "Jeez, don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I'm sorry," the blond man said solemnly, taking a seat on the bandstand and folding his hands between his knees. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"How long were you there?"

"Not long. I just came in."

"Hey, where'd you go this mornin'? You took off kinda fast . . ."

"I just went for a walk," Peter answered evasively. "I had to think."

"I hope you weren't too upset about what I said," Michael fretted, surprised at himself for actually meaning it. "I was upset, ya know . . ."

"Yeah . . ." Peter shrugged a bit and looked away. "It's okay."

Michael felt a surge of remorse. There was a depth of sadness in Peter's eyes, and the thought that he'd probably put it there was really ripping at him. There was something about this Peter that really got to him; a naked openness that reminded him very much of Christian . . .

"Hey, umm . . ." He found he didn't have to struggle so much to say it this time as he might have normally. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"What . . .?" Peter looked up, seemingly startled. "No, you didn't - I mean, you did, but . . ." He sighed and looked down again. "That's not why I'm sad."

"Oh . . . so why are you?"

"I'm worried about Mike! You said he was in the nuthouse . . ."

"Oh, hmmm . . . well . . . he might not be . . ."

"But you think he is."

"Well . . ."

Peter sighed swiped at the tears that suddenly stung his eyes. "I miss him. Micky and Davy just don't get it . . . he could be gone forever--"

Michael leapt to his feet, eyes flashing with sudden panic. "Don't say that, don't you dare even think it!"

Peter drew back, very obviously bracing himself for another biting attack, and Michael clamped down hard on his temper as Christian's eyes once again stared fearfully up at him from Peter's face.

"Shit . . . look, Peter," he continued, forcing himself to at least sound calm, "I don't wanna even think about that, cause if he's stuck there, then I'm stuck here, and that means never seein' my wife and son again. You can understand how much that . . . scares me . . . can'tcha?"

Peter nodded, his eyes wide and sympathetic. "Yes . . . I'm sorry, I hadn't thought of you." He frowned down at his folded hands, biting nervously at his lower lip. "We have to find a way to switch you back."

"Uh-huh. And what would you suggest?"

Peter eyed him for a long moment, seeming to gather up all of his courage before uttering one simple word. "Micky."

Mike barely looked around at the energetic pounding on Peter's front door, but Peter nearly leapt out of his skin. "I'll get it!"

"See that you do," Mike muttered at the television, somewhat caustically.

Peter turned an incredulous gaze on him as he reached for the doorknob. "You watch it, son, or I'll throw you to the wolves." He opened the door.

"It's about time you got here!" Then, in a lower voice, he added. "He's driving me batty!"

Micky peered into the living room, where Mike was now finding fault with episode eleven, 'Monkees A La Carte.' "What's he doing?"

"He's telling me everything we've ever done wrong in the show. He'll be glad to see you've stopped straightening your hair."

"Why?"

"His Micky never did. He says it looked stupid."

"You really think that's Mike," Davy interrupted. "From the show?"

"I know it is, and I'll prove it. C'mon." Peter led the two skeptics into the living room and sat them down on either side of Mike. "Mike, show them who you are."

Mike, though still absorbed in the show he was watching, raised his right hand and made a fist. Micky let out a low whistle. "Wow, it is him!"

Then Mike looked up - right into Micky's eyes - and froze, his perfect fist still in the air. "My God . . ."

"What . . .?"

"You . . . you look just like him!"

"Like who?"

"Micky!"

"I am Micky."

"No you're not. Not the right one, anyhow."

"Don't we all look just like who we're supposed to look like," Davy asked, his voice still skeptical.

"No," Mike retorted, speaking to Davy as though he were a child. "Your hair is too short, and you look older. Peter's too old too, and he's . . . well, he's just different, that's all."

"Oh."

Micky grinned and held out a hand. "Well anyway, I'm Micky Dolenz. The wrong one. Nice to meetcha Mike!"

Mike hesitantly stuck out his hand and Micky shook it vigorously, causing Mike's entire body to bounce up and down on the couch cushions. He had to grab at his hat with his free hand to keep it from flying off.

Davy shrugged and decided to get in on the act. "And I'm David Jones. Charmed, I'm sure."

"Told you," Peter said smugly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his easy chair.

"Okay, so this is Mike," Davy conceded. "Does this mean that Michael is--"

"Stuck in his world?" Peter gestured toward Mike, then nodded grimly. "I think so."

"Wow . . ." Davy stared at the television, suddenly seeing the wacky events in the Monkees lives' in a whole new light. "He must be going crackers by now."

"Yeah, if my counterpart hasn't driven him to murder," Peter sighed.

"Your counterpart," Micky protested, "What about mine?"

Davy snorted rudely. "He's already used to you, Micky."

"Hey, I resent that remark!"

"Think about it, Micky," Peter explained patiently. "Michael deals with your antics everyday, but he's never had to deal with Peter's umm . . . naivete. He's got precious little patience for that sort of thing."

"Oh yeah . . ." Micky sat back and watched the television in silence for a moment. "So what do we do?"

"I was hoping you'd have an idea," Peter deadpanned.

"Nope, I'm dry. Davy?"

Davy shrugged.

"Well . . ." Peter swept a critical eye over Mike. "I guess until we do figure things out, you've got to pretend to be Michael."