"What?" Davy stared at him in disbelief. "Peter, Bob'n'Bert are ready to throw him in the loony bin the second they see him!"

Mike shuddered at the thought.

"We'll just convince them that he was sick. You know, delirious."

"Oh, I get it," Micky grinned. "He was just out of his mind with fever!"

"Exactly . . . and if that doesn't work, we'll just have to tell them the truth."

"You must be joking," Davy burst out. "They'll throw us all in the bin!"

"We'd just show them the fist," Peter suggested. "They won't be able to deny there's something weird there."

"What about that lady," Mike reminded them, somewhat nervously. "I don't wanna go back with her . . ."

"Oh, right . . . Phyllis." Peter frowned and scratched idly at his head. "That does pose a problem. She would have noticed a fever that high . . ."

"Not to mention she'd never believe he was Michael," Davy pointed out. "She'd get suspicious."

"Does this mean we're going with the truth?" Micky asked dubiously.

"Guess so," Peter shrugged. "You'll stay here with me, okay Mike? Tomorrow, we'll tell them what's going on and hopefully they'll go easy on you, at least for your first day. Maybe they can write you out of the episode. That way, you can watch the filming and try to be ready for next time."

"He's probably already written out," Davy piped up. "They would have made arrangements."

"I don't know, you guys," Mike protested weakly. "I don't think they'll believe us. They're gonna lock me up and that lady's gonna yell at me again . . ."

Don't worry about Phyllis," Micky assured him. "She really is a sweetheart when you get to know her. I bet you'll like her once she retracts her claws."

Mike looked doubtful, but didn't argue.

"I'll call the studio," Peter told them, "And leave a message that we all want to me et before filming to discuss something important. We'll tell them first thing tomorrow morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Davy agreed. "You ready to go, Micky? I'm hungry, and I promised I'd call me da' before too late."

"Sure, yeah okay." Micky stood and placed a comforting hand on Mike's shoulder. "Don't you worry, ol' buddy, it'll be fine, you'll see. You'll like being Michael for a day or so, we have lots of fun on the set."

"Okay . . . if you say so . . ."

"I do! Later!"

"See ya Mick," Peter waved. "Bye Davy."

"Cheers!"

Mike sighed as the door closed behind them. "Oh well . . . I guess tomorrow's gonna be another day . . ."

"Micky?" Michael furrowed his brow in confusion and disbelief. "How can Micky switch us back?"

"Well, he likes to build things," Peter explained, "Maybe he can build something that will . . . I don't know."

"What, like . . . like a portal, or something?"

"Yeah, I guess. He's built weird things before, you never know."

"Has he ever built anything that actually worked?"

"Umm . . ."

Michael groaned and lowered his face into his hands. "Great, just great. My only hope is an excitable fuzzball with a chemistry set."

"Hey, at least give him a chance before you insult him," Peter admonished lightly. "He always comes through for us in emergencies . . . or tries to, anyway. He'll figure something out."

"Yeah, I guess Micky's your plan-man while Mike's gone. Okay, I'll give him a chance. What other choice do I have?"

"Not much, I guess . . . unless it just happens on its own."

"On its own?"

"You just woke up here, didn't you," Peter reminded him. "You didn't do anything, or go anywhere . . ."

"No, yesterday was just like any other day."

"What's any other day like," Peter asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What's it like where you're from?"

"Well . . . I dunno, it's pretty normal. I get up at around five-forty-five to be at the set by seven. We film pretty much all day, and we do some recording afterwards most days. Then I go home to Phyllis and Christian. That's what I did yesterday. What about you guys, what did you do yesterday?"

"Well, we had a pretty exciting day. We almost lost Davy when this tealeaf lady tricked him into--"

"Going on The Amateur Hour with her daughter Fern," Michael finished, his mouth falling open.

"Yeah! How did you know that?"

Michael ignored the question and spoke incredulously. "But that was first season. I thought you were in second season!"

"First . . . season?"

"I mean, with Micky's hair, and all . . ."

"What about Micky's hair?"

"It's second season!"

"Oh, okay." Peter nodded slowly, as if he actually understood what Michael was talking about.

"Oh, forget it." Michael fell into a sullen silence and busied himself trying to remember the next episode. "I wish Peter was here," he muttered aloud.

"I am here," Peter reminded him, sounding immensely puzzled.

"Not you, the other Peter. My Peter."

"Oh. What's the difference?"

"Oh, there is a huge difference, my friend." Michael laughed mirthlessly. "My Peter has a photographic memory. I'm tryin' to remember what the next episode is and I can't think of it. He remembers 'em all in order."

"Why do you want to know the next episode?"

"So I'll know what to expect, bein' here."

"You shouldn't want to know the future Michael," Peter told him solemnly. "If we were meant to know the future, it would happen right now."

Michael just stared at him. "Right."

"C'mon Mike, let's go, or we'll be late," Peter called, gulping down the last of his herbal tea.

A pitiful groan floated up from the back of the house. "Aww, Peter, it's too early! No one in their right mind is up yet!" Mike shuffled into the kitchen, straightening his hat over sleep-mussed hair. His eyes were baggy and red, and he still had pillow lines on his cheeks.

Peter snickered into his hand and gestured to the cup of coffee waiting on the counter. "I got you some caffeine at the corner store. You do drink coffee, don't you?"

Mike's answer was a desperate lunge for the cup.

"Careful," Peter warned, "It's--"

Mike suddenly let out a pained howl and stuck his face under the faucet, turning on the cold water full-blast and letting it run over his burnt tongue.

"--hot."

Just under ten minutes later, after much grumbling on Mike's part, they were finally in the car on the way to the studio. "Okay, here's the plan for today," Peter said in a tone much too cheerful and lively for Mike's liking, "We've got a meeting first thing. I called Bob last night and told him we needed to talk about Michael's situation. He'll be surprised to see you, I didn't want to tell him over the phone."

"Why not?" Mike asked, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

"He wouldn't have believed me, that's why. Even Micky thought I'd gone crackers - err, crazy - when I told him."

"You picked that up too, huh?"

"What?"

"Crackers. From Davy."

"Oh . . . yeah, we all have. They even used it in today's script, but I dunno if it'll still be there. Bob told me Michael's already been written out, so the whole thing's probably been chopped up quite a bit."

"How are they gonna explain that I'm not there?"

"They won't, I guess. They never really do when one of us is out."

"Well, don't people wonder?" Mike looked skeptical at the idea. If this world's Monkees were as popular as he thought they were (that weird girl Laura's behavior being the most obvious clue), people would want a reason why their favorite Monkee was AWOL.

"Probably," Peter answered with a shrug. "Sometimes they answer that in the interview after the show."

"Oh."

The were quiet for a moment as Mike stared out the window at his unfamiliar surroundings and Peter concentrated on his driving.

"Hey Peter," Mike finally asked, turning to face him nervously, "What happens after the meeting?"

"Oh, that's right, I didn't quite finish that train of thought, did I? Well, that kinda depends on Bob and Bert, but we'll probably film today's episode while you sit and watch. Then you oughta be ready for tomorrow's filming. Of course, it's probable we won't finish the whole episode today, in which case you'll have to sit out tomorrow too."

"Umm, exactly how long do you think I'll be stuck here?"

"Not long I hope," came Peter's honest answer. "Michael's got a family to get back to."

"Never mind me, it's all about Michael," Mike pouted, folding his arms across his chest and slouching further down in the seat.

"Oh, come off it," Peter scoffed, shooting him an incredulous glance. "I know you wanna go back home, but it's not the same thing. There's a child involved here who needs his father."

"Okay, I know," Mike admitted grudgingly. "An' I ain't much of a father."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," Peter smiled. "You're always fathering the other Monkees, aren't you?"

Mike snorted. "Yeah, they need full-time supervision. But that's different, ya know? Kids are so little an' helpless . . ."

"True."

They lapsed into companionable silence again as Mike thought back to the home he'd left behind, and Peter went over in his head exactly how he would break the news to Rafelson and Schneider. Then, something suddenly occurred to him.

"Hey Mike," he said slowly, a glimmer of an idea beginning to form in his brain, "What exactly did you do they day before you ended up here? Anything weird? . . . Relatively speaking, that is?"

"Ummm . . . not really anything too weird. See, there was this tealeaf lady who tried to trick Davy into--"

"Davy and Fern!" Peter interrupted, a grin lighting up his face.

"Well yeah, the girl's name was Fern . . . how did you know?"

"That was episode fifteen. Hey, I always wondered . . . whatever happened to Fern after she and Davy won the prize?"

"Not sure," Mike shrugged. "Reckon she found someone else to perform with."

"Oh, how about this . . . when you guys performed on the show, didn't Davy recognize you? That was something I never liked about that episode."

Mike shrugged. "Nope. He was nervous, I guess. He wasn't payin' that close attention." Then he grimaced. "But he teased me about it later. I made a danged fool of myself."

"Well, you did it for Davy. The others didn't come off too well either."

Mike chuckled at that. "Don't tell Micky that. He thinks he killed."

"He would." Peter grinned at the thought, then made a face. "Well anyway, I thought maybe that'd give us a clue to how you got here, but I guess not."

"Maybe Michael and the others have figured something out," Mike suggested hopefully. "D'you think they're gettin' along okay? I mean, you know Michael and the guys pretty well . . ."

"Umm . . . it's all relative," Peter answered cautiously.

"How so?"

"Maybe they caught on and toned it down a bit."

Mike gulped, catching the implications of Peter's words. "What if they haven't?"

"If they haven't . . .? Then somebody's liable to get killed."

"I'm gonna kill him," Michael muttered as he nearly slipped on a wet towel lying in the middle of the bathroom floor.

"Who?" Peter asked curiously, as he passed by outside.

"Micky," he growled, leaning over to turn on the water. It was his second morning here in Monkee-land, and the only perk was being able to get up at ten-thirty rather than the five-forty-five he was used to. He only hoped Micky had left enough hot water for a shower.

"Did I hear my name?" Micky asked, appearing behind Peter and peering into the bathroom. "You talkin' about me, huh? Huh? Huh?"

Michael just stared blankly at him, unable to articulate a response.

"Hey Micky, Michael and I were talking yesterday," Peter told him, "and we were saying that maybe you could help Michael get back home," Peter told him, gazing at Micky hopefully. "Do you think you can?"

"Me?" Micky looked back and forth between the two of them, his eyes confused. "What can I do?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted, "We thought you might build some sort of machine . . ."

"What kind of machine?"

"To switch him and Mike back again."

"A portal," Michael put in, finally having found his voice.

"Oh, well why didn't you say so? I can build a portal no problem!"

"You . . . can?" Michael stared at him doubtfully, suddenly feeling very nervous.

"Sure! I have a time machine I've been working on, I think if I make a few modifications, I could open a portal . . . of course, I don't know where the portal would go . . ."

Michael moaned and sank down onto the floor, burying his face in his hands. "There's always a catch." Had his eyes been open, he would have seen Peter sit on one side of him and rest his chin in his palms, subconsciously placing his fingers over his ears. Seeing that, Micky sat on Michael's other side and covered his mouth.

Davy chose that moment to bound up the stairs, about to ask if anyone had seen his new maracas, but when he saw the three of them, burst into near-hysterical laughter instead. Michael bolted upright, his hand flying to his heart. "Don't do that!"

And then his eyes widened and his stomach seemed to drop into his feet. "Oh god . . . oh dear God, I'm turnin' into him!"

"Here, put this on." Without waiting for an answer, Peter pulled a large trench coat from the backseat of his car and threw it at Mike. "And take the hat off, they'll know you in a second."

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but a no-nonsense glare from Peter so disconcerted him that he meekly removed his beloved wool hat and shrugged into the coat.

"You can put the hat back on later, okay? But right now, we've got to get you inside. Slouch down a bit, and try to look normal."

They pulled up to the studio guard and Peter waved cheerily. "Hiya Jack! Hey listen, my cousin Manny came into town unexpectedly, I'm bringing him in with me, okay?"

"Sure," Jack answered with an amiable grin and a jaunty tip of his hat. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. More so with family."

"Great! Thanks Jack."

"Yeah, thanks Jack," Mike muttered, and they pulled inside studio grounds. "Can I put my hat back on now?"

"No, you can't. And what is it with you and that hat anyway?"

"It's a good luck charm," was all he would say, and he shoved his hand into his pocket along with the hat, refusing to relinquish contact.

Peter parked his car and they walked inside, Peter weaving to various crewmembers and studio workers as the went. "Who's your friend," a few of them asked, and Peter just smiled and introduced them to his cousin Manny from Pensacola. "He's mute."

"Okay," Peter finally whispered as they approached a large conference room deep within the studio. "The meeting's in here. Just stay as you are until I give you the word, okay?"

Mike nodded slightly, his eyes darting around nervously and his body trembling slightly whenever he spotted a security guard.

"Just relax! It'll be okay, all you have to do is follow my lead."

"Promise?" Mike whispered, and Peter gripped his arm reassuringly before leading him into the room.

"Hiya Peter!" Micky bounded up to them and winked at Mike, shaking his hand vigorously. "Who's your friend?"

"Cool it," Peter hissed into Micky's ear, before laughing nervously and saying out loud, "My cousin Manny."

"I'm mute," Mike supplied helpfully, earning an elbow in the ribs from Peter.

"Well, get your cousin a seat and let's get started," Bob Rafelson said, nodding a hello at Peter. "We have a lot to talk about."

"I'll say we do," Micky grinned, practically bouncing up and down in his seat with glee. "Man, this is gonna be good!"

"Pardon me?" Bob raised an eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of the odd statement.

"Oh, nothing," Micky sang, ignoring the dark glare Peter was sending him. "Don't mind me!"

"We never do," Bert Schneider muttered as he closed the door and took his own seat. "Alright, we have a problem. As most of you probably know, Michael Nesmith has gone missing. He came in here acting very oddly yesterday, and . . . well, he bolted when I tried to speak to him. No one's seen him since."

"Actually, Bert," Peter began, shooting a reassuring wink at Mike, "that's not entirely true."

Schneider perked up. "You saw him? Where?"

"Well . . . I didn't see Michael, exactly . . . it's kind of hard to explain."

"Spit it out, Peter, baby," Rafelson urged. "What is it?"

"Okay, I'll just come out with it. Michael's gone. I mean, he's not here. But someone else is here who knows where Michael is, because he's come from where Michael's gone."

It all came out in a rush, and it was met with dead silence. Finally, Rafelson spoke. "What?"

Peter sighed loudly and ran a hand through his hair. "Man, this is harder than I thought it would be."

"Oh, for crying out--" Micky stood and crossed over to Mike, yanking the coat away from his face and neck in one fluid motion. "Look!"

A collective gasp went up from the entire room. Schneider leapt out of his chair with a shout, and Mike did what any normal person would do in his situation. He panicked.

He jumped from his chair and turned to run, but Peter grabbed his arm and held him tightly, just as Micky let loose with a shout that echoed throughout the room. "HOLD IT!"

Everyone froze, and Micky smiled in satisfaction. "All yours, Pete," he chirped, heading back to his seat.

"Gee, thanks George," Peter sighed, forcing the squirming Mike back down into his chair. "Now listen to me, and listen carefully. Mike, please, will you calm down?"

"What's going on here, Peter," Schneider asked warily, glaring suspiciously at Mike. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"No, this is Mike Nesmith. Of the Monkees."

"Excuse me?"

"The real Mike Nesmith. He's a member of a real-life band called the Monkees. They live at 1334 Beachwood, they play small-time gigs at clubs to try to pay the rent, they have a dummy called Mr. Schneider--"

"I know the story Peter," Schneider interrupted frustratedly, "I helped write it!"

"No, sir, you didn't write this. He lives it. Or he did, until he and Michael somehow switched places. Look, I know it sounds weird, but we can prove this isn't Michael!"

"Oh, you can, can you?" Schneider crossed his arms and leaned back, smirking thinly. "Alright, I'll bite. How?"

Peter leaned down close to Mike and whispered in his ear. "If I let you go, will you promise not to run?"

"He's evil," Mike whimpered, his eyes never leaving Schneider's.

"He's not evil," Peter assured him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, just show him your fist, he'll believe us then."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, come on!"

Mike slowly removed his hand from his pocket, and flushed when he realized he was still clutching his beloved hat. He transferred it to his left hand and brought the right hand out, raising it high into the air so that everyone could see it. Then, saying a quick prayer to whoever was listening, he took a deep breath and made a fist.

"Holy sh--" Schneider burst out, the majority of his exclamation drowned out by similar shouts around the room.

"How'd he do that," Rafelson yelped, his own hand shooting out to grab Mike's. "I thought your finger was--"

"I told you," Peter explained patiently, "This isn't Michael. It's Mike. Michael is trapped in the Monkees' world. With the real Monkees."

"'E's telling the truth," Davy put in, crossing over to stand behind Mike and Peter. "I know it doesn't make sense, but it's true."

"You're in on this too, Jones?" Schneider narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

"There's nothing to be 'in on,'" Davy insisted. "It's true! 'E's really Mike!"

"Imagine that!" Rafelson sat back in his chair, an amused twinkle in his eyes. "So you're Mike."

Mike nodded slowly. "Yes sir."

"Mike Nesmith. Of the Monkees."

"Yes sir."

"Well I'll be a Monkees uncle."

"Rafelson, you're not seriously considering this nonsense are you,"Schneider snorted, glaring around the room. "It's preposterous!"

"You know as well as I do that Michael is not capable of making a fist like that," Rafelson pointed out calmly. "How do you explain that?"

"Well, I'm sure I can think of a lot more believable reasons than him having switched places with a fictional character!"

"Really? Like what?"

Schneider opened his mouth to speak and flushed when he realized nothing would come out of his mouth. Rafelson continued quietly. "Look, Bert, maybe Michael could've gotten his hand fixed, but not this quickly. We just saw him less than two days ago, and his finger was just like it'd always been. Maybe an operation could get him full use back, but that'd take a lot longer than two days, wouldn't it? And saying it's a miracle is just as unbelievable as this guy being Mike. Besides, it makes a lot more sense now, the way he was acting yesterday. I think I believe these guys. This is Mike. Not Michael."

Mike let out a long sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn't get thrown in the nuthouse after all.

Schneider sighed angrily and dropped his face into his hands. "Alright, alright. So that's Mike. Of the Monkees. Does that mean Michael's gone forever, or what?" Then he groaned. "I can't believe I'm going along with this."

"We don't know what's up with Michael," Micky explained. "We're hoping the Monkees can find a way to switch them back or something. In the meantime, Mike can play himself. In the show, I mean."

"Yeah, all we have to do is show him the ropes," Davy added with a shrug.

"What about Phyllis?" Schneider didn't even raise his face from his hands as he spoke. "What'll we tell her?"

"The truth, I guess." Peter frowned, not really liking the idea himself. "What else can we do? We can't hide him from her."

"We can try," Mike muttered, but he was ignored.

"Okay then," Schneider sighed, his voice heavy with defeat. "We'd already written Michael out of this week's episode, so it won't be a problem for Mike to just . . . watch. We'll report to set in ten minutes . . . I need a drink."

Micky looked around vaguely as Davy and Peter came down the steps with identical looks of puzzlement on their faces. "Well?" he asked, wiping greasy hands on his jeans.

"'E's gone crackers!" was Davy's adamant reply.

"He's locked himself in the bathroom," Peter clarified glumly. "And he's saying weird things."

"You know wot 'e said?"

Micky shook his head, busily tightening a screw.

"I asked 'im wot 'e was doing an'e said 'e was trying to remembah 'oo'e was!"

"That's not so weird," Micky shrugged, flicking a switch and grinning happily as a large portal opened up in the middle of the living room. He stuck his head in it, then pulled back with a frown and closed the doorway, returning his attention to the exposed wires in the control panel.

"Wait," Davy insisted, continuing his narrative. "So then I asked 'im 'oo'e was, and you know wot'e said?"

"I couldn't imagine," Micky answered distractedly.

"'E said 'e wasn't was, were, be, am, is, or me! Or something li'that."

"Something weird," Peter sighed. "I think we broke his brain."

"Oh, we did not!" Micky snorted rudely as he once again stuck his head into an open portal. "Oh, sorry miss," he yelped as a woman's indignant shriek split the air. He lowered his reddened face back to his work as the portal closed.

"So 'ow's the time machine coming," Davy asked, peering curiously at the strange contraption that took up most of their living room. It looked a lot like a giant television, only instead of a screen, there was just open space. To the left of the "screen," there was a control panel, seemingly just a random collection of buttons, knobs, and wires, but obviously semi-functional, since each flick of the switch marked "ON" opened up a glowing rip in the air.

"You mean the portal," Micky corrected, still absorbed in his adjustments.

"Yeah."

"Okay, I guess. I thought I'd gotten it before, but all that came through when I opened it was a scarecrow, a tin man, and a big giant talking lion. I gave them some chili and made them go back home."

"A talking lion," Davy repeated disbelievingly.

Micky shrugged. "I was more surprised by the scarecrow and the tin man. How could they have been alive? They didn't have brains, or a heart, or anything."

"Maybe they did have brains and a heart," Peter suggested. "Made of tin and straw."

"Yeah, sure." Micky stood and turned to face them, crossing his fingers. "Okay, I think I got it! Hang on . . ."

He flicked the switch.

Michael licked his dry lips and ran a shaking hand through his hair. The figure in the mirror did the same, his eyes red and somewhat wild. "Get ahold of yourself," he muttered, hands gripping the countertop so hard the knuckles turned white. "Remember who you are."

Who are you?

"I have no idea."

He let out a frustrated sigh and spun away from the mirror, sitting down on the edge of the tub and burying his face in his hands. "This is all impossible, I've gone completely crazy!"

"Michael?" Peter knocked tentatively on the door and opened it slightly, poking his head inside. "Michael, guess what?"

"You're not really here," Michael mumbled, shaking his head frantically. "You're a figment of my very very sick imagination."

"I am not!" Peter sounded genuinely hurt. "I'm as real as you are!"

"Then I must not be real either. We're all made up, Peter. And when we get cancelled we'll all just . . . disappear. Poof!"

" . . . Poof?" Peter repeated, fear slowly creeping into his voice.

"Uh-huh. Just like that. One day you're here, and then the axe comes down . . .WHAM!"

Peter leapt into the air with a yelp, then ran to Michael and threw himself at his feet, throwing his arms around him in desperation. "I don't want to go poof and wham," he wailed, tears starting to flow from his eyes.

"Aww, hey see what you did," came a very familiar voice from the doorway. "You made 'im cry."

Michael's head snapped up and he stared into his own disapproving eyes."M . . . M-Mike?"

""Don't worry Peter, you won't go poof, it's okay," the other man continued, kneeling down next to Peter and patting his shoulder consolingly.

Peter let out another pitiful sob and transferred his shaking body to Mike's arms. "Promise?" he sniffled.

"Yeah Pete, don't worry," Mike assured him.

"What - how - when . . ."

"Quit stuttering, Michael," Peter said from the doorway, his smile evident in his voice. "Think before you talk."

Michael stood slowly, shakily, his face pale. "Peter . . .? Is that really . . ." Then he looked down at the two boys still on the floor of the bathroom and made the conclusion for himself. "It is you!"

"This place is amazing!" Bob Rafelson stepped out from behind Peter, his excitement evident on his face. "Oh, hi Michael. Peter, did you see, it's just like the set, only . . . more! Man, this is incredible . . . I gotta talk to Micky . . ." He wandered off again.

"Bob . . . what's Bob doing here?"

Peter stepped around Mike and the-other-Peter and put an arm around Michael's shoulders, guiding him out of the bathroom. "It's a funny thing," he explained patiently. "Seems Micky . . . their Micky . . . built some sort of machine that opened a doorway between the dimensions! We're on set, filming, and this big rip just opens up out of nothing, and Micky's head comes out of it . . . you should have seen it, Michael. I thought Bert was gonna explode."

"A big rip . . ."

"Yeah. So he realizes he's gotten the right place and he just walks out, grinning like a maniac, shouting 'I've done it! Laugh will they?! Say I'm mad, will they?!' It was classic! And of course Mike . . . the other Mike . . . he was overjoyed to see him. He's terrified of Phyllis, you see. You know she's not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and apparently he really ticked her off when they woke up that first day, and well . . . he doesn't have as strong a stomach as you do."

They were downstairs by now. The dimensional door was wide open, and most of the show's cast and crew were milling around the Monkees' living room, picking things up, examining things. The interns were all taking notes, Davy was talking to "himself," Bob Rafelson was in deep conversation with not one, but two Mickys, and Bert Schneider was seated on the couch, head in hands, his namesake beside him with its arm around his shoulders.

Peter guided Michael over to Bert. "Bert? I found Michael, he was upstairs."

"Great, wonderful. You okay, Nesmith?"

"Oh, fine," he responded faintly, wanting nothing more than to just go home and collapse into his wife's arms with a tall glass of scotch and drink until he forgot this ever happened. If it ever happened at all.

"He's in shock, I think," Peter said quietly.

"Aren't we all?" Schneider slowly lifted his head from his hands and stared at them blearily. "This isn't happening, it can't possibly be happening."

"That's right," Michael agreed, taking a seat next to the Schneiders. "It's all a figment of my imagination."

"Your imagination? It's my imagination," Schneider corrected him sternly. "You had nothing to do with it."

"Well, either way, it's not really happening."

"Exactly."

"We're dreaming . . . this whole thing is just a dream."

"Right."

"Because stuff like this doesn't happen."

"No my boy, it does not."

"Right."

"Right."

Both men were silent for a moment, then Schneider turned to Michael with a shrug. "Wanna get a drink?"

"A few drinks, really."

"Alrighty then."

And the two stood as one and disappeared through the portal, on their way to get very, very drunk.

Peter snickered into his hand and took a seat next to Mr. Schneider, who'd just sat there smiling through the entire absurd conversation. "So, what do you think of this whole mess," he asked the dummy, then pulled its string and awaited its words of wisdom.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," the dummy pontificated sagely.

"Or vice-versa," Peter agreed, and sat back to watch the festivities.

"Raise the mainsail . . . which rope d'you pull to raise the mainsail?"

Peter held back a smile as an extremely hungover Michael slurred his way through the scene. It was probably lucky that he'd only been written back in for a few pages of the script, as it was becoming increasingly obvious he'd never have made it through a full day's filming.

"Cut!" Rafelson yelled - a little too loudly - and Michael's already pale face went two shades paler. "Sorry," Bob whispered hastily. "Don't worry, Michael, only a little more to go."

Michael nodded wearily, dropping without ceremony to a seated position on the deck.

"Man, I ain't never seen such a case of seasickness," remarked one of the guest actors.

"Seasickness," Bob repeated slowly. "I like that. Seasickness it is."

This time, Peter laughed outright, and out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Davy and Micky trying very hard not to do the same thing. Michael shot him a dirty look before dropping his head back into his folded arms and closing his eyes with a sigh.

Peter took a seat beside him and threw an arm around his shoulders. "So tell me Michael, are you glad to be back?"

"Back where," came the muffled answer.

"Back here! In the real world, as opposed to Monkee-land."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Peter gave him an incredulous look. "Michael . . . you spent two days in an alternate dimension! You gonna sit there and tell me you don't remember any of it?!"

"I did not do any such thing," Michael snapped irritably, lifting his head and glaring darkly at Peter.

"But . . . yes you did! I know you got drunk last night, but how drunk do you haveta get to forget two days?!"

"I did not get drunk!"

"But you and Bert went . . . and you're hungover!"

"I most certainly am not. I simply do not do well on ships."

Peter's mouth fell open and he shook his head in amazement. "Well I'll be - "

"A Monkees' uncle?" Micky finished eagerly.

"Yeah, sure. He's in complete denial!"

"Gosharooney."

Peter looked sharply at Micky. "What did you just say?"

"Umm . . . gosharooney?"

"Since when do you - " Then Peter's eyes grew wide and he jumped to his feet, grabbing Micky by the shoulders. "George Michael Dolenz, you bring our Micky back here this instant!"

Micky just grinned widely. "Can't. He's got the portal."