"Micky, I hate to break it to ya, but your poncho is the ugliest thing I've ever seen since Peter's great aunt."

"Hey! If Peter were here, he would be very offended on behalf of his aunt!"

Mike and Micky, residents of ... sat in their flat, arguing as usual. After all, 9:00 am to 10:30 am was the designated time for arguing. Peter and Davy had given them a schedule while they were gone off to Japan to celebrate St. Patrick's Day.

"Isn't that in Ireland?" Micky asked.

Davy grinned, "Of course it is. We just want to confuse the locals."

Micky and Mike's argument quickly devolved into insulting each other's great grandmothers.

"Your great grandmother smelled like pistachios!"

"Well I like pistachios so that's a compliment!"

"But you know what isn't a compliment? That hat and your face!"

"Psh! I was born wearing this hat. If anything, at least my hat looks better than that atrocious rug!"

"I'm a messy eater! It catches all the sauce and crumbs!"

Mike's watch went off, he grumbled for not getting the last insult before time was over.

"Man, I'm starving. Arguing really takes the energy out of me. Hey Mike, why don't we go down to that new restaurant in town?"

"What? Les Hard Drumstick? I heard it was terrible, no one leaves that restaurant alive." Mike said absent-mindedly as he looked in the fridge. A box of sand, a tree branch, and Davy's comb. Nothing much to eat unless you were a goat. Mike decided he was not a goat.

"All the more reason to go, Mike! Some people look forward to dying!"

Mike crossed his arms, "no."

"Fine, I will go by myself."

"Fine by me."

Micky clenched his jaw, "If I die, I'm telling Davy!"

"How will you tell Davy? You'll be dead."

Micky let out a sigh of exasperation and left. Mike rubbed his eyes, he never understood Micky. How he could be so spontaneous and switch moods on a whim. He didn't like the unpredictability of Dolenz, it always annoyed him. Plus his terrible fashion sense. It was awful.
Micky was still exasperated while walking to his death. Mike never wanted to have fun....ever. Mike always wanted to stick to the plan, keep calm, no fun allowed. It was always "You need to focus, Micky!" or "Could you try to take this seriously, Micky?" Mike was wound as tight as a screw. Davy was usually the one to be the middle man between them. Without Davy, Micky wasn't sure who would strangle who first.
Mick walked 69 blocks in the blazing hot sun while wearing a rug, sweat was pouring into his shoes. Dolenz squinted as he looked up at the sign. Despite Les Hard Drumstick being fairly new, half the letters were missing spelling out "Les Hard Dick". Micky snickered as he went inside. He couldn't wait to try the stromboli.

5 days later...

Mike checked his watch and sighed. Micky had been gone for 5 days and Mike was starting to miss their daily arguments. He had occupied his time by crocheting, eating raw meat, and quantum physics. However, you can only teach yourself so much quantum physics. Mike grabbed the keys to the Monkeemobile, his first priority was picking up his Chick-Fil-A, then finding Micky.

"Here's your food, sir!"

"What kind of chicken is this?" Nesbit took out his sandwich, it didn't smell right to him.

"Uh...I wouldn't know..." said the employee, they tugged at the collar of their shirt for comedic effect.

"Is this...Texas Prairie Chicken?" Mike asked darkly.

Sweat came pouring out of the employee's forehead, "I...I don't think so..."

Mike slammed his sandwich on the ground so hard, bits of bread and lettuce went flying in all directions, "YOU DON'T THINK SO? WELL, I KNOW SO!"

The employee was cowering in fear, he had never seen such a man so passionately angry about chickens.

"IF YOU KILL ONE MORE PRECIOUS TEXAS PRAIRIE CHICKEN FOR YOUR SICK GAMES, TELL YOUR CEO THAT I'M COMIN' AFTER HIM!!!" Nesmith stomped out of the store, his boots covered in lettuce and bread, his heart pounding with the love for his chickens.
Mike angrily sped off to Les Hard Dick to find Micky.

----

The curtain of glass beads tinkled brightly as Mike pushed them aside. It was the only thing separating the inside of the restaurant from the outside weather. The front carpet had definitely seen better days.

"WELCOME WELCOME!!! TO LES HARD DI- I mean DRUMSTICK. What services may I provide to you, sir?" A rather skinny man had appeared from the shadows, wearing a maid outfit.

"Uhh, what kind of services do you offer...?"

"Food, entertainment, tombstones, we also make-"

"Wait wait wait, tombstones?"

"Well yeah, it's the least we can do after we kill everyone that eats here."

"Oh that makes sense. Anyways, have you seen Micky? Sorta short, terrible fashion sense, incredibly annoying, sorta frog-like."

"Oh yeah, I think he died around 5 days ago. I'll see if he's in the back."

"Cool, take your time." Mike looked around, admiring the moldy stains on the walls, they really added to the place.

The man came back with Micky's body, amazingly well preserved. Must've been all that wireless bean juice he ate all the time Mike thought to himself.

"What happened to him?"

"He died."

"No shit, I couldn't tell!"

"Yep, dead as a doornail. Can't tell ya what happened."

"Oh okay, thanks anyways." Mike turned to leave.

"Wait! Aren't you going to take your friend?" The maid man asked.

Mike scrunched his nose slightly at the thought of having to touch Micky let alone, carry his body home.

"Some friend you are," the guy sassed, "how would you feel if your friend didn't carry your dead body home?"

"He's not my friend and I don't expect him to do it for me."

"Oh come on, of course he would, I did get a chance to talk to him before he died. You know what he said about you?"

Mike crossed his arms defensively, emotionally getting ready for Micky to insult his cooking and hat and button-up shirts.

"He said 'Mike makes the best chicken salad I've ever had.'"

Mike immediately burst into tears, Micky had complimented his non-Texas Prairie Chicken salad? This was too much for him.

"On another note, please take your friend, we don't have room for him."

Mike obliged and proceeded to walk home with a dead body over his shoulder. No one was there to stare awkwardly at Mike because everyone had died at Les Hard Dick the week before.
Nesbit arrived home and slammed Micky's body onto the sofa as hard as he could for making him feel...feelings. Ew, gross.

"Micky-boo! Mikey-bear! We're home!" Davy and Peter exploded through the door, dissolving it into sand.

"Hey guys." Mike said solemnly

Peter ambled in, but his face fell when he saw Micky's body, "did the bear get to him again?"

"No, long story."

"Oh! Alright!" Peter chirped.

Then, Micky took a breath of life.

"What the froock?"

"Hey guys! I'm alive!" Micky proceeded to talk a mile a minute about how the new restaurant in town was terrible and that it killed him and that he wishes he was having a bologna sandwich right now.

Although Mike was immediately annoyed that Micky was talking again, he had to remind himself that secretly, deep down, Micky likes his chicken salad. And Mike secretly likes his carpet poncho....