Honestly I don't know what this book is anymore

-Pretz

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"Can I take this stupid dress off?" Mike Nesmith shifted uncomfortably as he adjusted the two-sizes-too-small dress.

"One more time, Mike."

"You said that the last time!"

"It's universal, mate. All directors say that to make you keep going." Davy pointed out.

"I don't care! I just want out of this dress!"

"Stop being such a stale baguette, Mikey."

"YOU'RE NOT THE ONE IN A DRESS, MICKY!"

"I already wore a dress for this stupid show!"

"Alright! We're done! You can take the dress off now." The director sighed and went to his office.

Mike booked it to the dressing room and slammed the door.

"What a drama queen." Davy retorted.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, "Gee Davy, you think Mike feels bad wearing a dress because it will tarnish his reputation and everyone will make fun of him? Therefore he will no longer be seen as the serious one in the image that is The Monkees and then he'll be forgotten because he wasn't known to have a definitive role in the band?"

"What? Stop using big words. It's because the dress is uncomfortable." Micky explained.

Peter made a face and didn't speak.

"Micky?"

"Yeah Mike?"

"I can't get it off..."

"The dress?"

"No, the leotard...YES THE DRESS!"

"What do ya want me to do?"

"Help me!"

"Fine." Micky entered the dressing room to the sight of Mike Nesmith on his head, "what..."

"Oh my God, Micky-"

"Those are two very lovely people but it doesn't help when you're yelling at me." Micky pointed out as he grabbed part of the dress and tried yanking it off of Nesmith.

"Ow!"

"Stand still and maybe it won't hurt!"

Mike emitted 80's computer noises as the dress continued to fail at its job of coming off.

"Bad news, it's not coming off."

"Nooo, I thought it was off already." Mike sneered sarcastically.

"I'm only trying to help, I'm not the one who volunteered to be in a dress!" Micky shot back.

"I didn't volunteer! They forced me into the role because Davy was supposedly sick and could fit into the dress because he was 'bloated'."

"Wow, that's kind of a sad excuse."

"Tell that to the director."

"Never mind. The dress isn't coming off, you'll be a drag queen for the rest off your life." Micky shrugged then walked out of the dressing room.

———————————————-

"Did it come off?"

"No, he looks like he's about to kill somebody."

"Doesn't he always?"

"Can't we just cut the dress off?"

"We could...or we can watch him struggle living his new life as a drag queen."

"All in favor of watching Mike suffer, say 'I'."

All three men said "I", thus it was decided that they were to watch Mike suffer.

—————————————

"Are you sure you aren't going to take your coat off? It's almost 90 degrees out." Davy tried to hide his smile as Mike looked like he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion.

"Look, when we get back to the pad, I'm getting out of this dress!" Nesmith growled.

"Okay jeez."

The four Monkees exit the studio, Mike proceeds to fall down the stairs.

"Gee Davy, good thing Mike has a coat on." Peter grinned.

"Guys, I think he's dead." Micky checked his pulse.

"No you stupid potato! You check Mike's pulse, not your own!" Davy screeched.

"First of all, you're a drama queen, and second, I think I'm dead as well then."

"His heart is still beating, he probably has heat stroke." Tork replied.

"Don't be silly, Peter. That's absurd." Davy scowled.

Micky checked Mike's pulse properly, "his heart is still beating, he probably has heat stroke."

"Good, Micky. You're probably right." Davy agreed.

Peter frowned, "Should we get him to a hospital?"

"Yeah, we should get him to a hospital." Micky grunted as he picked up Mike's legs.

"Good idea Mick." Davy picked up Mike's shoulders.

"Hey! It was my idea!" The bassist pouted.

"I'm sorry Peter but we can't take half of the things you say literally. You're either making fun of your self-misery or talking about Indian monks." Micky pointed out.

"Hey, those monks are cool. They use silverware with their feet!"

"Whatever! Let's get Mike to the hospital before-"

"SAVE THE TEXAS PRAIRIE CHICKEN!!!" Mike flaILED HIS ARMS AROUND AND ACCIDENTLY SMACKED MICKY IN THE FACE OH MY LENNISON.

Oh sorry *clears throat*, I got a little excited there. Anyways.

"Ouchy mccouchy. Watch where you're flailing those things." Dolenz rubbed his nose.

"Why am I still outside? I thought we were going to the candle market?"

"What? What candle market?"

"The one where they have the little rocking horses made of candles and the little pillows that have cute sayings on them like 'I really wish I weren't here right now!', ya know? That place?"

The three Monkees all looked at each other. Was he delirious from the heat  or being genuine? Considering it was Mike, they had no clue. None of them had the guts to ask since they knew he would immediately turn sour because they didn't know his every thought and wish. Literally, he would turn into a Sour Patch Kid. They didn't want that...

"Uh no? I don't think it's open." Peter said slowly.

"That's a shame, I was looking for some new purses to nail on the wall. Give the place a little bit of fashion, ya know?"

Davy replied, "Mike, are you alright? You're not making any sense."

"Hush now you short British mailman."

"Now listen here..."

Before Davy could contradict being called a mailman, Mike passed out again on the sidewalk.

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"Just remember to give him his daily dose of KoolAid and acid-I mean uh medicine then Mr. Nesmooffal the Second should be just fine."

Micky didn't even bother correcting the doctor about Mike's name anymore. However he would be calling Mike "Mr. Nexusroadranger" for the rest of his life.

"Thanks doc."

"You're welcome. I'm not actually a doctor lol get prankt" The doctor flew away through an open window.

"What a nice young man." Davy smiled.

"I couldn't agree more. He looked a little like Roger Waters, don't you think?" Micky pointed out.

"It probably was, you know how he likes to jump from job to job." Peter replied.

Micky looked out the window, wondering what to say next but alas the author had nothing more for him to say. So as he looked directly at the sun, it reminded of him of how many chairs each year are abused. Maybe the message was not of saving the Texas Prairie Chicken but saving chairs from being abused. And as Dolenz lost his eyesight from staring at the sun too long, he felt a sudden freedom knowing that every 'e' in 'Mercedes' was pronounced differently.

The End