Monkees Island
Dec. 15th, 2008 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solidfoamsoulWell, I know SOMEONE is reading this, right? RIGHT?!
My favoritest Monkees story ever by my BFF![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kittencuffs continues...
Also, she made us icons! And is now my default cuz I lubs it forever! (And the model as Mona/Nora is Jean Shrimpton.)
Monkees' Island, Chapter One, part 3 of 6. Rated M for adult suggestiveness, mild drug use and a couple 'fuck's.
It was my fault.
Everyone was so upset, I thought we should go out and take in some fresh air. And since the boat rides were included in the package cost anyway, whether we used them or not, I figured the beautiful scenery might make for a nice last day before the six of us returned to our hotel rooms and hung ourselves.
After hauling all our bags upstairs to our rooms—the boys were sharing a two-bed room across the hall from Nora's and my room—Nora and I decided to at least start the process of unpacking before we had to put in an appearance at this seminar. We didn't make it too far into the task, though, as Micky had either decided to live out of his suitcase or brought virtually nothing with him at all, and instead came over to our room to help Nora and I. And by “help us,” I mean “complain to us.” Mike had revealed that it had been his decision to only reserve two rooms, one for each gender set, and Micky was apparently very displeased at the prospect of spending the week sharing a bed with Davy instead of Nora. (Nora seemed very touched by this sentiment; I hid in the bathroom under the guise of putting away our toiletries until the conversation was steered in a less racy direction. It never was, though. Instead, we were called away by Mike, announcing it was time to go to the conference room.)
In the conference room, Mister R. J. Royal, who looked a bit like an overstuffed crow and was also eerily familiar, introduced himself and his assistants, the meek-looking Mister Solomon and the hulking Mister Huloko, before asking us to take a seat at the conference table. An attractive woman, whom no one bothered to introduce, silently poured us glasses of what I think was pineapple juice and set out a beautiful arrangement of sliced tropical fruit and melon balls before retreating to the furthest corner of the room, where a stenograph machine waited.
For forty minutes, we were made to sit and watch slides of various tropical landscapes, and tourists happily browsing through native stands selling local crafts, and shots of crowded inner city streets that were intended to illustrate the island's thriving economy. We must've viewed five hundred slides, all the while Mister Royal droning on about the all the positive things that could happen when an investor purchased island property, and the nameless secretary in the corner dutifully clacking each word into the stenograph.
I have to be honest. The slides of the beaches and ocean were nice, but I was getting pretty bored after the first few minutes. I glanced around and saw the others didn't appear to be too interested, either. Beside me, Nora had her elbow propped on on the table, and was holding her chin while she gazed out the window. On her other side, Micky had his full attention focused on trying to balance a pencil on its sharpened tip; when it fell over, he'd sigh and leave it alone for a while, trying to get back into the seminar, but would invariably go back to the pencil in a few seconds. Next to him, Mike was facing the projection screen, and was nodding occasionally in time with Mister Royal's speech, but his eyes were practically glazed over. Peter, on my other side, had started scribbling something on his napkin—I think it was some new lyrics—and was now completely engrossed, ignoring the slides altogether. Davy had turned in his chair to face the front of the room, but judging by the incline of his head against his shoulder, I think he may have dozed off.
We endured this for exactly one hour before Mister Solomon cut off the projector and Mister Huloko switched the lights on again. When the lights came on, we all snapped out of our individual stupors and sat up straighter, trying to look like we'd been listening intensely all the time. (All except Peter, that is; he was still absorbed in his writing.)
Mister Royal stood at the head of the table, beaming at us with a toothy smile, in his starched white button-down shirt and his pleated slacks and his perfectly parted hair, and lowered the boom.
By the end of our All-Expenses-Paid Vacation to One of the Most Beautiful Tropical Isles in ALL THE WORLD! Peter was expected to sign a deed to purchase a beach-front timeshare from Hoaka Kakama Properties.
Peter, dragging himself away from his lyrics, looked up and informed Mister Royal that he appreciated the offer, but wasn't interested in owning a timeshare.
Mister Royal was quick to assure him that that was perfectly alright. If Peter didn't want the timeshare, he wasn't obligated to purchase it. He could opt to pay for his vacation, a pre-valued total of $982.36, instead.
The room was dead silent for several long seconds, until Mike gave a snort of derisive laughter and threw his pencil down on the tabletop, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He pointed out that the raffle that Peter had entered into had advertised an all-expenses-paid trip, emphasizing the “all-expenses-paid” part. Mister Royal, still smiling his barracuda smile, agreed that yes, the raffle was for an all-expenses-paid trip, but the terms of agreement listed in the brochure included with Peter's notification of winning detailed that the trip was all-expenses-paid only if the winning party agreed to purchase the property offered by Hoaka Kakama Properties. Otherwise, Peter was welcome to take advantage of all the pre-made reservations, but would foot the bill himself.
Peter, looking determined to prove Mister Royal wrong, opened his manila envelope and pulled out the brochure. Mister Royal directed him to page seven, the second-to-last page, and pointed to the paragraph written in very small typeface at the bottom of the page. The paragraph detailed precisely what Mister Royal explained to the letter, and that in returning the signed and filled-out reservation slip, Peter had agreed to all the terms listed.
When Mike nudged Micky and asked why he hadn't noticed that paragraph while perusing the brochure, Micky at least had the decency to sound embarrassed when he pointed out that the paragraph was under a picture of several well-proportioned and scantily-clad women playing a game of volleyball on the beach.
Across the table, Davy suddenly burst out with angry protests that we were undiscovered musicians, and we didn't have a thousand dollars on hand to pay off our tab. (It felt good to be included in Davy's protective rage, even though I, as a symphonic cellist, and Nora, as a magician's assistant, didn't fall under the “undiscovered musician” umbrella.) Mister Royal patiently said that if we felt we'd rather take the hard road, we were welcome to speak with Hoaka Kakama Properties' legal department; Mister Solomon stood up and placed his briefcase on the table, looking pleased to have something to do at last. But Mister Royal put a hand on Mister Solomon's briefcase and suggested that perhaps we would like to sleep on the idea for a while. We had until the end of the week, after all, to make a decision, and rash decisions are regretted decisions.
As we rose to leave, Mister Royal offered his hand to each of us. Mike shook it firmly—a little too firmly, perhaps—and Peter followed Mike's example, but looked like he may cry at any moment. Nora and I both shook it out of a habit of politeness. Micky and Davy both gave him the brush-off, stalking toward the door without a backward glance.
We crossed the lobby and headed for the stairs in silence, marching single-file up to the first floor and down the corridor to our rooms. Mike unlocked the boys' door, and we all followed him inside. It wasn't until Davy shut the door again that Peter broke the silence.
“I... I'm sorry, guys,” he whimpered, his voice cracking. He sank down on the end of the bed he and Mike had claimed and buried his face in his hands. I took a seat next to him and laid a hand on his knee; he dropped one hand to clutch mine in his own. “I had no idea this would happen.”
Mike patted his shoulder comfortingly. “It's okay, shotgun. None of us saw the fine print, either. It's not your fault.”
“Not all your fault, anyway,” Davy muttered angrily, pushing a suitcase aside so he could sit cross-legged on his and Micky's bed. Micky, who was leaning against the wall just behind him, reached out and smacked him in the back of the head.
“Can I see that brochure?” Nora asked. Peter handed her the manila envelope without looking up; she opened it and pulled out the brochure, and joined Micky against the wall, where they both began poring over the damning paragraph.
“There's no way they can do this to us,” Davy spat. “This can't be legal!”
“Actually, this contract looks pretty damn binding to me, guys,” Micky muttered. “I'm not finding any loopholes.”
In the back of the room, Mike began slowly pacing back and forth, pulling off his wool hat and worrying at it with his hands as he went. “What are we gonna do?” he murmured to himself. “What are we gonna do, what are we gonna do, what are we gonna do...”
Davy pulled out his wallet, flipping it open. “I have seventeen dollars,” he announced after a moment. “And that last check for twenty-five from you,” he added, gesturing to Nora, who had had need to hire Davy as a fake-date not long ago to throw off her neanderthal of an ex-boyfriend.
Mike pulled out his own wallet and counted. “Twenty-three.”
“Heh... uh, seven,” Micky chuckled embarrassedly, slipping his wallet into his back pocket again.
“We've got fifty between us,” I said, gesturing to Nora.
Micky nudged her and whispered, “You're buying dinner, then.”
“No,” Peter protested, “no, no, guys, you're not in this. It's my signature, I'm the one in trouble. You guys don't have to give up your money, I did this to myself.”
“We're in this together, man,” Mike said firmly. “If you think we're going to spend the week lapping up this vacation and then hop a plane on Sunday and leave you holding the bag, you best prepare yourself for a rude awakening.”
“Yeah,” Micky agreed, then added offhandedly, “Besides, we'll never find another bassist-keyboardist in time for the gig next week.”
Peter sighed heavily, staring around at us. Realizing that we weren't going to back down and let him take the fall on his own, he pulled one foot up on the bed and tugged off his moccasin, reaching inside and pulling out a few bills. “Twenty-one,” he muttered, finally.
Doing some quick thinking, Micky announced, “That's a hundred and eighteen dollars. One-forty-three, if Davy cashes that check.”
Across the room, Nora caught my eye. I knew what she was thinking of, and nodded my consent.
“We have a savings account,” she said. “There's three hundred and something in there.”
“Three hundred and eighty-six,” I specified.
“We're not asking you to empty out your savings account on our behalf,” Mike protested.
“You're not asking, we're offering,” I pointed out.
“And if you refuse, we'll be extremely offended and assume it's because of some male chauvinistic caveman theory and storm out of here in a huff,” Nora added, but she was smiling.
Mike made a noise like he was about to argue again, but then sighed and resumed pacing, the closest he could come to agreeing to give in and take our money.
“Five-twenty-nine,” Micky tallied, and kissed Nora's cheek in gratitude.
“You must be joking!” Davy declared, goggling at Micky's last count. His bad mood was dispelled with the sudden turn of events. “Alright,” he cried happily, “we're more than halfway there!”
“We've got that gig next week, that's another two hundred.”
“Seven-twenty-nine.”
“Wait a minute,” Peter interrupted, “what about our other bills? We still pay rent, don't we?”
“Well, we're set,” I said. “My last paycheck from the symphony hasn't cleared yet, but that'll cover our rent and electricity.”
“And I can get an advance from Mumford to take care of the water and phone bills,” Nora nodded.
“I could wire Grandfather for a loan,” Davy offered.
“My folks, too,” Micky nodded.
“And we still feed you,” Nora added with a smirk. (Our apartment building had a food co-op, and Nora and I were always being bombarded with foods, far more than we could eat ourselves, in exchange for preparing or preserving foods for the other tenants.)
“Okay...,” Mike said slowly, coming out of a very deep think. “I think... I think we can pull this off. As long as nothing else happens—” (We all reached for the nearest piece of wooden furniture to knock.) “—we should be able to come up with the money to pay this off without winding up on the street. We might need to go to your pad to shower and shave,” he said, looking to Nora and I, “since we may be a little short on lights and water, but I think we can do it.”
I gave Peter's hand a gentle squeeze; he looked to me and managed to flash that beautiful dimpled smile I loved so much, looking immensely relieved.
“You know what?” I asked the room in general. “I think we could all do with a little fresh air. How about we get changed and cash in one of those boat rentals and take a little cruise around the island for a while? Everything's already been reserved, so we're being billed for it whether we use them or not; we might as well enjoy it.”
“I think that's an excellent idea,” Davy agreed.
“Me too,” Mike said, nodding. “We'll meet you girls in the lobby in a few minutes, okay?”
My favoritest Monkees story ever by my BFF
kittencuffs continues...Also, she made us icons! And is now my default cuz I lubs it forever! (And the model as Mona/Nora is Jean Shrimpton.)
Monkees' Island, Chapter One, part 3 of 6. Rated M for adult suggestiveness, mild drug use and a couple 'fuck's.
It was my fault.
Everyone was so upset, I thought we should go out and take in some fresh air. And since the boat rides were included in the package cost anyway, whether we used them or not, I figured the beautiful scenery might make for a nice last day before the six of us returned to our hotel rooms and hung ourselves.
After hauling all our bags upstairs to our rooms—the boys were sharing a two-bed room across the hall from Nora's and my room—Nora and I decided to at least start the process of unpacking before we had to put in an appearance at this seminar. We didn't make it too far into the task, though, as Micky had either decided to live out of his suitcase or brought virtually nothing with him at all, and instead came over to our room to help Nora and I. And by “help us,” I mean “complain to us.” Mike had revealed that it had been his decision to only reserve two rooms, one for each gender set, and Micky was apparently very displeased at the prospect of spending the week sharing a bed with Davy instead of Nora. (Nora seemed very touched by this sentiment; I hid in the bathroom under the guise of putting away our toiletries until the conversation was steered in a less racy direction. It never was, though. Instead, we were called away by Mike, announcing it was time to go to the conference room.)
In the conference room, Mister R. J. Royal, who looked a bit like an overstuffed crow and was also eerily familiar, introduced himself and his assistants, the meek-looking Mister Solomon and the hulking Mister Huloko, before asking us to take a seat at the conference table. An attractive woman, whom no one bothered to introduce, silently poured us glasses of what I think was pineapple juice and set out a beautiful arrangement of sliced tropical fruit and melon balls before retreating to the furthest corner of the room, where a stenograph machine waited.
For forty minutes, we were made to sit and watch slides of various tropical landscapes, and tourists happily browsing through native stands selling local crafts, and shots of crowded inner city streets that were intended to illustrate the island's thriving economy. We must've viewed five hundred slides, all the while Mister Royal droning on about the all the positive things that could happen when an investor purchased island property, and the nameless secretary in the corner dutifully clacking each word into the stenograph.
I have to be honest. The slides of the beaches and ocean were nice, but I was getting pretty bored after the first few minutes. I glanced around and saw the others didn't appear to be too interested, either. Beside me, Nora had her elbow propped on on the table, and was holding her chin while she gazed out the window. On her other side, Micky had his full attention focused on trying to balance a pencil on its sharpened tip; when it fell over, he'd sigh and leave it alone for a while, trying to get back into the seminar, but would invariably go back to the pencil in a few seconds. Next to him, Mike was facing the projection screen, and was nodding occasionally in time with Mister Royal's speech, but his eyes were practically glazed over. Peter, on my other side, had started scribbling something on his napkin—I think it was some new lyrics—and was now completely engrossed, ignoring the slides altogether. Davy had turned in his chair to face the front of the room, but judging by the incline of his head against his shoulder, I think he may have dozed off.
We endured this for exactly one hour before Mister Solomon cut off the projector and Mister Huloko switched the lights on again. When the lights came on, we all snapped out of our individual stupors and sat up straighter, trying to look like we'd been listening intensely all the time. (All except Peter, that is; he was still absorbed in his writing.)
Mister Royal stood at the head of the table, beaming at us with a toothy smile, in his starched white button-down shirt and his pleated slacks and his perfectly parted hair, and lowered the boom.
By the end of our All-Expenses-Paid Vacation to One of the Most Beautiful Tropical Isles in ALL THE WORLD! Peter was expected to sign a deed to purchase a beach-front timeshare from Hoaka Kakama Properties.
Peter, dragging himself away from his lyrics, looked up and informed Mister Royal that he appreciated the offer, but wasn't interested in owning a timeshare.
Mister Royal was quick to assure him that that was perfectly alright. If Peter didn't want the timeshare, he wasn't obligated to purchase it. He could opt to pay for his vacation, a pre-valued total of $982.36, instead.
The room was dead silent for several long seconds, until Mike gave a snort of derisive laughter and threw his pencil down on the tabletop, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He pointed out that the raffle that Peter had entered into had advertised an all-expenses-paid trip, emphasizing the “all-expenses-paid” part. Mister Royal, still smiling his barracuda smile, agreed that yes, the raffle was for an all-expenses-paid trip, but the terms of agreement listed in the brochure included with Peter's notification of winning detailed that the trip was all-expenses-paid only if the winning party agreed to purchase the property offered by Hoaka Kakama Properties. Otherwise, Peter was welcome to take advantage of all the pre-made reservations, but would foot the bill himself.
Peter, looking determined to prove Mister Royal wrong, opened his manila envelope and pulled out the brochure. Mister Royal directed him to page seven, the second-to-last page, and pointed to the paragraph written in very small typeface at the bottom of the page. The paragraph detailed precisely what Mister Royal explained to the letter, and that in returning the signed and filled-out reservation slip, Peter had agreed to all the terms listed.
When Mike nudged Micky and asked why he hadn't noticed that paragraph while perusing the brochure, Micky at least had the decency to sound embarrassed when he pointed out that the paragraph was under a picture of several well-proportioned and scantily-clad women playing a game of volleyball on the beach.
Across the table, Davy suddenly burst out with angry protests that we were undiscovered musicians, and we didn't have a thousand dollars on hand to pay off our tab. (It felt good to be included in Davy's protective rage, even though I, as a symphonic cellist, and Nora, as a magician's assistant, didn't fall under the “undiscovered musician” umbrella.) Mister Royal patiently said that if we felt we'd rather take the hard road, we were welcome to speak with Hoaka Kakama Properties' legal department; Mister Solomon stood up and placed his briefcase on the table, looking pleased to have something to do at last. But Mister Royal put a hand on Mister Solomon's briefcase and suggested that perhaps we would like to sleep on the idea for a while. We had until the end of the week, after all, to make a decision, and rash decisions are regretted decisions.
As we rose to leave, Mister Royal offered his hand to each of us. Mike shook it firmly—a little too firmly, perhaps—and Peter followed Mike's example, but looked like he may cry at any moment. Nora and I both shook it out of a habit of politeness. Micky and Davy both gave him the brush-off, stalking toward the door without a backward glance.
We crossed the lobby and headed for the stairs in silence, marching single-file up to the first floor and down the corridor to our rooms. Mike unlocked the boys' door, and we all followed him inside. It wasn't until Davy shut the door again that Peter broke the silence.
“I... I'm sorry, guys,” he whimpered, his voice cracking. He sank down on the end of the bed he and Mike had claimed and buried his face in his hands. I took a seat next to him and laid a hand on his knee; he dropped one hand to clutch mine in his own. “I had no idea this would happen.”
Mike patted his shoulder comfortingly. “It's okay, shotgun. None of us saw the fine print, either. It's not your fault.”
“Not all your fault, anyway,” Davy muttered angrily, pushing a suitcase aside so he could sit cross-legged on his and Micky's bed. Micky, who was leaning against the wall just behind him, reached out and smacked him in the back of the head.
“Can I see that brochure?” Nora asked. Peter handed her the manila envelope without looking up; she opened it and pulled out the brochure, and joined Micky against the wall, where they both began poring over the damning paragraph.
“There's no way they can do this to us,” Davy spat. “This can't be legal!”
“Actually, this contract looks pretty damn binding to me, guys,” Micky muttered. “I'm not finding any loopholes.”
In the back of the room, Mike began slowly pacing back and forth, pulling off his wool hat and worrying at it with his hands as he went. “What are we gonna do?” he murmured to himself. “What are we gonna do, what are we gonna do, what are we gonna do...”
Davy pulled out his wallet, flipping it open. “I have seventeen dollars,” he announced after a moment. “And that last check for twenty-five from you,” he added, gesturing to Nora, who had had need to hire Davy as a fake-date not long ago to throw off her neanderthal of an ex-boyfriend.
Mike pulled out his own wallet and counted. “Twenty-three.”
“Heh... uh, seven,” Micky chuckled embarrassedly, slipping his wallet into his back pocket again.
“We've got fifty between us,” I said, gesturing to Nora.
Micky nudged her and whispered, “You're buying dinner, then.”
“No,” Peter protested, “no, no, guys, you're not in this. It's my signature, I'm the one in trouble. You guys don't have to give up your money, I did this to myself.”
“We're in this together, man,” Mike said firmly. “If you think we're going to spend the week lapping up this vacation and then hop a plane on Sunday and leave you holding the bag, you best prepare yourself for a rude awakening.”
“Yeah,” Micky agreed, then added offhandedly, “Besides, we'll never find another bassist-keyboardist in time for the gig next week.”
Peter sighed heavily, staring around at us. Realizing that we weren't going to back down and let him take the fall on his own, he pulled one foot up on the bed and tugged off his moccasin, reaching inside and pulling out a few bills. “Twenty-one,” he muttered, finally.
Doing some quick thinking, Micky announced, “That's a hundred and eighteen dollars. One-forty-three, if Davy cashes that check.”
Across the room, Nora caught my eye. I knew what she was thinking of, and nodded my consent.
“We have a savings account,” she said. “There's three hundred and something in there.”
“Three hundred and eighty-six,” I specified.
“We're not asking you to empty out your savings account on our behalf,” Mike protested.
“You're not asking, we're offering,” I pointed out.
“And if you refuse, we'll be extremely offended and assume it's because of some male chauvinistic caveman theory and storm out of here in a huff,” Nora added, but she was smiling.
Mike made a noise like he was about to argue again, but then sighed and resumed pacing, the closest he could come to agreeing to give in and take our money.
“Five-twenty-nine,” Micky tallied, and kissed Nora's cheek in gratitude.
“You must be joking!” Davy declared, goggling at Micky's last count. His bad mood was dispelled with the sudden turn of events. “Alright,” he cried happily, “we're more than halfway there!”
“We've got that gig next week, that's another two hundred.”
“Seven-twenty-nine.”
“Wait a minute,” Peter interrupted, “what about our other bills? We still pay rent, don't we?”
“Well, we're set,” I said. “My last paycheck from the symphony hasn't cleared yet, but that'll cover our rent and electricity.”
“And I can get an advance from Mumford to take care of the water and phone bills,” Nora nodded.
“I could wire Grandfather for a loan,” Davy offered.
“My folks, too,” Micky nodded.
“And we still feed you,” Nora added with a smirk. (Our apartment building had a food co-op, and Nora and I were always being bombarded with foods, far more than we could eat ourselves, in exchange for preparing or preserving foods for the other tenants.)
“Okay...,” Mike said slowly, coming out of a very deep think. “I think... I think we can pull this off. As long as nothing else happens—” (We all reached for the nearest piece of wooden furniture to knock.) “—we should be able to come up with the money to pay this off without winding up on the street. We might need to go to your pad to shower and shave,” he said, looking to Nora and I, “since we may be a little short on lights and water, but I think we can do it.”
I gave Peter's hand a gentle squeeze; he looked to me and managed to flash that beautiful dimpled smile I loved so much, looking immensely relieved.
“You know what?” I asked the room in general. “I think we could all do with a little fresh air. How about we get changed and cash in one of those boat rentals and take a little cruise around the island for a while? Everything's already been reserved, so we're being billed for it whether we use them or not; we might as well enjoy it.”
“I think that's an excellent idea,” Davy agreed.
“Me too,” Mike said, nodding. “We'll meet you girls in the lobby in a few minutes, okay?”
