Monkee Fic
Dec. 21st, 2008 03:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solidfoamsoulMore of that fabulous free wheeling, fast and frantic Fozzie Bear!!
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kittencuffs fabulous free wheeling fast and frantic fan fic of the Monkees getting suck on a desert island! Man is this mah favoritest story ever. And not just cuz my total BFF wrote it, but because she is an awesome writer and it so AWESOME at keeping these guys in character and the girlfriends people you actually dig and don't wanna toss them overboard. LAWLZ.
Monkees' Island, Chapter One, part 4 of 6. Rated M for adult suggestiveness, mild drug use and a couple 'fuck's.
It was my fault.
I had one job—just one—and I failed. Not even failed, I forgot entirely. If I'd remembered, hadn't left the newspaper sitting on the counter, we'd have made other plans, found something else to do, and it never would've happened. But I couldn't help it. A young, red-blooded male, whether he's American or English, can't be blamed for seeing stars every time a leggy beauty passes before his eyes...
We convened in the lobby as planned, and after a few seconds of prying Micky away from Nora (she'd opted to wear her swimsuit top in place of a shirt, and Micky immediately pulled out his werewolf impression and ravaged her neck on sight) while Mike asked the desk clerk for directions to the boat rental, we headed out.
We hiked down the driveway and along the road for a while. After it turned into the gravel drive of the hotel, the “road” was really little more than a path through a wooded area, but it made for nice scenery while we walked. We saw a pair of scarlet parrots working together to crack a nut of some kind with their feet, and an iguana sunning itself on a rock alongside the path. It watched us with beady eyes as we passed, but didn't move; Micky tried to taunt it with a fern frond, but Nora looped a finger through one of his belt loops and dragged him away. Peter clipped a hibiscus flower from a bush as he passed, and presented it to Mona, who tucked it behind her ear.
Between Micky and Peter, I was really regretting dropping Sheila a few days ago. She may not have understood the concept that there could be more to life than money and expensive clothes, but she would've filled out a grass skirt and coconut bra nicely.
We walked mostly in silence, unless we were pointing out some new or unusual animal or plant to the others. I think we were all still reeling from what had just happened back at the hotel. Sure, we'd found a way to absorb the shock of an unexpected thousand-dollar bill, but it's not like we wouldn't be taking a loss. The Monkeemobile was in need of something—I couldn't remember exactly what Micky had said, but something—and we'd need to find the money to buy it. Nora and Mona could keep our cupboard stocked well enough, but they couldn't provide the non-food things, like soap and toilet paper. I had no doubt that Grandfather would loan us enough to get through this, but he'd want to know why, and then I'd have to take an hour-long tongue-lashing about foolishness and naiveté and the sucker that's born every minute. Thanks to AT&T, Grandfather could lecture me from eight thousand kilometers away...
Eventually, our secluded path opened up onto a white, sandy beach. To the left, it was nothing but sand and surf for as far as the eye could see; to the right was a split-rail fence, dividing the beach from the island's equivalent of a boardwalk. We climbed through the rails and joined the crowd.
It wasn't until a half-hour later, when Micky pointed out that we'd passed the same “Please Keep Our Island Home Beautiful! Mahalo!” waste bin four times, that Mike finally admitted he'd made a wrong turn and wasn't sure where we were. Peter was complaining that his feet were getting sore (he loved those moccasins, but they offered nothing in the way of arch support), so I suggested everyone grab a bench while I popped into a nearby café and asked for directions. Mike sullenly agreed, and asked me to look for a newspaper while I was there, he wanted to check the weather forecast.
Inside, an older native gentleman was behind the counter, and eyed me as I came in. I approached the counter and greeted him; he glared in response. That was nothing new, though. I tried to ask him if he knew where the Ponukonu Kouloko rental place was, but between his thick islander accent and my own accent, we couldn't understand a word the other said. It was like something out of a cheesy prime-time sitcom. Finally, he threw up his hands and grumbled something—the only word I managed to recognize was “daughter,” I think, or maybe it was “fog horn”— and held up one finger in the international signal for “hold on,” then wandered off through a beaded curtain to the back room. As he retreated, I noticed a stack of newspapers, The Kukokeli Ikelanaka Times, next to the register, and snagged one. Flipping through it, I couldn't help but notice this language had a significant lack of consonants. I guess between the English eating all the T's, the New Yorkers eating all the R's, the Texans eating all the G's, and Micky eating everything else, there weren't many letters left for them to grab...
I heard the beaded curtain rattle again, and looked up to see the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on. She was tall and lean, with almond-shaped eyes and tanned skin, and an orchid lei woven into her jet black hair. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her, I could practically feel my eyes igniting with her beauty. When she smiled at me, I'd thought I would melt.
Her voice was melodic, and significantly less accented than her father's. It took me several tries, but I eventually found my voice, and managed to stammer out a request for the boat rental. She giggled the most adorable giggle I'd ever heard, and explained that if I stepped outside and took four giant steps to the right, I'd be facing a pier, and Ponukonu Kouloko Rentals was set up at the dock just at the end of that pier.
I thanked her in Shakespearean verse (or... maybe I just stuttered “thank you,” I can't quite remember now), she offered me a cone of lemon ice which I accepted, and then I turned to go.
I left the paper on the counter.
As I approached the bench where the others were waiting, Micky clicked his tongue in disgust and rolled his eyes. I'd never understand how he always knew when I'd been stricken by Cupid. (Man, my eyes were burning, though. It must've been the difference between the shade of the café and strong sunlight out here.) I directed everyone to the end of the pier, much to Mike's chagrin, and Peter set about introducing himself to the person tending shop and requesting to cash in his reservation. After a few signatures, a quick run-down of the ins and outs of navigating a cabin cruiser, and instructions as to where to find the life jackets, the man handed Peter the keys (complete with a massive red-and-white bobber attached to the keychain) and led us to our vessel.
Initially, Mike had insisted on taking the wheel (or is it the helm?), but as soon as we passed the wake buoys, he was suddenly reminded of his penchant for seasickness and allowed Micky to take over while he ducked into the cabin to lay down for a while.
We passed the time with idle conversation. Honestly, I felt a bit like a fifth wheel, what with Nora clinging to Micky's hips as he steered the boat, and Peter and Mona holding hands in the aft seat. I found myself wishing Mike hadn't abandoned me in favor of hiding in the cabin.
Micky commented that all the scenery was inspiring, and jokingly asked Mona and Nora if they'd stashed a guitar in the shoulder bag they'd brought with them. Turns out that while they did not have a guitar, they had what might have been the entire rest of the free world: a bag of Corn Curlies, a package of roasted peanuts, a comb, a camera, a bottle of sunscreen, a tube of lipstick, a tightly-rolled beach towel, a lighter, a smoking pipe, and a dime bag.
“Hey, Mick, isn't that your pipe?” I asked suspiciously.
“Uh, yeah,” he grinned, ruffling his hair in that way he did when he was about to confess to something.
Nora beat him to it. “It's his pot, too. He slipped it to me and asked me to stash it while we were in the lobby.”
“I don't have any pockets!” he cried, and we laughed.
Mike crawled out of the cabin then and joined us; he still looked a little green around the gills, but more celery-green than broccoli-green now, at least.
“What ever happened to that paper, Davy?” he asked as he fingered his hair into place and replaced his wool hat.
Damn, I'd forgotten about the newspaper. I patted my pockets, hoping I'd stashed it somewhere, but they were empty. “Oh, shoot, I must've left it on the counter at the café,” I said, pulling an apologetic face. “I'm sorry, man.”
He sighed, annoyed, and leaned against the windscreen. “I don't think I'm digging those clouds,” he muttered.
We all turned to look where he was looking. Toward the east, the sky had been clear and beautiful; to the west, though, large grey thunderheads were amassing, and moving very quickly, right in our direction. This didn't look good at all.
“I hear thunderstorms crop up all the time in the tropics,” Micky said softly, not taking his eyes off the gathering storm. “They're quick, though. A few minutes of downpour, and then it's like it never happened.”
“Yeah, I don't think we're that lucky today,” Mona said, as a sheet of lightning lit the bottommost clouds.
Mike grabbed for the map the rental guy had left with us. “Where are we?” he asked Micky.
“Er...”
“You haven't been paying attention, have you?” Mike glared at him. Micky ran his hand through his hair again. “Aw, man...” Clenching the map in one hand, he climbed up onto the captain's chair and stood on the backrest, staring around; Peter held on to his calves, probably trying to help keep Mike from falling over. “Jeez, man, we've drifted way off course!”
“I told you we shoulda stayed in sight of the beach!” Nora hissed, smacking Micky's shoulder.
“Hey, man, stop ratting me out!” he hissed back, rubbing where she'd hit. “How about we just all go into the cabin and chill out for a while. This storm'll blow over in an hour or two, and then we can get our bearings.”
“That cabin looks awful small, Mick,” Peter said, peering over the rail and looking into the cabin windows. I leaned with him to see for myself. He was right, getting the six of us in there would be a tight fit. There was a dual bunk to one side, and a very small table against the fore wall; the rest of the cabin was mostly crammed with mechanical equipment.
“I don't think we're gonna have much a choice, guys,” Mike said grimly. The wind had picked up, and the water was getting choppier; he climbed down shakily before he was thrown off. “There's land over in this direction,” he said, bumping Micky out of the way of the wheel. “Let's set a course for there, and wait out the storm in the cabin. Once it's over, maybe we—what's wrong with this thing?”
He pressed the throttle, but instead of the steady whirrrr-vroom! we'd been hearing all afternoon, the engine made a noise not unlike my great uncle William when he first awoke. Something like put-put-put-ka-RURR! He switched gears and tried again, but with the same results. The first few drops of rain splattered against the windscreen.
“Aw, shit,” Micky muttered, nudging Mike aside again. (Peter chastened him with a whispered, “Language!” while gesturing to Mona and Nora, but Micky ignored him.) He pushed the throttle, trying for himself, with just as much luck as Mike had had. “Shit!” he declared louder. (“Micky! Language!”)
“Okay, everyone get below,” Mike instructed, taking the wheel again. “Mick, where's your shirt?”
Micky retrieved his shirt from the railing, where he'd draped it earlier while the sun was still bright and hot, and handed it to Mike.
“Davy, gimme yours. You too, Pete.”
Peter and I pulled our shirts over our heads and forked them over. The rain came harder now; even though it was still warm, despite the wind, Peter started to shiver.
“Get below deck!” Mike ordered again. “I'm right behind you, I'm just gonna tie the wheel in position!”
We all clattered across the deck, which was getting slippery now that the rain was coming strong; I hopped down the ladder first, then helped Mona and Nora get their footing as they came down, with Peter assisting from the top. Once they were secure, Peter clambered down, and we all dove for the safety of the cabin, just as we felt a good-sized wave slam into the starboard (or was it port?) side of the boat, rocking us wildly.
Inside the cabin, we could hear the rain and surf spattering the windows, and the wind whistling ferociously through the gaps in the fiberglass paneling. We were all watching the windows anxiously, hoping neither Mike nor Micky (who'd stayed above to help Mike lash the wheel) would lose their footing and be thrown over the rail and into the ocean.
A few moments later, there was a series of thumps overhead, followed by a massive thud! and a small shriek from Nora as Micky was pitched off the steering deck and landed square on his back on the sub-deck. She bolted off the bunk and hit the door, just as Mike jumped off the ladder to help him up. She threw the cabin door open and let them in, Micky hunched and limping slightly.
“I'm okay,” he assured her as she fawned, “I'm okay. I just lost my balance, no harm done.” His bare back was reddening from the slap of the fiberglass, but his limp had already disappeared by the time he crossed to the bunk. Nora sat him down and began wiping the rain off his back and arms with the towel she liberated from their shoulder bag; Peter, Mona and I all took a seat around the table; Mike climbed up to the second bunk.
“So what happens now?” Mona asked, as a second wave crashed against the side of the boat, startling us all.
“Now we wait,” Mike said simply, stretching out. A third wave quickly followed, and Mike groaned, covering his face with his hands. “And I try to not throw up.”
Wait.. That's not it.
Oh! More of
kittencuffs fabulous free wheeling fast and frantic fan fic of the Monkees getting suck on a desert island! Man is this mah favoritest story ever. And not just cuz my total BFF wrote it, but because she is an awesome writer and it so AWESOME at keeping these guys in character and the girlfriends people you actually dig and don't wanna toss them overboard. LAWLZ.Monkees' Island, Chapter One, part 4 of 6. Rated M for adult suggestiveness, mild drug use and a couple 'fuck's.
It was my fault.
I had one job—just one—and I failed. Not even failed, I forgot entirely. If I'd remembered, hadn't left the newspaper sitting on the counter, we'd have made other plans, found something else to do, and it never would've happened. But I couldn't help it. A young, red-blooded male, whether he's American or English, can't be blamed for seeing stars every time a leggy beauty passes before his eyes...
We convened in the lobby as planned, and after a few seconds of prying Micky away from Nora (she'd opted to wear her swimsuit top in place of a shirt, and Micky immediately pulled out his werewolf impression and ravaged her neck on sight) while Mike asked the desk clerk for directions to the boat rental, we headed out.
We hiked down the driveway and along the road for a while. After it turned into the gravel drive of the hotel, the “road” was really little more than a path through a wooded area, but it made for nice scenery while we walked. We saw a pair of scarlet parrots working together to crack a nut of some kind with their feet, and an iguana sunning itself on a rock alongside the path. It watched us with beady eyes as we passed, but didn't move; Micky tried to taunt it with a fern frond, but Nora looped a finger through one of his belt loops and dragged him away. Peter clipped a hibiscus flower from a bush as he passed, and presented it to Mona, who tucked it behind her ear.
Between Micky and Peter, I was really regretting dropping Sheila a few days ago. She may not have understood the concept that there could be more to life than money and expensive clothes, but she would've filled out a grass skirt and coconut bra nicely.
We walked mostly in silence, unless we were pointing out some new or unusual animal or plant to the others. I think we were all still reeling from what had just happened back at the hotel. Sure, we'd found a way to absorb the shock of an unexpected thousand-dollar bill, but it's not like we wouldn't be taking a loss. The Monkeemobile was in need of something—I couldn't remember exactly what Micky had said, but something—and we'd need to find the money to buy it. Nora and Mona could keep our cupboard stocked well enough, but they couldn't provide the non-food things, like soap and toilet paper. I had no doubt that Grandfather would loan us enough to get through this, but he'd want to know why, and then I'd have to take an hour-long tongue-lashing about foolishness and naiveté and the sucker that's born every minute. Thanks to AT&T, Grandfather could lecture me from eight thousand kilometers away...
Eventually, our secluded path opened up onto a white, sandy beach. To the left, it was nothing but sand and surf for as far as the eye could see; to the right was a split-rail fence, dividing the beach from the island's equivalent of a boardwalk. We climbed through the rails and joined the crowd.
It wasn't until a half-hour later, when Micky pointed out that we'd passed the same “Please Keep Our Island Home Beautiful! Mahalo!” waste bin four times, that Mike finally admitted he'd made a wrong turn and wasn't sure where we were. Peter was complaining that his feet were getting sore (he loved those moccasins, but they offered nothing in the way of arch support), so I suggested everyone grab a bench while I popped into a nearby café and asked for directions. Mike sullenly agreed, and asked me to look for a newspaper while I was there, he wanted to check the weather forecast.
Inside, an older native gentleman was behind the counter, and eyed me as I came in. I approached the counter and greeted him; he glared in response. That was nothing new, though. I tried to ask him if he knew where the Ponukonu Kouloko rental place was, but between his thick islander accent and my own accent, we couldn't understand a word the other said. It was like something out of a cheesy prime-time sitcom. Finally, he threw up his hands and grumbled something—the only word I managed to recognize was “daughter,” I think, or maybe it was “fog horn”— and held up one finger in the international signal for “hold on,” then wandered off through a beaded curtain to the back room. As he retreated, I noticed a stack of newspapers, The Kukokeli Ikelanaka Times, next to the register, and snagged one. Flipping through it, I couldn't help but notice this language had a significant lack of consonants. I guess between the English eating all the T's, the New Yorkers eating all the R's, the Texans eating all the G's, and Micky eating everything else, there weren't many letters left for them to grab...
I heard the beaded curtain rattle again, and looked up to see the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on. She was tall and lean, with almond-shaped eyes and tanned skin, and an orchid lei woven into her jet black hair. She was so beautiful it hurt to look at her, I could practically feel my eyes igniting with her beauty. When she smiled at me, I'd thought I would melt.
Her voice was melodic, and significantly less accented than her father's. It took me several tries, but I eventually found my voice, and managed to stammer out a request for the boat rental. She giggled the most adorable giggle I'd ever heard, and explained that if I stepped outside and took four giant steps to the right, I'd be facing a pier, and Ponukonu Kouloko Rentals was set up at the dock just at the end of that pier.
I thanked her in Shakespearean verse (or... maybe I just stuttered “thank you,” I can't quite remember now), she offered me a cone of lemon ice which I accepted, and then I turned to go.
I left the paper on the counter.
As I approached the bench where the others were waiting, Micky clicked his tongue in disgust and rolled his eyes. I'd never understand how he always knew when I'd been stricken by Cupid. (Man, my eyes were burning, though. It must've been the difference between the shade of the café and strong sunlight out here.) I directed everyone to the end of the pier, much to Mike's chagrin, and Peter set about introducing himself to the person tending shop and requesting to cash in his reservation. After a few signatures, a quick run-down of the ins and outs of navigating a cabin cruiser, and instructions as to where to find the life jackets, the man handed Peter the keys (complete with a massive red-and-white bobber attached to the keychain) and led us to our vessel.
Initially, Mike had insisted on taking the wheel (or is it the helm?), but as soon as we passed the wake buoys, he was suddenly reminded of his penchant for seasickness and allowed Micky to take over while he ducked into the cabin to lay down for a while.
We passed the time with idle conversation. Honestly, I felt a bit like a fifth wheel, what with Nora clinging to Micky's hips as he steered the boat, and Peter and Mona holding hands in the aft seat. I found myself wishing Mike hadn't abandoned me in favor of hiding in the cabin.
Micky commented that all the scenery was inspiring, and jokingly asked Mona and Nora if they'd stashed a guitar in the shoulder bag they'd brought with them. Turns out that while they did not have a guitar, they had what might have been the entire rest of the free world: a bag of Corn Curlies, a package of roasted peanuts, a comb, a camera, a bottle of sunscreen, a tube of lipstick, a tightly-rolled beach towel, a lighter, a smoking pipe, and a dime bag.
“Hey, Mick, isn't that your pipe?” I asked suspiciously.
“Uh, yeah,” he grinned, ruffling his hair in that way he did when he was about to confess to something.
Nora beat him to it. “It's his pot, too. He slipped it to me and asked me to stash it while we were in the lobby.”
“I don't have any pockets!” he cried, and we laughed.
Mike crawled out of the cabin then and joined us; he still looked a little green around the gills, but more celery-green than broccoli-green now, at least.
“What ever happened to that paper, Davy?” he asked as he fingered his hair into place and replaced his wool hat.
Damn, I'd forgotten about the newspaper. I patted my pockets, hoping I'd stashed it somewhere, but they were empty. “Oh, shoot, I must've left it on the counter at the café,” I said, pulling an apologetic face. “I'm sorry, man.”
He sighed, annoyed, and leaned against the windscreen. “I don't think I'm digging those clouds,” he muttered.
We all turned to look where he was looking. Toward the east, the sky had been clear and beautiful; to the west, though, large grey thunderheads were amassing, and moving very quickly, right in our direction. This didn't look good at all.
“I hear thunderstorms crop up all the time in the tropics,” Micky said softly, not taking his eyes off the gathering storm. “They're quick, though. A few minutes of downpour, and then it's like it never happened.”
“Yeah, I don't think we're that lucky today,” Mona said, as a sheet of lightning lit the bottommost clouds.
Mike grabbed for the map the rental guy had left with us. “Where are we?” he asked Micky.
“Er...”
“You haven't been paying attention, have you?” Mike glared at him. Micky ran his hand through his hair again. “Aw, man...” Clenching the map in one hand, he climbed up onto the captain's chair and stood on the backrest, staring around; Peter held on to his calves, probably trying to help keep Mike from falling over. “Jeez, man, we've drifted way off course!”
“I told you we shoulda stayed in sight of the beach!” Nora hissed, smacking Micky's shoulder.
“Hey, man, stop ratting me out!” he hissed back, rubbing where she'd hit. “How about we just all go into the cabin and chill out for a while. This storm'll blow over in an hour or two, and then we can get our bearings.”
“That cabin looks awful small, Mick,” Peter said, peering over the rail and looking into the cabin windows. I leaned with him to see for myself. He was right, getting the six of us in there would be a tight fit. There was a dual bunk to one side, and a very small table against the fore wall; the rest of the cabin was mostly crammed with mechanical equipment.
“I don't think we're gonna have much a choice, guys,” Mike said grimly. The wind had picked up, and the water was getting choppier; he climbed down shakily before he was thrown off. “There's land over in this direction,” he said, bumping Micky out of the way of the wheel. “Let's set a course for there, and wait out the storm in the cabin. Once it's over, maybe we—what's wrong with this thing?”
He pressed the throttle, but instead of the steady whirrrr-vroom! we'd been hearing all afternoon, the engine made a noise not unlike my great uncle William when he first awoke. Something like put-put-put-ka-RURR! He switched gears and tried again, but with the same results. The first few drops of rain splattered against the windscreen.
“Aw, shit,” Micky muttered, nudging Mike aside again. (Peter chastened him with a whispered, “Language!” while gesturing to Mona and Nora, but Micky ignored him.) He pushed the throttle, trying for himself, with just as much luck as Mike had had. “Shit!” he declared louder. (“Micky! Language!”)
“Okay, everyone get below,” Mike instructed, taking the wheel again. “Mick, where's your shirt?”
Micky retrieved his shirt from the railing, where he'd draped it earlier while the sun was still bright and hot, and handed it to Mike.
“Davy, gimme yours. You too, Pete.”
Peter and I pulled our shirts over our heads and forked them over. The rain came harder now; even though it was still warm, despite the wind, Peter started to shiver.
“Get below deck!” Mike ordered again. “I'm right behind you, I'm just gonna tie the wheel in position!”
We all clattered across the deck, which was getting slippery now that the rain was coming strong; I hopped down the ladder first, then helped Mona and Nora get their footing as they came down, with Peter assisting from the top. Once they were secure, Peter clambered down, and we all dove for the safety of the cabin, just as we felt a good-sized wave slam into the starboard (or was it port?) side of the boat, rocking us wildly.
Inside the cabin, we could hear the rain and surf spattering the windows, and the wind whistling ferociously through the gaps in the fiberglass paneling. We were all watching the windows anxiously, hoping neither Mike nor Micky (who'd stayed above to help Mike lash the wheel) would lose their footing and be thrown over the rail and into the ocean.
A few moments later, there was a series of thumps overhead, followed by a massive thud! and a small shriek from Nora as Micky was pitched off the steering deck and landed square on his back on the sub-deck. She bolted off the bunk and hit the door, just as Mike jumped off the ladder to help him up. She threw the cabin door open and let them in, Micky hunched and limping slightly.
“I'm okay,” he assured her as she fawned, “I'm okay. I just lost my balance, no harm done.” His bare back was reddening from the slap of the fiberglass, but his limp had already disappeared by the time he crossed to the bunk. Nora sat him down and began wiping the rain off his back and arms with the towel she liberated from their shoulder bag; Peter, Mona and I all took a seat around the table; Mike climbed up to the second bunk.
“So what happens now?” Mona asked, as a second wave crashed against the side of the boat, startling us all.
“Now we wait,” Mike said simply, stretching out. A third wave quickly followed, and Mike groaned, covering his face with his hands. “And I try to not throw up.”
