No matter how hard anyone tried, Majandra was devastated beyond comfort. As soon as she arrived back at the bungalow following the surf contest, she locked herself in the chicken coup and cried Davy-less tears. Everyone tried their best to lure her out. One night, Micky lurked about the coup making incoherent but creepy animal noises in hopes of scaring Majandra out, but she had inexplicably brought a shotgun with her, and began shooting wildly at what she thought was a wild animal, sending Micky running screaming back into the house. Mike, on the other hand, chose to sit outside the coup and sing "The Song That Never Ends" several hundred consecutive times but he succeeded in annoying no one but himself. Honey tried consoling her friend by setting a scarecrow likeness of Davy on fire in the backyard, but instead she accidentally set fire to several Texas prairie chickens. Peter and Zelda tried using their mystical hippie ways to attempt retrieving Majandra, but they ended up being so completely fascinated in each other's mystical hippie ways that they wandered down the beach together, abandoning Majandra entirely. Cordelia produced a list of 400,000 justified reasons why Davy is and idiot, but it wasn't all that justified, considering that 200,000 of the reasons were "He's short." All in all, the gang was happy to try to help Majandra in her time of need that is, except Davy.

"I can't talk to 'er!" Davy cried to Peter as the happy hippie dragged him out the French doors, "Petah, please! She hates me! I've lost Sandra forever!"

"It's Majandra!" Peter corrected him in reply.

"That's what I said, love," Davy said.

He crouched down outside the coup (although he didn't have to crouch much, considering how painfully short he is) and called sweetly, "Majandra?"

Majandra tried to respond but all that came out were choked, sob-like noises that sounded vaguely like "Shmer pen wall quinver."

"Come out, will you, love?"

"NO!" came the reply, clearly as the summer sun.

"Oh, dahling, come on," sighed Davy, "It was an honest mistake. Sandra, Majandra it sounds the same. Please come out?"

In the end, Majandra did come out, but not because of Davy. Zelda, who had been providing her friend with meals, had gotten fed up with Majandra's people strike and had cut off her food supply two days earlier. So really, the only reason Majandra had come out was a fear of becoming anorexic.

Operation Retrieve Majandra From Texas Prairie Chicken Coup was complete, but now the eight friends faced a different problem: boredom. The moped around the living room listlessly. Zelda sighed, but it came out as a giggle. "I'm bored," she said, sitting on the couch. Davy, also on the couch, looked up from his book haughtily.

"The problem with the youth of America," he said with a smirk, "is that they don't read. Look at me, after all. I'm reading this fascinating book which I highly doubt any of you have read called Little Women filled with extraordinarily interesting characters, especially this 'Beth' person." "She dies of scarlet fever," said Micky. Davy chuckled.

"Ha ha scarlet fever. WHAAAT?" he cried. [By the way, this exchange is completely pointless, yet hilariously necessary].

"There's nothing to do," sighed Peter.

"And no money," Mike added sadly.

"And I can't read my book anymore," Davy huffed with an angry glare at Micky, who smirked. Everyone sighed in unison.

At that very moment, Cordelia-who was sitting on the stool behind Micky's drums-fell over, creating a loud ruckus and also becoming stuck under one of the cymbals. "Great idea, Cordy!" cried Micky, a light bulb shining over his head. Cordelia lifted her head meekly from under the drums that were crushing her.

"What?" she mumbled, "Don't call me Cordy."

Micky ran over and lifted his bass drum off of Cordelia. "We can teach the girls how to play," he said with a bright smile. The others looked at him warily. "Come on," he continued with a trademark Micky grin. "It'll be fun. And besides, we have nothing else to do."

He was right about that, and so the boys complied. Mike and Honey sat next to the cigar store Indian statue, and Mike carefully entrusted the life of his beloved guitar into her hands. "Well, uh, gosh," he said, "I've never taught anyone how to play before.

"That's ok," Honey replied, "No one's ever taught me how to play before. So I won't punch you in the face if you don't teach me right."

Mike chuckled, and gingerly took Honey's hand, placing her fingers on the correct chords. "See, you've got really long fingers," Mike said, "That's good for guitar playing. You're probably real good with your hands."

Honey stared at him with wide eyes.

"That is to say um" Mike stammered, "Y-y-you could probably play real well and aw-well, it'll be easier for you than that someone who, say aw, shucks, shotgun, that came out all wrong. I've been friends with Davy too long."

Meanwhile, up on the bandstand, Micky handed Cordelia the drumsticks. Cordelia immediately began banging the drums in a most unruly fashion. She seemed to be taking any anger she had out on the drums. Micky looked at her as she finished with raised eyebrows.

"Insane, much, Cordy?" he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cordelia cried, "And don't call me Cordy."

"What you need to do is take that anger and put it into a beat," Micky explained, and he took her hands and led them through the drum-playing experience.

"Hey," said Cordelia suddenly after a moment, "Was this just an excuse to touch me?" "Maybe," Micky replied with a sly grin.

Peter and Zelda sat on the edge of the platform. Peter was desperately trying to find an instrument that he could teach Zelda to play.

"Bass?" he asked.

"I know how to play that," said Zelda with a sheepish giggle.

"Banjo?" Peter tried again.

"That, too."

"Ukulele?"

"Yup."

"Organ?"

"Yes."

"Harmonica?" Peter asked, his face slowly falling. Zelda's eyes lit up.

"No!" she cried, "No, I don't know how to play the harmonica!" And so Peter showed her how, albeit shyly, and thanked the hippie gods for sending him such a talented love.

"Now, Majandra," Davy was saying seriously to a very skeptical Majandra, "This instrument is much more difficult to handle than any other instrument IN THE WORLD. It takes a lot of patience, courage, and above all, strength. The music is inside of you. This instrument is just the noblest way to get it out." Taking a deep breath, he produced a pair of red maracas. "They're called the MARACAS. Use them well for they shall control your destiny."

Majandra sighed at having ever considered this man to be attractive. And it was then that she noticed just how extremely short he really was.

Within the middle of this musical instrument-playing fiasco, the phone rang. Mike ran over to the chess table that actually opened up and contained a red phone, and answered it.

"Hello?" he said. His face clouded over with confusion. "Oh, yes yes, hi, Mr. Epstein yes, I remember you. No, this is Mike Nesmith? Right oh, really? That's great yup uh-huh well. WHAAAT? Us? Here? Why? Um HOW MUCH? Yeah, ok. When are you NOW?? Ok, yeah. Sure, we're ready. Seeya then. Bye."

Mike hung up the phone slowly and ignored the blank stares of his many roommates, sinking to the ground. Micky and Honey approached him carefully.

"Mike?" said Micky, staring at his friend in fear.

"Who was that?" asked Honey softly.

Mike tried to reply, but no words came out. He coughed loudly, clearing his throat. "That was the manager of the of the of the of the"

"Oh, of the what, for God's sake!" shrieked Zelda, who was dying of suspense.

"Beatles," Mike replied slowly, and everyone became silent. They stared at him with wide eyes.

"We're opening for the Beatles!" deduced Davy, "Delightful! I'll get to wear my good velvet suit!"

"We're not opening for the Beatles," Mike snapped, with a roll of his eyes, "They're here in Malibu for vacation but the hotels are swarmed with teenage girls. So they need a place to stay. And bodyguards."

"Ha ha" laughed Peter, "Davy as a bodyguard." Davy glared at him.

"That's actually pretty groovy," Micky said thoughtfully.

"Well, I don't think so," said Davy, "I think it undermines our talent as third-rate musicians. "Fifth-rate musicians!" Micky corrected him.

"Whatever," Davy sniffed, "There is no way I'm bodyguarding the Beatles. No sum of money could convince me otherwise."

"Half a million dollars?" said Mike.

Davy fainted, causing Majandra to shriek and start dumping glasses of water on him. "I guess he changed his mind," said Peter.

"That's good," said Mike, "Because they'll be here in fifteen minutes."

"FIFTEEN MINUTES?!?!" yelled Davy, suddenly regaining consciousness, "The house is a mess, we have no food, and where are they going to stay?"

"Hey, hey, relax, man," said Micky, "The house isn't that much of a mess."

Mike glanced from the shambled drum set to the heaps of clothing littering the floor, to the lopsided Indian statue, which had fallen when Davy fainted.

"No," Mike replied, "It really is."

"I'll take care of it!" cried Honey, not wanting Mike to be embarrassed in front of rock-and-roll gods, "And Majandra will help!"

"Whaaat?" gawked Majandra, but she begrudgingly agreed after a shrewd look from Cordelia. "Great!" cried Mike, "Peter, what do we have in the fridge?"

Peter ran to the kitchen and observed the Monkees' refrigerator. "Uh soy milk, peanuts, and half of an apple pie," he answered slowly.

"I'll run to the grocery store!" Micky yelled, and he grabbed Cordelia's hand, "And Cordy will come with me!"

"No, I won't," replied Cordelia, "And don't call me Cordy."

Micky turned to her with round puppy dog eyes. "Pleeeeease, Cordy?"

Cordelia sighed. "Oh, all right," she reluctantly said, "But just know that I'm only doing this for Ringo. And don't call me Cordy."

As they ran out the door with the speed of several jungle cougars inflicted with lightning bolts, Davy turned to Mike with a glare. "That's all well and good," muttered the angry lad from Manchester, "But where will they stay?"

Mike thought a moment. "They could stay in the guest bedroom" he said slowly, but then remembered the girls. "But no, they can't."

"We can move out for a couple days," giggled Zelda, but Peter's eyes widened fearfully. "No, you can't!" he cried, "Mike, we can't kick the girls out! Tell me we aren't going to kick the girls out of the house!!! I don't want Zel-er, that is, the girls to go away."

"They aren't going to go away," Mike told Peter, "But we'll have to find them somewhere else to stay within the house."

"They could stay in our room," said Davy slyly.

"Yes, possibly," pondered Mike, "But then where would we stay?"

"In our room," the short maraca-player replied with a sex-fiendish grin at Majandra, who rolled her eyes in reply even though she had no qualms with this arrangement.

"Aw, Davy," said Mike with a shake of his head, "The girls wouldn't want to do that." "WE DON'T MIND!" cried Honey, Zelda, and Majandra in unison. Mike raised his eyebrows and turned to his two bandmates.

"What about you guys? Would you mind if the girls stared in our room, with us, for a couple of days?" asked Mike, silently praying that they would have no problem with this.

"Oh, I don't mind," grinned Davy. Peter turned very red and started giggling in a very Zelda-esque fashion, but eventually managed to say that he didn't mind at all.

"Well, it doesn't matter to me," Mike tried to say as casually as possible, glancing at Honey quickly, "But do you think Cordelia and Micky would care?"

"Micky won't," said Peter, "But Cordelia"

"Look, we all have to make sacrifices," Honey yelled, determined to make this plan work, "The Beatles are going to be here in five minutes or so, and Cordelia's just going to have to grin and bear it. Okay?"

"Okay," Mike agreed meekly, and he, Davy, Zelda, and Peter moved all of the girls' belongings into the Monkees' room as quickly as was humanly possible. The second they had finished, a loud knock was heard at the door. Mike collected himself and answered it. There stood four elderly gentlemen with gray hair and long, curly moustaches.

"C-can I help you?" asked Mike, thrown back by the lack of Beatles.

"Well, I should hope so," replied one of the men, who was hunched over with a cane, in a British accent, "We're looking for monkeys. Four of them."

"A barrel full, to be specific," clarified the next man with a devious twinkle in his eye. "A barrel full of monkeys, that is," a third man said with a wink, "Either the animal or the band, at this point we'd settle for both."

Mike stared at the men blankly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, we're the Beatles," said the fourth man, and he took of his wig, revealing George Harrison. George shook Mike's hand and entered the house.

"Aw, come on George," said the first man who spoke, taking off a moustache and turning magically into John Lennon, "We could have kept that up forever."

Paul McCartney took of his wig and entered the house, smiling brightly at Mike. "Hey, there," said Paul, "Nice digs. You're Micky?"

"No" said Mike slowly, still recovering from the shock.

"Peter?"

"No, I'm-"

"Mike?"

"Yes," said Mike dazedly, "I'm Mike."

Ringo Starr entered at that very moment. "Who's the fourth one?" he asked. "Brian told us all your names, but I'm drawing a bit of a blank."

"Davy Jones, mate," said Davy, bursting into the room-Peter, Honey, Majandra and Zelda at his heels. "A fellow Brit."

"That doesn't mean you're our friend," said John solemnly to Davy's outstretched hand. Davy's eyes widened, and he drew back sadly. John burst out laughing and patted the tiny Brit on the back. "Calm down, lad," he continued, "And get a sense of humor."

"You've got to forgive John," said George to Davy, "He's a bit on edge. We all are, actually, we've been mobbed by hordes of teenage girls several thousand times since Tuesday."

"Oi, who are these people?" said Paul, motioning to starstruck Peter, Zelda, Honey, and Majandra. Mike introduced them quickly. Paul chuckled. "Oh," he said, "I thought they were just lifelike statues."

"Peter, Davy, and Mike" said Ringo, "Where's Micky?"

At that moment, the curly-haired drummer burst into the room, tripping over John and landing in a heap on the floor. He was followed by Cordelia, who was skillfully juggling several grocery bags filled with food and glaring at her escort coolly. Micky jumped to his feet and introduced himself to the vaguely amused Beatles.

"Well, aren't you going to help the lady?" asked Ringo with an impatient shake of his head, and he took several bags from Cordelia and placed them on the kitchen counter.

"Thank you," said Cordelia with a smile, and Ringo smiled back at her. They gazed at each other this way for several moments.

"Hey, hey, hey!" cried Micky, stepping in between the two of them and breaking the stare, "I was going to help her." He took a bag out of Cordelia's hand and placed it on the counter. "There," he said proudly.

"That's my purse, Micky," said Cordelia. She rolled her eyes at him and introduced herself to the Beatles.

"Hello, there, Cordelia," said Ringo, and all Cordelia could think was 'He didn't call me Cordy!'. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Yeah, yeah, don't get too attached," muttered Micky, and Mike decided to interrupt before the bands' respective drummers began throwing punches.

"Hey, so, are you guys hungry?" he cried suddenly.

John spoke up, "I could go for some peanuts, actually."

"Do you have any soy milk?" asked Paul.

"Or apple pie?" Ringo chimed in.

Mike sighed. He had a feeling that this would be a very odd few days indeed

Meanwhile, outside, a very short, repulsively ugly troll of a man skulked below the Monkees' windows. "The Beatles?" he squawked, "The Beatles are there? Holy knit one, pearl two, Batman! I must meet them!" he started for the door before he realized that the Monkees would never let him in the house. Then a burst of genius hit him, and he went running for the local hotels. The troll had a plane

"Do you like our music, Cordelia?" Ringo asked her shyly as the entire group ate dinner at the kitchen table. Cordelia nodded fervently.

"You're one of the greatest bands of all time!" she gushed. Ringo chuckled.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he replied with a humbled smile, "I mean, I suppose that we're catchy and all, but I don't think we'll ever be considered legendary."

"I think you can do anything you put your mind to," said Cordelia, rather disturbed that those words had come out of her own mouth. She melted, however, under Ringo's bright smile.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yes," Cordelia replied, "Really."

Suddenly, their sweet conversation was interrupted by a loud snort. Micky Dolenz sat across from Cordelia, eyeing her with amused annoyance.

"Anything he puts his mind to, Cordy?" he sniggered.

"Shut up, Dolenz," she replied coolly, "And don't call me Cordy."

"I'm sensing a love triangle in that corner," whispered Mike to Honey, nodding in Micky's direction.

"Oh, the drama," Honey replied.

"You know, I'm married," said John out of the blue.

"Don't remind me," Honey murmured wistfully, prompting eyebrow raising from both John and Mike. She stuttered to come up with a reply, "Um that is I don't never mind."

"Are you really a follower of Hinduism and whatnot?" Peter was asking George excitedly, "I'm into peace and love myself, so I find that completely groovy, man."

"Well, I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one," laughed George, "Would you like to experiment with LSD? I've got some in my bag."

Zelda's eyes widened, and for the first time in her life, she felt her lip quiver. Please God, she prayed emphatically, please don't let these rock gods be druggies!

Peter's face was set and determined. "No, thank you," he politely declined, "I don't do that sort of thing. None of us do."

"Sure thing, man," replied George good-naturedly. Zelda beamed at her favorite hippie. Peter, that is. Not George. (By the way, I realize that in real life both the Monkees and the Beatles were heavy into the whole drug scene, but that just gets my goat and so I've taken the Monkees out of that circle, considering that this is the Monkee-verse where there's no such thing as drugs. Also, I'm not trying insult George Harrison's memory with his drug dealer-esque image, he's a Rock God and I worship him).

"Paul," Davy was saying whilst shooting meaningful glances at Majandra, "Do you think it's fair for a girl whose name is terribly similar to Sandra to get mad if you tell her you love her, and just happen to call her Sandra?"

"Majandra doesn't sound anything like Sandra," snapped Paul, and he closed his eyes, asking god why he had gotten placed with this crazy, possibly gay short little man. Paul's not gay, by the way. Just to clarify.

Meanwhile, Ringo was regaling Cordelia with stories about the Beatles' wacky adventures, and Cordelia was laughing loudly at all his witty anecdotes, incurring the wrath of Micky Dolenz.

"Oh, come on! It's not that funny!" cried Micky suddenly, interrupting Cordelia mid-laugh. Everyone at the table looked at him nervously. "I mean, really. For the crazy one in the group, he's not all that crazy."

"What are you talking about?" said Cordelia blankly. "Hey, how about we play for you guys?" Mike cried, dragging Micky by the ear over to his drumset.

"What are you doing?" Micky hissed.

"Listen, Mick," Mike replied, "You've got to cool it. You're never going to win her heart by becoming jealous and obnoxious around her."

"Around who?" Micky asked, "Cordy? Oh, please, I'm completely over her." "Right," Mike said sarcastically. "Anyway, just sing and play the drums and let her flirt with Ringo. You don't own her."

Micky looked down sadly. "I know," he said quietly.

One by one, the other Monkees, the Beatles, and their female counterparts wandered into the room. Picking up their instruments, the Prefab Four launched into a heartfelt rendition of "No Time." Halfway through the song, Micky felt the need to improvise.

"THIS ONE'S FOR YOU, RINGO!" he yelled sarcastically, but Ringo did not pick up on the sarcasm and was rather touched indeed.

But only a few chords from the song's end, a thunderous scream could be heard growing tumultuously outside the Monkees' door. They stopped playing, and everyone turned fearfully to the sound.

"What the" Mike muttered, trailing off in confusion. For at that moment, the door was broken down and in rushed Mr. Schnool, followed by a pack of nearly one hundred rabid teenage girls who clawed their way to the two bands with the fury of a thousand hungry sea monkeys. It became increasingly clear that Mr. Schnool had hired these girls to follow him back to the house in order to build strength in numbers. He kept hopping up and down, hungry for a glimpse of the Beatles, and screaming "JOHN!! JOHN!! YOU'RE MY HERO!! STAY OUT OF NEW YORK!" For the most part, our heroes managed to fight the girls back, sending them crying out of the room with the ability to now say "John Lennon punched me in the face in an angry rage." But Ringo was still being threatened by a large, rather manly fan proudly sporting a giant 'I LOVE RINGO' T-shirt.

"Ringo, who is that girl?" the fan kept asking, pointing to a terrified Cordelia. "Are you in love with her? You must marry me, Ringo, you must marry ME!"

And as the girl went to punch Ringo out of spite, he ducked, leaving the fan's fist open to Cordelia's face. But luckily, Micky "Faster Than A Speeding Bullet" Dolenz leapt into the picture and blocked the girl's punch with his own, sending her flying backwards and subsequently running out of the room.

"You saved me," said Cordelia softly.

"I punched a girl," Micky moaned.

"Thank you," she continued.

Micky looked at her, and then at Ringo, who had placed a protective arm around Cordelia' shoulders.

"It was nothing," said Micky in a low voice, and he turned away. Cordelia shook Ringo's arm off her shoulder angrily.

"I WAS ABOUT TO GET PUNCHED IN THE FACE BY ONE OF YOUR OBSESSIVE FANS, AND ALL YOU COULD DO WAS DUCK?!?!?" she screamed. He shrugged.

"I'm a celebrity, love," Ringo replied, "I had to protect my face."

In the end, the Beatles decided that they'd probably be much safer with trained bodyguards, and they paid the Monkees $100,000 of the half a million and left. Though they left their fellow group with a fond farewell, the Beatles decided amongst themselves to stay as far away from the odd little group as was humanly possible. The Monkees were left standing amid the wreck of the disastrous teeny-bopper fiasco.

"Does anyone else feel as though they've been run over by a steam roller?" Peter asked with a sign. His friends nodded meekly.

"If I don't go to bed now," Majandra added, "I think I'll die of exhaustion."

"Well, that's just fine!" said Davy perkily, "We're all still sleeping in the same bedroom, correct?"

"We were going to sleep in the same bedroom?" asked Micky, grinning devilishly.

"We were WHAT?" Cordelia shouted.

"Nothing, Cordelia," said Mike with a smile, "Go to bed."

And that is just a taste of what happens when rock gods collide.

continued