Chapter Three
Mike got up, easing his legs out from under his covers. He slipped silently past Micky, something that was easily done since the night at Mr. Liang’s restaurant.
He stumbled into the bathroom, squinting as he flicked on the light. He looked in the mirror, where his own dark brown eyes stared back at him underneath a wild tangle of black hair.
He personally didn’t remember feeling any different. He’d awakened the next morning feeling well-rested and still pleasantly full, and the others had all agreed that the night at the restaurant had been one of the best meals they’d ever had.
Life for the Monkees returned to normal, and after a time they completely forgot about the strange tea they’d drank. Mike, who spent a large part of his time being introspective anyway, was the first to notice changes in him and in his bandmates. Micky stopped running into things, his ‘hang up with his hands and feet’ disappearing completely. Peter stopped dropping dishes and whacking himself in the nose with doors. And Mike had been given quite a shock when he noticed that his right hand—which hadn’t been capable of making a complete fist since it had been hit with a sledgehammer when Mike was nine—now closed all the way.
Over the next month the changes had become evident to all of them, even to Davy, who’d always told the others they were imagining things. They were stronger and faster and more graceful, their reflexes were quicker, and it was—ironically enough—Davy who had discovered the talents which would later cause them so much grief.
He’d been wrestling with Micky—just their usual goofing around—when Micky had placed Davy in a headlock. Moving with a speed and grace that made Mike drop his coffee cup, Davy turned, throwing Micky over his hip and pinning him to the floor.
It reminded Mike of a judo demonstration he’d once seen in high school, and that was when the first piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He knew that none of them had ever had any formal martial arts lessons, and yet as the weeks passed it became evident that they somehow had the knowledge hardwired into their brains. Intellectually Mike knew that he’d never set foot in any kind of karate or kung fu school, and yet going through complex series of punches and kicks suddenly came as easy to him as playing guitar ever had—easier, in fact, because unlike the guitar, he’d never had a lesson nor had he spent years practicing.
And it was Mike who’d first discovered the tattoo on the back of Micky’s neck, the tattoo that would lead them to the answer to why they’d suddenly become four adept fighters in addition to being musicians.
Peter and Davy had already gone out, having already eaten lunch, and Mike was by himself when Micky came in after several hours of surfing . . .
~~~~~
“Hey, Mick, you’re gettin’ sand all over the floor!”
“Sorry, Mike,” Micky said, unrepentant as he plopped into a chair after making himself a sandwich. “I’ll clean it up later.”
“Yeah, like next spring, right?” Mike grumbled, wincing as his boot crunched over some of the sand Micky had tracked in with him from the beach. “I’ll go get the broom. This stuff is likely to drive me nuts.” He stood up, going to the closet and returning with the broom and dustpan that, he suspected, Micky and Davy had never touched. As he approached the table he saw something odd, something that made him pause.
Micky’s hair was still wet from his long morning in the water, and the damp curls hung loosely on the back of his neck. In amongst the curls was something that at first Mike thought was some kind of insect. After a few seconds—during which the ‘insect’ never moved—he realized it wasn’t and figured that it was some kind of scrape or scratch, no doubt incurred during one of Micky’s klutzy moments.
But Micky hadn’t had any klutzy moments lately, at least none that Mike had seen. He came closer, the problem of the sand momentarily forgotten, and leaned in to get a better look.
A strange symbol stared up at him. It was oriental, though whether it was Chinese or Japanese Mike couldn’t tell. “You go and get a tattoo recently, Mick?”
Micky spun around. “Huh? Tattoo?”
“On the back of your neck. There’s this weird symbol.”
Micky’s eyes went wide and he clapped his hand over his neck. “Symbol? What is it what did it come from honest Mike I didn’t go out and get a tattoo honest—”
“Micky!” Mike said, halting the drummer’s babbling. “It’s okay. Now turn around.” He ran to the bandstand and grabbed his music book and a pencil; he placed the book on Micky’s shoulders and quickly sketched the tattoo.
“You mean that’s what’s on my neck?” Micky said, studying what Mike had drawn.
“Pretty much, Micky. Either this is someone’s idea of a practical joke or something funny’s going on here.”
“Do you have one on your neck, Mike?”
Mike started. “Mine? Why would there be?”
Micky shrugged. “C’mon, lemme look.”
Mike sighed and turned around, pulling off his hat. “Okay, fine.” Micky stood up and pushed Mike’s hair out of the way. “Well Mike, I have good news and bad news.”
“And what is that?” Mike said.
“Good news is you don’t have dandruff. Bad news is . . . you have one of those funky symbols on you, too.”
“What!?” Mike said, spinning around. He immediately brought his hand up to his neck, scratching as if he could remove it.
“Yeah, Mike, you do.” Micky took Mike by the shoulders and turned him around. He held the muttering Texan still as he quickly drew the shape tattooed on Mike’s neck.
“So that’s it, huh?” Mike said, staring down at the pad.
“Looks Chinese or something,” Micky murmured.
Mike looked at Micky and together they mouthed the same word: Chinese?
~~~~~
“It all leads back to Mr. Liang and that weird tea we drank,” Mike said later that evening. Peter and Davy also had symbols on their necks; Peter’s a riotus collection of graceful, curving lines, Davy’s a squarish symbol that more than vaguely resembled an open, fanged mouth.
“How do you know that, Mike?” Davy asked.
“Because those symbols are Chinese, and near as I can figure all the weird stuff that’s been goin’ on started when we came back from dinner that night.”
“How do you know they’re Chinese, Mike?” Peter asked, still rubbing the back of his neck as if he could feel the tattoo.
“Before you guys came back I went over to the library and found a book of Chinese characters. Librarian helped me to find them.”
“So what do they mean?”
Mike leaned back, crossing his arms. “They’re symbols of the Chinese zodiac. Mine’s the Horse, Micky’s is the Dragon, Davy, yours is the Tiger, and Peter . . . you got the Monkey.”
Peter grinned. “At least it’s appropriate.”
“How come I couldn’t get the Horse?” Davy said.
“Hey, man, you got the Tiger,” Micky said, twirling one of his drumsticks in his agile fingers. “Quit complaining.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re the Dragon, Micky.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Micky said, smirking.
“All right, guys, enough,” Mike said, smiling despite himself. “We gotta go to Mr. Liang’s and get this sorted out. Tonight.”
~~~~~
Mr. Liang’s restaurant was quiet, with just a few patrons sitting in the corner. When the Monkees entered the waiters immediately rushed over, smiling and welcoming them and offering to get food.
“Not right now,” Mike said. “Is Mr. Liang here? We kinda have to speak to him.”
One of them bowed and immediately led them to what Mike recognized as the Dragonman’s former office, the one he and Davy had burst into to save Micky and Peter. Liang was sitting at his desk, poring over some papers; he leapt to his feet as they entered, bowing. “Hello again! Welcome! You want food?”
Mike shook his head. “No, actually we came to talk to you, Mr. Liang. We have a problem.”
Liang nodded. “You need money?”
“We always need money,” Micky said, moments before Mike’s elbow hit him in the ribs.
“No,” Mike said. “We came about these.” He turned, pulling his hair aside so Liang could see the mark on his neck. Peter and Micky and Davy followed suit. “What are these marks and why are they here?” Mike said, turning back around.
Liang’s smile faded a little. “Ngo, dan, thin, than,” he said.
“What does that—” Davy began, but Mike cut him off.
“Yeah, those are the names of these symbols. We know they’re the Chinese zodiac, but why are they there? And how come we know how to fight all of a sudden? All this started when we drank that strange tea of yours.”
Liang nodded. “Is true. But I give you tools, is all.”
“Tools?” they echoed.
“Yes, tools. Four Winds very special. Must know how to fight. Protect selves and others.”
“Whoa, back up a minute,” Micky said. “‘The Four Winds’?”
“Yes.” Liang crossed his office to the map of the world that hung on the wall. “East,” he said, placing one gnarled finger on Manchester. “North.” He pointed to Connecticut. “South.” He stabbed at Texas. “West.” He tapped California. “Warriors from Four Winds come together, strong, powerful forces at work.” He wove his fingers together tightly. “You are Four Winds. Fight against evil.”
Mike shook himself out of his momentary bewilderment. “Now wait a minute. We’re not warriors, Mr. Liang. We’re a band.”
Liang unwove his fingers. “I find out about you.” He counted off. “You fight gangster, spy, gypsy, all type villain. My granddaughter in club, see you fight big man. Go up against gun, fist, knife, sword. Now you can fight, no need worry.”
“So you gave us these . . . powers so we can protect ourselves when we get in trouble?” Peter said.
Liang nodded.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Peter said, smiling.
“Listen, we didn’t ask for this,” Mike rumbled. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d just undo what you did. We’re not fighters and we don’t intend to start, thank you.”
“There is no ‘undo’,” Liang said, shaking his head. “Is permanent.”
“What!?” Mike roared. “You mean we’re gonna be like this for the rest of our lives!?”
Liang didn’t flinch at Mike’s outburst. “Yes. Now you strong and powerful. My job finished.”
~~~~~
Mike sighed and flicked off the light, his eyes—much sharper since the incident with the tea—adjusting almost immediately to the dark. He crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up, crossing his arms as he nestled beneath them.
Permanent.
The word had rung in their ears for some time. Their strange new abilities—and the tattoos—would never go away. Although Mike had to grudgingly admit that there were worse fates, he hated the idea of being pushed into something he hadn’t asked for. He didn’t exactly blame Mr. Liang; the old man had simply been doing something he thought would help. But he still wished almost every day that they’d been allowed to choose.
He’d insisted upon secrecy, drilling into his friends how important it was that Mr. Liang be the only other person who knew about them. He didn’t want to lose the band and he was certain that if anyone else ever found out, a world of trouble would follow.
And now Peter wants to use them.
Somehow he had to convince Peter, make him see how dangerous his desire was. If he didn’t . . . it might end up getting them all killed.
On to Chapter Four
Back to Chapter Two
Back to Non Series Main Page
