Rating: M for Mature audiences. It contains low level course language and some violence.
Notes: Alternate ending, kinda, to 'I've Got A Little Song Here'.
Mike sat on the couch, glowering. He glared at the coffee table, as if daring it to say something, attempting to keep his breathing even. Standing up he stalked over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and hurling it closed again.
How dare he? How dare that Bernard Class take his money? He'd been scammed and he knew it. Mike didn’t like being taken advantage of. Oh, he’d get him back, that was for sure. His mind was racing, going over all the nasty things he could do.
He began to pace the room, kicking anything that barred his way. His hands were curled into tight fists, and hung straight down his sides. Outside, Micky, Peter and Davy watched from the beach. They dared not go inside. Not while Mike was on one of his rampages. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he snapped. It could be something small, like not being able to finish a song, or something big, like being cheated out of a hundred bucks.
Mike threw a cushion at the Indian Chief. He wished it had fallen over. He imagined picking it up and beating Bernard Class to death with it. All he’d have to do was walk in, and smash it over his head. Then, he’d flee to Mexico. Mike Nesmith, wanted man. Or maybe Nishwah. Or Nasmirth. The fucker couldn’t even get his name right! No one could.
He’d teach them to forget his name. Next time someone called him Nashmouth, he’d punch them in the face. Just like that. Mike howled in pain seconds after his fist connected with the wall. Swearing, he gritted his teeth and kicked Davy’s tambourine across the room.
Peter started to head back, concerned at the cry coming from the pad, but Davy held him back. It wasn’t finished yet, Mike was still angry. Micky winced as he heard something smash inside. He hoped it wasn’t his.
After several more minutes of pacing, Mike kicked the Indian Chief and stormed upstairs. Slamming the door behind him, he sat down on his bed, trembling slightly and nursing his swollen hand. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down.
He turned to his bedside table and sought out the key, which was stuck under it. With a sigh, Mike unlocked the draw and took out a bottle. He opened it with a little difficulty and managed to shake out two small white pills. He swallowed them dry, before locking them back up and hiding the key again. He sighed heavily as he lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
“Damn you, Nesmith.”