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Number One

Chapter Text

It was a quiet day in the Monkee house. Well, as quiet as it usually was. Which was not very quiet.
It was especially quiet because the band was mourning the loss of their number 1 position on the US pop charts. This was all down to those BASTARD scousers, the Meatles. They had taken the number 1 spot and rubbed their grubby little cuck hands over it. This had, naturally, made the Monkees quite sad.
Micky had, however, only cried twice so far in the last hour (pisces bitch). Davy was staring morosely at a wall. Mike had removed his hat out of respect, thus losing the only brain cell apparent within the group. And Peter….. Was plotting murder. Of course.
“Well say you guys,” he piped up, surprisingly upbeat, “I think I have an idea of how to get us back that top spot!”
“What, Pete?” Mike asked, deadpan.
“Well.... we kill ‘em!” he grinned.
“Yew wot?” said Davy, finally tearing his eyes away from the wall, “We’re the Monkees! We’re too busy singing to put anybody down!”
“But,” Micky chimed in, “We can’t keep singing if we don’t keep getting number ones…”
Davy said “ :/ “ Then he said “You’re right, I s’pose”
“How can we kill them if we live on the other side of the world though, Liverpool sounds like a shit hole and I refuse to step foot in it,” said Mike’s hat.
“I didn’t know your hat could talk,” said Davy, “And ‘ey, how can a hat step foot anywhere, it doesn’t ‘av any feet.”
“I don’t know how to respond,” said Mike, “the hat just talks to me sometimes, y’know? You never experienced that?” The other three Monkees all shook their heads. “Well okay,” he shrugged, “Anyway I agree with the hat, how are we gonna get to… wherever it is they are?”
“Well, whenever we need something done, we usually go for a song montage, shouldn’t be too difficult to write a song about going to England or wherever it is those bastards are from,” Micky said, somewhat rationally.
Davy laughed nervously as a traitor to the entire country he is from. “I mean,” he started, “do we really have to… go to England? Why not… wait for them to come to us?”
“Absolutely no time,” said Peter, slamming the gavel on the table, “I want them dead.”
“Where’d you get that? I thought we broke it,” Micky looked confused.
“Get what?” Peter asked, hands empty again.
“Whatever,” Mike shook his head, “We need to go to England.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now.”