Micky woke to the familiar sound of the morning garbage trucks on the street outside the window below. He looked over at Mike’s bed, and saw that it was empty. He wasn’t surprised. Mike rarely made it home before dawn anymore, if he made it home at all; he was too busy trying to keep Lauren occupied. Micky rolled over onto his side to stare at Mike’s empty bed, and couldn’t help being disappointed that he wasn’t home yet. Mike may not be the most understanding person in the world, but at least he was someone to talk to, and right now that was all Micky wanted.

It was quiet down on the street again, and he could probably fall back to sleep if he tried, but he didn’t feel like sleeping anymore; he had too many things on his mind to allow for that. He couldn’t help but notice how quiet the pad was. Usually he would hear Peter in the kitchen by now, but there wasn’t a sound even as he strained to listen for the slightest hint that someone was home. So, he got out of bed, and walked into the next room, and found the door to the other bedroom open – that meant there was no one in there. “Am I the only one who lives here anymore?” he said out loud to no one, as he made his way to the bathroom. He looked up into the mirror, “I’m not that bad,” he tried to convince himself, but he was mess, and he thought about the perfect Butch who he had to compete with – Butch didn’t have to worry, he thought. He hung his head and gave a little sigh as he decided what he should do today – he’ll go to moms.

A few blocks away, Davy was waking to the sound of Butch going through his morning bathroom rituals. Brushing his teeth could take over a half hour, and he made more noise than the ConEd crew outside on the street digging up the cobblestone. 'I guess that’s how he keeps them so white,' Davy thought dreamily, as he laid on Charlie’s living room sofa waiting for his beautiful bundle of hot sex to return. Butch wasn’t quite ready to give Davy up for Charlie, nor was he ready to give up about half a dozen other sporadic sexual encounters – but Davy was one of his favorites. Charlie didn’t seem to mind the two sharing her sofa either. It freed her bed up for her own sex experiments. So, everyone under this roof was content to keep the situation as it stood, with each having enough freedom to explore any other sexual pursuit they saw fit. And they all could have lived happily ever after, if only Davy could stop thinking about how close he was to Charlie everyday, and if only Micky were with them it would be the perfect arrangement.

Somewhere upstate, lost in the wilderness (or as close as you can get and still be in New York State), Peter was waking to the sound of the crickets still chirping, and the birds starting to sing, and with his sweet Jane still in his arms. They had each found their true love, and if it weren’t for the gigs back in the city, Peter would have stayed there with her at the commune and never returned; but he knew Mike was counting on him to be there, so every night he made his long journey back to the pad to join his friends for some music. He laid in the chilly morning air thinking about how he and Jane were just like Micky and Charlie – pure love; even better because Peter and Jane were planning to be together for a long time.

Meanwhile, Mike was waking up to an extremely impolite beam of sunlight that had escaped through the blinds of Lauren’s bedroom window, to land on his sleeping face. He looked over at Lauren. 'Still asleep – thank god,' he thought, 'now how am I gonna get out of here?' He gingerly lifted the expensive, silk quilt that was keeping him prisoner, and carefully brought his legs around to rest on the floor. Now for the hard part: getting out of the bed without waking the sleeping beast. Ever so slowly he lifted himself to his feet, never taking his eyes off Lauren, and looking for the slightest hint that his moves were too abrupt. When he was finally standing, he wasted no time in getting out of the room, so he rushed to the door, and then slowly turned the knob in silence. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally got on the other side of the door, and was happy he had planned ahead by leaving his clothes in the living room. He rushed to get dressed, and didn’t even bother to use the bathroom – he just wanted to get home, and away from her.

He left the apartment and hailed a cab. As he rode downtown toward home he let his mind wander and looked up at the tall skyscrapers lining Fifth Avenue. High atop the Empire State Building he could see the giant, blonde beast swatting at the pesky planes that tried to shoot her down. She held the tiny, insignificant Mike in her hand being careful not to crush him. She put him down gently on the roof of the building for safety, just before she leaped to her death eighty-three stories below. But Mike knew what had really killed the beast – it was the Monkee.

An abrupt stop at a red light snapped him out of his daydream, and he hit his head on the front seat. Wow, they were downtown already, and Mike hadn’t even noticed the ride. He started to think if everything was alright with Micky. 'Gee, he’s been actin’ kinda’ strange lately? What’s his problem, anyway? Oh-well, he’s probably fine – I’ll talk to him tonight after the gig. From now on I gotta keep him away from girls – he just doesn’t know how to handle ‘em.'

Over the next few weeks, the normal routine that was ever present in the pad started to turn to chaos. No one was ever home anymore, and the only time they saw each other was during a gig. The once four close friends were becoming strangers, and everything suffered for it. The band started to loose that new rich sound Mike had worked so hard on achieving; and though Mike, Davy, and Peter were off concentrating on their own problems, and romances, Micky was still left by himself to drift deeper into depression and drugs. There was no one around to stop him, and no one seemed to notice any change in him – the heroin was the only thing that was keeping him sane at the moment.

So, the months went by and Micky was still too hurt to try and resolve his issue with Charlie, and he made every effort to forget about her by staying high, and keeping as far away from her as he could. He spent a lot of time at moms, but mostly he just hung around the pad since no one else was ever there anymore anyway. But the loneliness was starting to get to him, and the drugs weren’t helping his situation. Eventually, Mike started noticing little changes in him, but every time he tried to question him, Micky would find some excuse for not answering; so Mike assumed he was still depressed over Charlie and that eventually he would snap out of it, and return to normal.

But he didn’t, in fact, the more time that passed, the worse Micky got. He even started missing gigs, and he would be late to the ones he did manage to show up for. Mike was starting to really worry that something other than the usual minor girl trouble was wrong. It wasn’t like Micky to act this way, he just wasn’t the irresponsible type. He wasn’t looking very well lately either; he seemed thinner than usual (if that’s possible), and even frail. Mike let it go, convincing himself it was his imagination, until the heat of the June air brought more suspicion. Mike knew what Micky was up to when he continued to wear his winter sweaters in the middle of a late-spring heat-wave. So, now armed with some proof of his suspicions he finally confronted Micky with an ultimatum.

Mike went into their bedroom where he found Micky sitting on his bed with a book. He closed the door behind him, and stood there staring down at him, thinking about the best strategy to use to get him to admit to what he had been doing.

“What’s up, Mike?” Micky said without taking his eyes from his book.

“You tell me,” Mike answered coldly.

“Whadaya’ mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No...I don’t, Mike.”

“Come on, Mick. Ya don’t show up for gigs anymore. Ya don’t talk to anyone. Ya look like hell. When is it gonna stop?”

“When is what gonna stop?”

“Okay, ya wanna’ play that game? Why won’t ya just talk to me, Mick?”

“I don’t know what you want me to talk about.”

“You used to tell me everything – why did ya stop?”

“I...I don’t know.” Micky looked down at his now closed book. He knew what Mike was trying to get out of him, but he wasn’t ready to admit his secret, so he pretended he didn’t know what he was talking about. Mike didn’t buy it, he stood over him by the bed waiting for an explanation to his behavior, but Micky held out – he wasn’t about to volunteer any information that would make Mike angry. Mike was going to have to say it first if he wanted any kind of an answer.

“What about all the drugs, Mick?” he finally said.

“What drugs?” He didn’t bother to look up at Mike, and that’s what gave him away.

“You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Mike, I’m not doin’ drugs,” he said as if Mike were hallucinating. “I mean…sure, a little grass now and then, but...”

“Come on, Mick. If that’s all it is then what’s the sweater for in this furnace we live in?”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you’re cold...show me your arm.”

“Why?”

“If you got nothin’ to hide, then just show me.” So, Micky did what he said, and pulled up his right sleeve.

“The other one,” Mike said.

“Why, Mike?” Micky started to panic – he knew he was caught, and he didn’t know what to do, so he protected his scarred arm from Mike.

“If you don’t stop, Mick, then you’re outta' the band,” Mike shouted loosing his patients.

“Mike, you can’t do that. I didn’t do anything.”

And Mike grabbed Micky’s arm to show him what he already knew. “I mean it Mick. You either stop – or you’re out.” And he turned to leave.

“I’m sorry Mike...I’ll stop...I promise.” Micky said as Mike slammed the door behind him. He sat there thinking about how angry Mike looked, and how he’d never seen him like that before. Then he thought about what he said, and wondered if he really meant it. He sunk his face down into the bed. How did he ever let this happen, he thought. Mike was disappointed in him – worse, he was angry with him. The very thing he had tried so hard to avoid, and now Mike was ready to kick him out of the band. What was he going to do now? He promised Mike he would stop, but how can he do that when he was already thinking about his next fix. He wanted to show Mike that he wasn’t weak – but he was, and he decided that he was too upset to kick his habit just then, so he went to his hidden stash stuck in the wall behind the bathroom medicine cabinet, and convinced himself this would be his last.

Mike was once again on his way to Laurens. There would be no parties tonight for a change. No, tonight was special – just the two of them. How nice, Mike thought, but he couldn’t get out of it, and he was going to have to pretend that he enjoyed every minute of their evening together – that was the hard part. It wasn’t that he hated her; it’s just that she was so domineering and demanding of him, and he didn’t like being treated like he was an accessory to her clothing. And she was always lying to him: “Next week, Mike. That recording deal is bound to come through by then.” Days, weeks, months go by, and still the same thing. How long was he supposed to put up with it? How long before he really looks like he was taken for a ride? How long before he really looks like a loser? He was afraid his time was up. Yeah – he hated her, he finally admitted to himself. She was a bitch, and she treated him like he was dirt; but he decided to stick it out a little longer – after all, he’s come so far already.

The elevator man dropped him off on her floor, and he grudgingly got out and went to knock on the door. “It’s open,” he heard her shout from inside, so he went in. The place was perfect, as usual – big, elegant and perfect. Everything had to be that way with Lauren. Oh god, what was she going to want from him tonight, he dreaded the thought as he walked around the apartment searching for the blonde beast within. “Hello handsome.” He heard a voice from behind him, and turned around startled. There she was – his blonde beauty, all ready for a night with Nez. She was dressed in nothing but a black, lace robe which she untied as she walked up to him, and planted a long, hard kiss on his lips – he knows who’s boss.

She took his hand and led him to her bedroom, where she intended to spend the rest of the evening. Mike followed, rolling his eyes behind her back, and wondered what kind of degradations he would have to endure tonight. He went over to the side of the bed and got the box of sex toys from underneath, and then he let her choose her weapon. Oh-no...not the ropes – he hated the ropes. He allowed her to tie his wrists to the bedposts – always too tight – it gave her a thrill to cause him a little pain. Her two toy poodles, Vladimir and Gwendolyn jumped up onto the bed to help...or hinder, depending on whose side you’re on. They licked at Mikes face as if he were made of chopped liver – Oh the humiliation, Mike thought; he hated those dogs almost as much as he hated the beast herself. She went back to her magic box of toys, and searched for her leather paddle.

It was the next night, and Micky was trying desperately to keep to his word. He lay in bed staring at the wall, then the clock, and then the wall again, but he couldn’t sleep, and he knew why. He looked over at Mike who was fast asleep in his own bed, and decided it would be okay if he had one more “last” fix, so he got up and silently went to his private drug den. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but he was in a hurry, and the panel on the medicine cabinet that hid his stash always stuck, and he knocked down the shelf accidentally. He convinced himself that he didn’t make enough noise to wake anyone, so he continued with his preparations. There was so much to do when shooting up was your drug habit of choice – not simple like swallowing a pill, and it took time – cooking seemed to take forever, and then searching for good veins was so frustrating, especially when you didn’t really know what you were doing – and he already woke Mike.

Mike glanced over to see Micky’s empty bed, realized what the noise was, and rolled over to go back to sleep, but still more odd sounds from the bathroom kept him awake, so he got up to find out what was going on. “Micky must be sick again – god, he’s sick every night, lately,” he complained to himself as he knocked on the bathroom door. “Mick, you alright?”

Micky was sitting on the cold tile floor trying to find a vein that still worked when he heard Mike call his name. He shouted back impatiently, “Yeah”, then went back to work. Mom had warned him about this: he was going to have to start on the other arm, but his hands were so shaky he didn’t know how he would accomplish that with his left hand. He went too long this time, he thought to himself. He shouldn’t have promised Mike he would quit – he wasn’t ready, and now he had waited too long. So, he reasoned with himself to do a little extra – not the usual half-gram, but the whole one – that should make him feel better fast.

That virgin right arm was much easier to negotiate a needle through, even with the shaky left hand. Micky was feeling much better now, and if only Mike would go away and leave him alone he could really enjoy his high, but Mike was still waiting on the other side of the closed door.

Mike decided that as long as he was up and standing in front of the bathroom, that he might as well use it, so he patiently waited for Micky to come out. After a few minutes though, his patients wore thin. “Mick...when you comin’ out of there?”

Micky didn’t answer, but he heard Mike’s shout and knew he had to hide the evidence fast, so he picked up whatever he found on the floor and threw it into the bathroom sink; then he tried to pick himself up which wasn’t as easy.

Another shout from Mike, this time along with a pound on the door, “Hey Mick – let’s go – give someone else a chance.”

Micky dragged himself to his feet, and tried to use the sink for support when his hand slipped and pushed off Peter’s glass, which dropped to the floor with a loud crash. Micky watched the glass shatter into a thousand shards, and laughed to himself, then tried to straighten up to open the door for Mike, but he had to steady himself with the wall, and he didn’t hear Mike’s last shout. Mike heard the crash though, and forced the door open with one good push. Good thing he did, because Micky was just about to hit his head on the sink on his way down to the floor – luckily Mike caught him before that.

Mike brought him down to a gentler landing onto the tile, and laid his head in his lap, then shouted to Davy and Peter for help – he hoped someone was home. Another shout; a little louder this time.

Davy arrived at the door, “What’s goin’ on, Mike?”

Peter came into the bathroom, saw what was in the sink, and knew immediately what was going on. He thought fast, and turned to Davy, “Call an ambulance!” he said, and then looked over at Mike. “It’s my fault, Mike,” Peter admitted sadly.

“Did you know about this?”

“No.”

“Then how can it be your fault?”

“I don’t know...it just is.” He knew he should have never taken Micky to moms.

The next day, Mike went into Micky’s no longer hidden stash, and collected everything concealed in the wall. Then found another four grams in a box under his bed. He couldn’t believe Micky had done this; he thought he was smarter than that. What went wrong? What was he thinking? He looked at his watch; he had to go pick him up from St. Vincent’s. Luckily it was only enough dope to overdose on and not enough to kill himself with, and it wasn’t going to happen again if Mike had anything to do with it. It was obvious that Micky wasn’t going to be able to do this on his own, so Mike was going to put an end to it if he had to kill him in the process.

Mike was sitting over by the window with his guitar trying to come up with a new song, while Peter was in the kitchen concocting a new menu, and Davy was on the phone discovering a new lover. Micky was pacing the living room floor, trying to act as nothing were wrong, but the others all kept their eye on him waiting for something to happen – they just didn’t know what – maybe he would explode or something. They were each thinking about where they had to go, and who they had to see today, but decided Micky was still too important to them to abandon him, so they all pretended that everything was fine, and that nothing had happened. Micky was acting perfectly normal – he always paces the floor like a caged animal trying to escape. His body was aching all over, and every step he took brought new pain to his legs – he really needed to do something about this. He was jittery, and nervous, and his hands were shaking again. It’s been two days since he’d had anything. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore and went into the bathroom to look for his stash, but just as he suspected – it was gone; good thing it wasn’t his only hiding spot, he thought. To the bedroom – uh-oh...Mike found that one too - panic! Now what? He could beg Mike to give it back to him. Maybe if Mike knew how badly he needed it, he would feel sorry for him and give in. No, Mike would never fall for it. He could go to moms...if he could get out of there. Well...he could at least try.

Micky casually, but quickly walked to the front door. “I’m goin’ out – see ya later,” he said.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, Mick,” Mike told him firmly, and went over to guard the door.

“Whadaya’ mean? You’re gonna lock me up in here?”

“Yep – that’s what I mean.”

“You can’t do that. I can leave if I want to.”

“No, you can’t.”

Micky turned away from Mike and thought about his options – he had none – he needed to get through that door, and he wasn’t going to let Mike stand in his way. So, he turned around in desperation more than courage, to face Mike, determined to force his way past him, but he was no match for Mike; he simply pushed him out of the way as if he were swatting a fly. That made Micky angry, so he picked up a nearby lamp and hurled it at Mike’s head. Still no match for Mike – he ducked effortlessly, grabbed Micky by the shirt and punched him in the face. Micky went flying into the wall, and landed on the floor. Mike picked him up by his arm, and dragged him to the bedroom where he left him alone, and locked the door. He calmly walked back to the window, picked up his guitar, and resumed his song writing as Davy and Peter watched in disbelief, and Micky pounded on the door for someone to let him out.

“Mike...you can’t just leave him in there like that,” Peter said, as Davy went over to inspect the broken lamp.

“Why not?” said Mike still angry.

“Because...it isn’t right.”

“He just tried to kill me with a lamp!”

“He didn’t mean it, Mike...he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“How long ya plan to keep ‘im in there?” Davy asked.

“I don’t know...as long as it takes,” Mike answered.

“I think that’s against the law, Mike,” said Davy.

“Yeah – I’m letting him out,” Peter said as he went over to the door.

“I have the key.” Mike produced the key from his pocket to show Peter.

“Then let him out, Mike!”

“No. If he’s gonna get violent, then let him get violent by himself.”

And that’s exactly what it sounded like on the other side of the door. Micky was tearing the place apart. He was taking everything he could find that belonged to Mike and destroying it in his fit of drug-withdrawn rage. He screamed, and cursed, and cried, but Mike didn’t open the door. Finally, after a few hours, all went quiet, and Mike thought it was time to see if Micky was still alive, so he unlocked the door. The room was a disaster. At first, he couldn’t even find Micky, but then he saw him on the floor face down on a pile of Mike’s torn clothes, crying quietly to himself. Mike was so angry at the condition of his room that he slammed the door shut, relocked it, and left the pad without saying a word. He had planned on staying at Lauren’s tonight anyway – he couldn’t deal with Micky anymore, he’ll let Davy and Peter handle him – he had a party to get to.

A midtown party this time; one that Mike was actually looking forward to. It was at the Factory – Worhol’s studio on 38th. There should be a lot of interesting people to meet this time, Mike thought, including Andy himself. Mike was thrilled to find that the Factory looked very similar to his own pad, just bigger, and it was painted silver, but aside from the color it was essentially a big warehouse filled with the artist’s work. He left Lauren, and made his way through the crowded entourage to get to Mr. Worhol, who seemed delighted to meet Mike. And just as he was about to get into a meaningful conversation with someone, the Beast appeared and grabbed Mike by his arm to lead him to the exit, after making her apologies to Andy, of course. “It’s time to go.” She told Mike.

“We just got here,” he whined. She gave him a look that told him to end his complaining, and so, with disappointment, he followed her to the door.

Back at the pad, Davy and Peter were trying to get the bedroom door unlocked. Mike had apparently taken the key with him, and the old door had been painted shut so many times that they couldn’t even break it down; but they didn’t want to keep Micky in there by himself any longer in fear he might jump out a window or something. So they used everything they could think of to try and unlock the door – if only they had a hairpin.

They could hear Micky on the other side again, screaming for Mike, and for anyone to let him out of there. He was starting to sound desperate, Davy thought, like he was beginning to panic, so they worked harder at getting the door open, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. “I can’t believe Mike did this,” Davy said, “How are we gonna get ‘im outta' there?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Mike so mad before.”

“Yeah, somthin’s really botherin’ ‘im lately.”

“Maybe we can take the door off the hinges.”

“The hinges are on the other side.”

“Oh... well... maybe we can take off the lock.”

“Take off the lock? Are you nuts?! Hmm...take off the lock.”

“I’ll get a screwdriver.”

They began to peel away the fifty years of paint layers, and eventually they found screws to unscrew, and managed to take apart the mechanism that held their friend prisoner on the other side. After all day of trying, they finally opened the door,

“Uh-oh - Mike’s gonna be mad,” was Peter’s comment after seeing the condition of the room.

“Yeah, you clean up while I find Micky – he has to be in here somewhere.”

“Not if he jumped out the window.”

“The window’s closed.”

“Maybe he closed it after he jumped.”

“How can he close the window after ‘e’s jumped out of it?”

“Oh...yeah...that’s right.”

“Micky?” Davy called as he searched under each of Mike’s things. He finally found him in the corner of the room lying in a heap surrounded by Mikes torn clothes. “Micky...you all right?” His nose was bleeding from where Mike had hit him earlier, and he was pale and trembling all over. Davy tried to deal with Micky, while Peter cleaned up the mess before Mike got home.

None of them had ever seen Mike so angry before – he really had changed, and they wondered what had caused him to loose his temper like that. Of course, Micky throwing household objects at him didn’t help, but usually Mike would show more patients, especially under these circumstances. Peter continued to rearrange the room into some kind of order similar to what it had looked like previously, and try to fix some of Mike’s damaged belongings, while Davy took care of Micky who was getting worse by the minute. He was worried that Micky was really starting to look sick. He tried to get him to go to bed, but he wouldn’t. He just sat on the floor leaning against the wall, exhausted and muttering about how Mike hated him.

Meanwhile, Mike found himself once again deep in the boudoir of the beast. She was sitting on a chair with her paddle in her hand, while an obedient Mike lay at her feet, massaging them with his tongue – she loved to have her toes sucked and nibbled on, it was one of the reasons she kept two toy poodles in the house – one for each foot. But being human, Mike was more adept at the job, and if he wasn’t...well, that’s what the paddle was for. However, there was certainly one job that Mike was equipped for that those dogs weren’t, and that’s why he needed to be kept around the house as well. She reached down to tuck the end of her leather paddle under his chin, and guide him up to meet her perfectly shaped, red lips. They may have looked sweet, but Mike knew different – her kisses were bitter, if they had any taste at all. He’d rather remain at her feet where he could be by himself, then to have to look into that beautiful, cruel face. But he did what was expected, because the paddle was even worse, and he tried his hardest to look like he was enjoying himself.

He kissed her wildly, just as he knew she wanted, while she lightly tapped him on his bare ass with her magic stick of leather. She allowed him a brief worship of her breasts, and then she was ready to be fucked, and fucked hard. So, Mike did his duty, and she wasn’t disappointed – she never was, that’s why she chose him in the first place. She eyed those tight pants of his that revealed all, way back at that first gig she attended. She knew then that she just had to have him, and she was right about what was barely concealed under those snug trousers. He was big enough to reach the far corners of her most distant internal regions, so it was worth putting up with his complaining and occasional misbehavior. The sex was so good she was almost willing to give up her old battery powered vibrator – but not quite. He gave her a good pounding until she came, though she didn’t really care if he did or not; and then she got up and instructed him to lay across the radiator by the window, where she proceeded to handcuff his wrists to the wrought iron legs, give him a few good whacks on his ass with her paddle, and left him there alone...well, she did leave Vladimir and Gwendolyn with him for company. “How did I get myself into this position?” he said to himself as he was laid out over the radiator.

He managed to turn himself around so he could be in a less vulnerable position, and uncomfortably sat himself down on the floor. Those two damn dogs jumped up on his lap and growled at him. He waited until one of them was in reach and then kicked Vladimir across the room. The dog howled and went to hide under the bed, while his partner in crime curled up on Mike’s lap and went to sleep. “How am I gonna get myself outta’ this mess?” he said to himself, as Gwendolyn looked up at him in response. He stuck his tongue out at her, and she ignored him and went back to sleep. He wished he had a free hand so he could push her off his lap. He tried wiggling his legs, but she wouldn’t budge. He sighed, and shook his head. And suddenly he remembered Micky – locked up in their bedroom back home; going through probably one of the worst experiences of his life, and Mike had treated him the same way he had treated that dog – worse, because Micky was supposed to be his friend. Why had he locked him up like that? That was really cruel, he thought to himself. He wasn’t a cruel person. Why had he done that? What was he turning into? He didn’t like what was happening to himself. He would never have done something like that to a friend before. Micky needed him now, and all he could do was be selfish and angry. Why had he acted that way? He had to get out of there and get back home to Micky and apologize.

Mike walked through the door of the pad to find relative quiet. He looked at the door to his room and found it still closed. They wouldn’t have kept Micky locked up in there all this time – would they? Peter was over in the corner sewing one of Mike’s shirts back together. “You didn’t let him out of there?” Mike asked.

“We almost had no choice – you didn’t leave the key,” Davy answered coldly, clearly annoyed with Mike.

“I left the key - right here.” And he went over to the windowsill to retrieve it. Davy and Peter just stared at each other.

“How’s Micky?” Mike finally asked.

“He’s tryin’ to sleep,” Davy answered him curtly. “He’s been asking to talk to you ever since you left. Ya know you really hurt him, Mike. He thinks you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him. I’ve just been...having some problems lately.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not Micky’s fault.”

“I know...I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you’d better tell ‘im that.”

“Yeah.”

Mike walked into the bedroom and found Micky tossing and turning trying to sleep. He couldn’t remember him ever looking so bad. In fact, it didn’t even look like Micky. His face was pale and drawn; his eyes were hollow, and Mike couldn’t help thinking how he resembled a version of his own skeleton. Mike closed the door behind him which made enough noise to wake Micky from his brief light sleep. He walked over to the bed and kneeled down beside him, as Micky sat up.

“Mike,” he said with tears in his eyes, “I’m sorry...I’m sorry for what I did... don’t hate me...please.”

“I don’t hate you, Mick.”

“You do...you hate me for being stupid.”

“I don’t, and I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Mike, you have to let me out of here.”

“Really? Where’re you goin’ in your condition?”

“Then give me back what you took.”

“No, Mick.”

“Why? Mike...you have to.”

“No, I don’t have to, and I’m not going to.”

“Mike...I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can, Mick.”

“No...I can’t. I’m not like you, Mike. I can’t do it.”

“Whadaya’ mean you’re not like me? You don’t have to be like me.”

“I mean I’m not strong like you.”

“Oh god, Micky.” If you only knew, he thought to himself. “I’m not as strong as you think I am,” He admitted.

“Of course you are, Mike,” Micky said with complete sincerity.

Mike just sighed and brought his head down into his hands, as Micky looked at him wondering what he was talking about, and worried that his emotional rock was weakening before his eyes. Mike looked up at him again, and tried to smile. He didn’t want to shatter Micky’s image of him; he knew he needed to rely on his strength – now more than ever. So he sat down next to him on the bed and put a reassuring arm around his shoulders, and didn’t leave his side for the next three days until Micky was feeling better.

So...no more drugs...now what? Micky wasn’t feeling as good as Mike had promised he would. He was still depressed, and his audience was starting to grow tired of his moodiness – they didn’t like the recent turn of events, and the ratings were starting to drop; things were better when Micky was hooked on heroin. They wanted some action back in the show. So to liven things up, everyone decided to start making a little trouble for Micky.