A/N: I want to dedicate this story to a few authors.

I asked some authors for ideas on this. So, all of you, thanks. I don't want to give any of you all the credit because you all inspired what this turned out to be; I actually didn't use any of your ideas directly, just what they pretty much all had in common.

There are is one author who has gone above and beyond who I'd like to thank personally.

MonkeeVeggieGirl, because, through the Monkees forum, you convinced me not to give up on them. Thank you. I'll still always carry a little guilt with me, but thank you for helping me realize that I don't have to abandon them completely.

The Monkees trudged up to the pad. They didn't have to speak. Their nasty glares in Davy's direction said more than any words could. If looks could kill, he wouldn't have had to pay for his cremation.

It had all started at one of the weekly gigs they'd booked at a dance hall owned by a Mr. Howard Powell. A Mr. Howard Powell who happened to have a beautiful daughter named Lucretia. She had been flirting with Davy for quite a while, and, naturally taken in by her, he returned her affections.

But Mr. Powell would have nothing of it. Davy was from the wrong side of town, according to him, and he was by no means discreet about it. That had gotten Davy angry. Really angry. More angry that he could bottle up without exploding. He didn't have that Manchester accent for nothing!

So he hit Mr. Powell. Hard. He broke the fellow's nose, in fact, but he didn't care. He'd wrestled the older man to the ground, the other Monkees failing to restrain him and Lucretia watching in horror. And to top it off, Mr. Powell fired them from their gig.

The other Monkees hadn't been pleased, not at all, especially when they got the hospital bill. All Mike had said was, "Davy. I thought we could trust you." Those words stung. He felt like he'd been hit in the stomach by a truck. It felt worse than the bruises Mr. Powell's fists had left.

Now, as they entered the pad, he tasted blood. He ran up the spiral staircase so as to avoid his band mates' faces. He threw himself down on his bed.

That's all I am, really. Just a face. No musical talent. The others could sing my parts just as easily. That's all I am. Just…Just…a face. Blood mingling with tears, he laid his head on the pillow and cried himself to sleep.