November, 1965. For two months, The Monkees’ TV show has ruled the television airwaves. Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike’s faces are on the cover of every teen magazine in the supermarket—a dubious distinction that brings with it the daunting task of answering the most incredibly inane teen mag interview questions.
…And that was how they made their move.
The two young women appeared one day without warning, right out of the clear, blue L.A. skies. Concealment of their exact origins was imperative, of course, and they took care to hide the device that had transported them. But getting to where they needed to be next presented an even greater challenge.
They had little to fear, however, as the Columbia Studios backlot was buzzing with activity. Assistants, costume people, set designers, producers, actors all running to and fro, carrying on with the business of their day’s work. And then, with almost no effort, they came upon the set of The Monkees and had the four boys in their sights.
"We’d like to do a special interview with The Monkees for our magazine."
"And what is the name of your magazine?" some assistant’s assistant inquired, dutifully jotting down the information on a notepad.
"Um…Teen Dreams. It’s new, but hip. We’re on a deadline, though. The interview has to be done tonight.”
"What is the nature of this interview?"
"Celebrity sleep habits. It’s just this groovy thing that all the rock stars are doing. Beatles, Rolling Stones. Call it a "snapshot in time." Not that it’s the sort of thing people will be interested in 45 years from now, but…well, you never know."
The assistant’s assistant stared at them for a long moment, then blinked in resignation.
"All right, fine."
"Great, thank you! Tell them to come to this address."
Now, you might think that a hospital is a strange place for an interview. The four Monkees did, too, but only at first, thanks to the convincing reassurances of their “interviewers.”
"Lie down on these beds," the girls said, indicating the four cots that had been arranged two by two in the tiny room, each with its own squishy pillow and warm, fuzzy blankets.
"What’s that equipment for?" Mike asked, pointing to the machines behind where the girls stood.
"Tape recorders," they quickly answered in unison. "To make sure we get every moment of this interview," said one of them.
While the other girl helped the boys get more comfortable, the mini-er one wheeled a tray of electrodes in between the beds and began to affix them to the Monkees’ heads.
"Oooh, that’s cold!" Micky gasped as the clear gel was applied to his noggin.
The second girl soothed him: “Don’t worry, it’ll warm up. Just stay cal—er, what are you doing?”
She stopped midway through speaking upon seeing the other girl rubbing the gel on the nipples of a very amused-looking Peter.
"Oh! So sorry. That’s not his head, now is it? Silly me."
Once the electrodes were all in place, the mini girl went into an observation room with a two-way mirror next door.
"Erm, where are you girls going?" asked one rather mystified Manchester marauder.
"Not to worry, Davy. We’ve just got to get something before we can start the interview. We’ll put a bit of music on for you to listen to in the meantime," said the second girl.
She soon joined the other girl in the observation room, and there they waited, and watched. The “music” that was playing had been specially designed to rapidly lull the boys into a deep, even sleep. Then, and only then, could they glean the information that they had traveled so far to obtain.
It was not long before the Monkees were fast asleep. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, so close were the girls to achieving their objective. The brain wave and heart monitors beeped steadily, and the speakers that they’d installed in the room were on full volume.
It started as the faintest breath, mere air expelled from a nasal cavity. Gradually, the noise intensified to a low-pitched droning that they now realized was coming from Peter’s bed.
The girls looked at each other, eyes wide with excitement. Before a word between them could be spoken, however, a second sound joined the first, this time from Micky.
A low zzzzz! was followed by an almost breathy gasp much higher in pitch. It seemed to flow in time to the noise now coming from Davy, whose snores even sounded as if they had their own English accent.
Then the fourth sound began.
It was not unlike a ship’s horn, calling out to those on land as it came in from distant seas. Then louder, as if the ship was moving past the sandy inlets and heading straight for port.
The noise crescendo’ed into a thunderous roar, the vessel making its triumphant arrival at the docks, and the two girls leaped from their seats and began to dance for joy at the somnolent stylings of Michael Nesmith.
They shouted without reservation, thanks to the soundproof glass separating them from the sleeping Monkees in the next room:
"They’re snoring! Mother of god driving a Lincoln Continental down the freeway…THEY’RE SNORING! ALL OF THEM!”
Papers were flung high into the air, which the girls quickly collected and stuffed into a manila envelope and tucked into a locked briefcase for safekeeping.
"Okay…let’s get out of here!"
Knowing there would only be minutes before the guys would wake up after the music was turned off, the girls rushed into the next room and removed the electrodes, cleaned off the gel, threw the equipment out of a window, and made a mad dash from the hospital.
By the time the Monkees came to, they were gone.
Mike: “What in the hell kind of interview was that?”
Davy: "I don’t even remember how we got ‘ere!"
Micky: “I think we musta filmed a Star Trek episode without anybody telling us!”
Peter: "Damn, that girl totally split before I could rub her nipples…”
And so, documents and audio tapes in hand, the young women took a somewhat-overpriced taxi back across the city to where they’d first arrived, jumped into their
Tardis not trademarked time-travel machine, and returned to the year 2014 with absolute, irrefutable proof that the Monkees did and do, indeed, snore.