The Monkees: Gold Rush

But That's Okay...

They had spent about four days in that jail. Micky would come in with food and coffee and tobacco. Whenever they needed something they'd ask Micky to get it. Peter had been trying to get Micky to bring one of his other instruments, a harp possibly, but Micky said that carrying a harp across town would look really funny. The jail was quiet most of the time since somebody was always asleep. When they were all awake either Mike or Johnny or Peter would play the guitar, and somebody would sing. It was such a dull time, but the circuit judge wouldn't be there for another week.
Vincent seemed to be having a lot of trouble with his leg. Whenever he was asked about his leg he said it didn't hurt. Micky decided to take initiative and get Vincent a bottle of liquor from the saloon. When he brought it in the jail Vincent looked relieved. He drank it all on his own. The others didn't even think about asking for some. They all knew he needed it more than them.
Vincent kept rubbing his leg slowly. Peter was sitting on the chair next to him. "Do you need to see a doctor?" Peter asked.
Vincent shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with me," He said.
Peter's brow furrowed. "Your leg hurts," Peter said.
Vincent shrugged. "It's hurt for years," He said. "I should have had it cut off."
Peter stared. "But what would you have walked on?" He asked.
"I suppose I'd have a peg leg," Vincent said.
"Like a pirate?" Peter asked.
Vincent nodded. He looked over at Peter. "Can you get my pipe? It's on the desk," Vincent asked.
Peter stood up and got Vincent's pipe from the desk. Peter sat back down beside Vincent and handed him his pipe. Vincent poured some tobacco into the pipe and lit it with a match. He started to smoke the pipe.
"Why do you smoke a pipe instead of cigarettes?" Peter asked.
Vincent let out a puff of smoke. "Lazy I suppose," He said. "I smoke 'em when I got 'em, but it's easier to just use a pipe instead of rolling another over and over every time I want to smoke."
Peter nodded his head slowly.
"Do you smoke?" Vincent asked trying to start a conversation.
"No... Well, not often," Peter said. "I never had money for tobacco until I came out here... Now I don't ever use it on tobacco."
Vincent smiled. "Awhile back I met this tribe of Indians that had these pipes that made you feel real funny," He said. He whistled. "That was an experience. They made you feel happy, but you don't know shit. Your brain gets out of wack. I didn't even feel my leg."
Peter smiled. "Did you ever go back?" He asked.
Vincent shook his head. "The entire tribe was killed before I ever had the chance... They were good people, but..." A large puff of smoke. "But they were in the way of white man's land..."
Peter was quiet.
"You know what I think is the most horrible thing about the killing was that that tribe had never done anything to hurt anyone... They let a cripple like me into their tribe... Then they got massacred..." Vincent looked like he was about to cry.
"This world is gonna change one day," Peter said quietly.
Vincent ran his fingers through his hair. "A change is gonna come..." He said quietly. He smiled slightly at the words. "I knew a man who once said that. He believed it too."
Peter didn't know exactly what to say. He was quiet.
"Peter, would you play the guitar?" Vincent asked.
Peter stood up and got Johnny's guitar. Johnny was asleep and so were the others. Peter began to play the guitar softly. Vincent sat silently smoking his pipe.
The daylight was coming through the windows. It was a soft light. It was a morning light.

(This is the worst update ever written. I'm sorry. I'm so behind schedule. Forgive me. This is mostly Gene Vincent anyway... This is probably the worst Monkees Fanfiction ever... I know, I'm a failure, don't stone me! I want to thank everyone that is reading and voting on this story. It means a lot to me. I just wish my writing and stuff was better for you guys...
Puts on Over the Rainbow by Judy Garland and... ~ Adde Away!)