Mike awoke, groggy and disoriented. His eyes felt like they'd been stuck shut with duct tape, sticky and painful. He reluctantly pried them open. As he sat up, fire alarms of dull red pain exploded in his head. Unsteadily, he noticed that he was in his bed, at the pad, and not fitfully driving around town at four miles per hour with some crazy chick, searching vainly for some miraculous brand of shampoo that wouldn't make his hair fall out. And why had he been driving a Model T, anyway? He shook his head slowly, in an effort to clear the residual dream images from his mind.

Only half-successful, and in thankfully dwindling amounts of pain, he turned to see what time it was. Unexpectedly, he was nearly blinded by the glare of the afternoon sun intruding through the unshaded bedroom window. Startled at first, it took him a moment in his post-sleep stupor to realize that the sun was supposed to be bright at three thirty in the afternoon. The only mystery was what he was doing in bed.

After a moment's consideration, he decided that getting up would probably be the best course of action. He swung his lanky frame over the side of the bed, noticing the opened bottle of aspirin on the bedstand as he did. Oh, that explained it. The headache. How he had managed to forget one of the worst headaches in his life was a bit of a bewilderment, but he did feel considerably better now. Relieved that life's little enigmas had resolved themselves with a minimum of fuss, he went downstairs.

~*~

His friends were clustered around the table, which was covered with a good sized heap of magazines. From what he could tell, they were the standard garish teen fare, with names like "Fab Fashion," "Super," and so on. Certainly not the sort of thing they usually had in the house. And what was even stranger was that Micky, Davy, and Peter were all pouring over them as if they held mysterious secrets of far more worth than "pink nailpolish and red lipstick is a major fashion faux pas."

"What're all these?" he asked, gesturing in distaste at the pile.

The three, who had been engrossed in the proceedings, looked up guiltily.

"Oh, hey Mike... uh... you feeling any better?" asked Micky.

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. What are y'all doin' down here?"

Peter's face lit up in his million-watt smile. "We're getting ideas!"

"Ideas? For what?"

Despite the frantic efforts of Micky and Davy to hush Peter up with hand gestures, he replied eagerly, "Well, Davy figured that we might be more popular if we knew what the audience wanted."

Davy glared at him. "Well, it couldn't 'urt, right? And we didn't 'ave to pay for 'em, Mike, don't worry. We all know how tight the money is around here. These're Estelle's."

Mike assumed that Estelle was the latest on Davy's long list of girlfriends. "But these're--"

"Come on, Mike," Micky cut in. "It's not like we're getting gigs now. And we really need some cash, you know that as well as we do. The rent's overdue again, and--"

"I know," Mike sighed. "I just don't want to sell out, that's all. And these... nobody really does the stuff in these things, anyway. They might as well be written by some freaks from Mars for all the truth they have in 'em. Sure don't reflect real people."

"They're just for ideas," Davy smiled. "Besides, they've got a lot of cute chicks."

"Oh, all right. Hand me one of those, will ya, Peter?"

"Sure!"

Mike took the proffered magazine, and examined the cover. "Five groovy do's that take under an hour to prepare," he read. "Huh. Wonder if mine's in here. Takes me five minutes, and that's if I comb it."

He flipped idly through the magazine, unsure of what he should be looking for, when a small article caught his eye.

he read to himself. The article went on to list basic traits of the Abuser, the Bore, the Egomaniac, and the Serial Killer. What startled him was the bold print underneath this section.

He turned the page in a desperate attempt to escape the article, only to come face to face with himself. It was his own face, he was sure of it, blown up more than he ever wanted to see. He was wearing an expression of pure evil, as if he was fully capable of and willing to kill a puppy. It scared him. Did he really look like that? He resisted the temptation to run for a mirror and reassure himself that his normal deadpan wasn't akin to a murderous grimace.

"Mike? What's wrong?" Peter asked, reacting to the sudden squeak that had issued from his friend's throat.

"Nothin'. Nothin'," Mike whispered. Surely he was imagining it. Maybe he'd gone crazy.

Attempting to control his emotions, he gently set the magazine by his feet instead of hurling it away in revulsion like he wanted to. He quickly grabbed another, trying to absorb himself in the table of contents. Then he noticed this magazine had one of the same types of articles. "Men to be Wary Of." Unable to resist the temptation, he searched through the glossy pages until he found it. This time, the categories were more varied, ranging from the Psycho, the Compulsive Spender, and the Control Freak to the Guy With Bad Hair Who Can't Even Keep His Sideburns Groomed. Once again, he himself was listed at the end as being the worst of all, a veritable Frankenstein's monster of character flaws and poor hygeine. Where had these people found him, and why were they doing this? His picture was there, too, this one far more gracious than the unexpectedly horrific one he'd first found. The photographer had caught him in a rare smile, and the caption underneath read "deceptively charming".

This time his yelp was a little bit louder, and attracted the attention of all present.

"Mike, hey, man, what's the matter? I never thought anything in one of these magazines'd scare you. Or did you just find out that you've been wearing the wrong shade of eyeshadow your whole life? Or are you not compatible with George Harrison?" Micky joked.

"Mick... take a look at this. Tell me I'm crazy." He handed over the magazine, which the three glanced at and cursorily dismissed.

"Oh yeah, those. They're all over," Davy responded. "I've seen five or six of 'em myself. Guess that explains why you never get dates."

"Yeah, man," Micky agreed, "Didn't you know about them? 'Teen Guestbook' even runs a monthly feature about the new lows you've stooped to. Gotta say, you're a real scum sometimes."

Mike couldn't believe his ears. This had been going on and nobody had told him? "Wait, wait... what'dya mean, Micky? New lows?"

"Yes, last month you were two minutes late for your date with Peggy," Peter announced. "That's type #24 to avoid. The Latecomer. After they printed that, it's no wonder she never called back."

"I got stuck in traffic!" he wailed. "It wasn't my fault! And I didn't give her my number, that's why she didn't call me! Not because of some stupid article!"

Davy shook his head. "The Denier. One of your worst traits, Mike. You're really gonna 'ave to do something about that if you ever want a girl."

Before Mike could respond, the doorbell rang.

"Oh, that'll be Estelle," Davy said. "Look, Mike... would you mind just... going upstairs? I... I 'aven't told her you live 'ere, and I'm afraid she'll dump me if she finds out."

Gaping at his friend, Mike nodded silently and retreated upstairs. Normally, he'd have stood his ground, put up a fight, demanded to know what made him so remarkably awful. Davy was habitually late for dates. Micky denied everything. Peter's hair was more unruly than his was. And lack of expression didn't necessarily mean lack of emotion, it just....

His thoughts chased each other around, each new circuit dizzyingly heightening his paranoia. He was destined to be single his whole life, and not by choice. Instead he was an example, picked out of the mass of America and held up to public speculation, his flaws scrutinized under a microscope and blown up like giant globs of pus until they blotted out any redeeming features he possesed. The few good points which the magazines didn't feel like ignoring shone through the squalor and were congratulated by being maimed and twisted as ill-intentioned lures or threats.

From what they said, a typical date consisted of waiting five hours for him to show up, being insulted, having to look at his hideous countenance, smelling his greasy hair, then getting your apartment burnt down, raped, murdered, raped again, robbed, he'd eat your kitten or puppy or goldfish or parakeet raw, and then tell boring stories about his great aunt's nasal hair. Probably in that order. Oh yes, and he had nice teeth. Don't let him smile at you.

He knew it was wrong, he'd gone on plenty of dates in which the girl didn't end up dead or emotionally scarred. But now... what did it matter that he knew the truth? Nobody else did, except his friends. Big help they were. Who would want to stay in the same place with him, and risk being contaminated by his vile and completely unfounded reputation? Just like Davy... who would want to admit to knowing him? Everyone would believe what they read in fifteen different magazines, what they heard from their friends. Christ, for all he knew, he was a national threat and a wanted man, his picture being shown every night on the seven o'clock news!

Unable to stand it any longer, he ran down the spiral staircase and threw himself at Peter, sobbing. "Peter... please... it's not true, you know that. Tell them it's not true!"

But Peter drew away from him in a very uncharacteristic manner. "Michael... they wouldn't print it if it weren't true. That would be lying." His eyes were dull and uncaring. They looked at Mike with curiosity and a complete lack of compassion.

"Micky! Micky, you'll help me, won't you?" his cry was even more pathetically desperate this time, borne of inflamed insecurites.

"Hey, man... I don't know... you do that to a chick you barely know... who knows what you might do to your friends. We're moving out."

"What? You can't--"

"Control freak. Flaw #42," Davy announced from the doorway where he sheltered Estelle from having to set eyes on the horror. "I'm sorry, Mike, but you're not fit for 'uman company. Ever."

Mike stood, gaping. He watched, immoblie and terrified, as his friends filed out of the door.

"That's another one, Mike," Davy called as the door shut. "Doesn't Move."

They'd filed his flaws. They'd numbered them. He picked up a random magazine and looked over its seemingly obligatory anti-Nesmith article in despair. Six hundred and seventy nine major flaws, countless minor flaws. His glare. His nose. The dark pits of evil that passed for his eyes, deceptive and deadly. His hands, kept agile from guitar playing, whose primary use, according to this article, was to strangle small animals and women. Even his posture was described as a menacing put on, outwardly polite, hiding a terror worse than the devil himself.

Mike shook his head frantically, trying to rid his mind of the unwanted, untrue thoughts. He sat down on the couch and tried to convince himself that it was all a hoax, that Peter and Micky and Davy would be back any second, laughing uproariously. He even started to laugh, trying to let them know that he got the joke, he wasn't mad, just please come back in. But his laugh was hollow and rang in his ears with the comment, "#392: Ingenuine."

He hurled himself headlong onto the cushions. Unable to stop himself, he cried until he fell asleep.

~*~

He awoke, thick-mouthed and groggy. Why had he fallen asleep on the sofa? Then it all came flooding back to him. The magazines. He shifted his position slightly, then sat up, startled. The cushions were wet... from his tears, he supposed. He'd cried more about those articles than he ever remembered crying about anything. They'd have to add #680: Cries Like a Baby. Then he mentally slapped himself. It wasn't that bad. The spot could have easily been drool. No use in self pity. He'd have to take action.

He thought again about the articles. Surely they were a put-on. No way would all those teen magazines be able to find him and single him out like that, making up all those flaws just to make money. And they were never that serious. "Don't go out with guys with bad breath," yes, but the sort of thing he had read... no. He looked over at the table, and to his surprise, noticed that the small mountain of threatening literature was gone. Probably the guys had come back, retrieved their stuff, and left again while he was asleep. That was probably another of his flaws --"Compulsive Sleeper."

He yawned. For some reason, it didn't seem so bad now. All he felt was a nagging feeling in the back of his brain, like there was something incredibly obvious that he was simply failing to comprehend. Then, he caught a glimpse of a book, left half-open on the floor next to the sofa, and the truth came flooding into his consciousness. He'd been reading. And he'd fallen asleep. And the reason his heart was pounding a mile a minute was because of a nightmare. That was all. A simple product of his psyche.

"Shit," he said quietly, voice filled with relief. "I'm gonna scare myself to death one of these days."

"Hey Mike! You're awake, I see," Micky called from the doorway. "And good timing, too. Peter and I went to the store, and we picked up Davy, he's got this magazine that his girlfriend gave him, says it's good for a laugh. He's got this article about shoes he wants to read us."

"Hey Mick," Mike smiled. "Need any help with the groceries?"

"No, I've got them," Peter announced, entering the pad with bags perched precariously on each arm. "It's all eggs and stuff, really light."

"Let me help ya with that, shotgun," Mike laughed. He lost himself in blissfull mundanity while they put the groceries away. His dream faded quickly, and he laughed as readily as the others at the foolishness of the article Davy's girlfriend had found. When the reading was finished, he related his strange dream, causing them all to double up with more laughter. Sure, they all knew Mike wasn't exactly a ladies man, but that sort of subconscious paranoia was so outrageous that it struck them all as simply hilarious.

Micky grinned. "Davy, man, I think you're giving Mike here an inferiority complex."

~*~

That night, Mike stayed up later than the others, working out the lyrics for a new song. He was having considerable trouble with it, though. The metaphors kept getting scrambled and the rhyme scheme was off, and none of it fit the rhythm he had in mind. He had erased and erased, tried starting over, even tried using a different pen.

Finally, he gave up in an exasperated huff. Seeking something mindless to do for a while, in hopes that it would restore his overexpended creative prowess, he found the magazine with shoe article and flipped listlessly through it. The articles were fairly standard. Hair, makeup, clothes, famous people, useless tips based on your star sign multiplied by the square root of pi, the type of guy not to go out wi--

Surprisingly, his startled yelp didn't wake his friends. His heartrate quadrupled in a split second, and he shook in physcial terror as he held the article at arm's length. Halfway down the page on the left-hand side was his picture and the caption "AVOID AT ALL COSTS!"