The Monkees were playing another gig at the Vincent Van Go-Go again. It was starting to get monotonous, but Micky pointed out "a gig's a gig" and the other three were stuck with it. They had just finished "Circle Sky" when a middle-aged man came up to the bandstand.

"Excuse me, Monkees," he said. "I'm George Harrison."

"Yeah, sure," Micky said, sarcastically. "You don't even look like a Beatle."

"Yeah, George 'arrison is youngah," Davy replied.

"No," Mr. Harrison said. "That's another George Harrison. I'm from Massachusetts. Not Liverpool. Anyway, I want to talk to your lead guitarist."

"Me?" Mike asked. "Sure. What about?"

"Your guitar."

"What about my guitar?"

"It's actually my guitar."

"What? You're crazy! I've had this guitar since 1964, man!"

"It's my guitar and I would like you to return it."

"No way!"

"Where did you purchase that guitar?"

"A couple of friends gave it to me for Christmas in 1964. This is my guitar."

"We'll just see about that."

It wasn't until two days later when Mike found out what Mr. Harrison meant by "we'll just see about that." Among the mail was a lawsuit.

"I can't believe this guy is suin' me over a guitar," he said. "It's my guitar. Not his. I would know!"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Davy said. "That is your guitah. I wondah if Mr. 'arrison's guitah is somewhere in 'is own 'ouse?"

"Who knows," Mike said. "But I have to show up in court."

The next day, the Monkees arrived in the court room. Mike had brought the guitar. Mr. Harrison was there, glaring at the Monkees.

"Mr. Harrison, please state your case," the judge said.

"Yes, your honor," Mr. Harrison said. "I moved to California a month ago to practice my science. I am a music lover and I play the guitar. Two weeks after I moved, I came home and found my guitar missing. It wasn't until three nights ago when I went to the Vincent Van Go-Go to hear the Monkees perform when I saw my guitar in the hands of that long haired weirdo, Michael Nesmith if you prefer to refer to him as that. He stole it, plain and simple."

"Can you describe your guitar, Mr. Harrison?"

"Yes, your honor. It was a brownish, tan guitar. Twelve strings."

The judge nodded. Then, he turned to Mike.

"Mr. Nesmith, please state your point of view," he said.

"Yes, your honor," Mike said. "First off, the twelve string was a Christmas present from a couple of friends of mine from 1964. I'm not sure when Mr. Harrison bought his guitar. I brought it with me if you'd like to see it."

"Please," the judge said.

"Micky, give me the guitar case," Mike said. Micky picked up the case and gave it to Mike. Mike opened it and took out the guitar. He held it up for the judge to look at.

"My guitar had a small red spot on it, shaped like a heart," Mr. Harrison said. "It's on the bottom left."

"Mine doesn't," Mike said. "You can look all over it and not find it."

The judge looked around the guitar. Mike figured it was an open and shut case.

"Well, I can tell only one thing," the judge said. "The guitar belongs to Mr. Harrison."

"WHAT?!" the Monkees cried.

"There's some red scratches here," the judge said. "It looks like someone was trying to chip away paint."

"Let me see that," Mike said. He grabbed the guitar away and looked carefully at the red markings on the guitar. "This isn't chipping paint. I can't tell what it is, but it sure isn't chipping paint!"

The judge banged his gavel on the stand.

"Mr. Nesmith, please give the guitar to Mr. Harrison," he said. Mike reluctantly handed the guitar to Mr. Harrison. "Mr. Harrison, are you going to continue to press charges?"

"No," Mr. Harrison said. "I've got my guitar. There's no reason to throw him in jail. It was probably a misunderstanding."

"Case closed," the judge said. He left the courtroom. Mike walked up to Mr. Harrison and glared.

"I know darn well that this guitar is mine, you low-down, dirty, cheatin' snake in the grass!" he shouted. "Yours is probably buried under a mound of junk since you moved!"

"You're getting a bit personal there," Mr. Harrison said.

"So what? In my opinion, you're just a low-down, dirty, cheatin' snake in the grass!"

With that, Mike joined the other Monkees as they boarded the Monkee Mobile. Mr. Harrison watched them go.

"You're going to be sorry, Monkee," he said.

That night, Mr. Harrison snuck over to the Monkees beach house, carrying a test tube of a perfected shrinking potion. He figured he'd shrink Mike down to size for a little while. That way, he couldn't play any musical instrument at all, except for maybe the tambourine. He snuck into Mike and Micky's bedroom and poured the contents of the tube on Mike's head. Then, he ran back to his house. Once he walked inside, he started reorganizing his music room. Underneath all his sheet music was a guitar that looked exactly like Mike's twelve string, except on the bottom left was a red heart. Mr. Harrison gulped and looked at the other guitar at the end of the room. Then, he looked horrified.

"That was his guitar!" he shouted. "Oh, no! I made a terrible mistake!"

The next morning, Micky awoke, groggy, as usual. He looked at the bed next to his. Mike wasn't there.

"Great," Micky groaned. "I just know he's in the shower first. I've got to start setting my alarm so it goes off earlier."

Micky walked into the bathroom to see if Mike was nearly finished in there. He wasn't even in there.

"He must be downstairs," he said.

"Who?" Mike asked, crawling out from underneath his blanket.

"Mike," Micky said.

"Uh, Mick?" Mike said. "I'm right behind you. Turn around."

Micky turned around. He didn't see Mike. He was starting to get impatient.

"Mike, stop kidding around," Micky said. "Where are you?"

"I'm on my bed," Mike said. "Plain as day. I don't understand why...."

Then, Mike realized something. He was looking up at Micky. And he was getting a stiff neck in the process. He stood up and realized his bed seemed unusually large.

"Micky, come down here," he said. "Kneel by my bed and look at me closely."

Micky shrugged and looked.

"Is there anythin' different about me?" Mike asked.

"No. Just that you're smaller," Micky said. Then, he realized something. "Smaller?! Mike what in the world happened to you?!"

"I have no clue!" Mike shouted. "I went to bed last night, six-foot one and I woke up four, five, six inches tall!"

"You're about the size of an action figure," Micky said. "Come on, we have to go downstairs and tell Davy and Peter."

Micky grabbed Mike and ran down stairs. Mike looked pained.

"Hey, Mick!" he shouted, strangled. "You're holdin' a little too tight. I can't breathe!"

"Oh! Sorry!" Micky loosened his grip and ran downstairs.

Micky dived into his chair at the kitchen. He accidently dropped Mike in Peter's Corn Flakes, which were covered in milk. Mike leaned over the edge, coughed, and spat milk out of his mouth.

"Thanks, Mick," he said, sarcastically. Davy and Peter watched Mike climb out of the bowl and over to the box of Corn Flakes sitting on the table.

"What 'appened to you, Mike?" Davy asked.

"The funniest thing," Mike said. "I took this weight reducin' stuff and it reduced my size."

"You don't need to lose weight, Mike," Peter said.

"Pete, I've shrunk," Mike said. "I don't know how, but I shrank."

Mike managed to kick the cereal box over on the table. Then, he dragged the box over to his cereal bowl.

"Need some help?" Peter asked.

"Nope," Mike said. He pulled the box to its upright position, walked around to the back of it, and poured the Corn Flakes into the bowl, or tried to. He ended up banging on the box to get the flakes out. Then, he climbed down off the table and over to the icebox to get the milk. That was going to be harder than he thought.

"You sure you don't need any help?" Peter asked.

"No thanks, Pete," Mike said. "I'm fine."

Peter shrugged. Mike climbed up the icebox until he reached the handle. He pushed on it with his feet and the icebox door swung open. Mike was hanging from the handle. Micky and Davy looked at each other.

"You've got to admit, that's clevah," Davy said.

Micky nodded. Mike swung his legs back and forth so he could get to the milk bottle. He swung a little too hard and ended up inside the milk bottle. Davy and Micky started giggling. Mike emerged from the milk and leaned on the top of the bottle.

"Okay," he said. "Now I need a little help."

"Yeah, Mike, sure," Peter said. He walked over to the icebox, took the milk out and poured some on Mike's cereal. Mike jumped out of the bottle and landed on the table. Davy handed him a napkin.

"'ere you go, mate," he said. "Dry off."

"Thanks," Mike said. This was going to be one of those days.

Mike grabbed a spoon off the table and placed it in the bowl. Then, he climbed up the spoon and sat on the edge of the bowl.

"You're not going to try to fit that spoon in your mouth, are you?" Micky asked.

"Nope," Mike said. "I'm gonna have to use my hands."

Mike reached into the bowl and pulled out a flake. It was huge. He shrugged. He figured he'd have to eat one flake and pitch the rest of it. Davy then decided they should go to a doctor and figure the mess out. The others agreed. Mike climbed up Peter and ended up in his hair.

"Wow, Pete!" he shouted. "I didn't know you had this much dandruff!"

Micky and Davy laughed. Peter blushed and reached up to grab Mike, but Mike lost his balance and fell down Peter's shirt. Micky and Davy were howling. Peter jumped around until Mike finally crawled out of Peter's pant leg.

"Dark in there," he said. Peter picked him up and put him on his shoulder.

"Let's go," he said.

The Monkees walked to the doctor's office. They didn't want to take the Monkee Mobile. Once they reached the office of Dr. Roberts, they were able to go in right away.

"So," Dr. Roberts said. "What seems to be the problem here and where is Mike?"

"Right here, doc," Peter said. He held his hand to his shoulder. Mike climbed on it. Peter then showed his hand to Dr. Roberts.

"Wow, Mike, what happened?" she asked. "Wait, dumb question. Let me start over. How did you shrink down to size?"

"That's a good question," Mike said. "I have no clue how."

"We were 'oping you would," Davy said.

Dr. Roberts had to use a magnifying glass to examine Mike. Finally, she turned to the other three.

"Other than his size," she said. "There's nothing the matter with him. Did you guys make a mad scientist mad or something?"

"No," Micky said. "But we were in court the other day and Mike insulted the guy we were fighting against."

"He said I stole his guitar," Mike said. "But I didn't."

"I suggest you pay that man a visit," Dr. Roberts said. "That is the only way we can get Mike back to normal size."

Peter and Mike headed back to the beach house. Micky and Davy were going to Mr. Harrison's house. They knocked on the door. Mr. Harrison answered.

"There's been a mix up!" Mr. Harrison said. "I found my guitar. You can have the other one back."

"We need to ask you something," Davy said. "Is there an antidote to your shrinking potion? If it is your shrinking potion?"

"You mean, it worked?" Mr. Harrison asked. Micky and Davy nodded. "No, there isn't an antidote. But I'll work on it right away. I am really sorry I shrank your friend."

"We'll be waiting for that antidote," Micky said. They left with Mike's twelve string.

Davy and Micky returned the guitar to Mike. Mike climbed on top of it and kicked one of the strings.

"A lot of good it'll do me," he said.

"Come on, Mike," Peter said, lifting Mike to his shoulder. "Let's go out. It will get your mind off things."

Mike shrugged. The Monkees were off. Meanwhile, on the other side of town . . .

"You call this a carnival?!" some woman shouted.

"We want our money back!" a man yelled.

"Sorry, folks," the man who owned the carnival said. "No refunds."

Some of the people grumbled and left. The owner walked into his trailer and counted the little money he had. A clown walked up to him.

"What're we gonna do now, Mr. Samson?" he asked.

"Wait until tonight," Mr. Samson said. "I've got the Monkees playing tonight. That'll get me some costumers. The only problem is every time I call them, no one picks up the phone."

The Monkees were walking toward the carnival when they saw a poster. It said "GREG SAMSON'S GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH PRESENTS FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY THE MONKEES." People were buying tickets right and left. The Monkees looked at each other.

"Come on," Davy said. "We bettah talk to this Greg Samson."

The Monkees ran through the back gate. They stopped for a moment.

"I don't think it's a good idea for Mike to be seen," Micky said.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Hide in my pocket, Mike."

"No way!" Mike shouted. "I'm tired of bein' carried around like this! I'm sick of bein' small! And I'm sick of you guys tellin' me what to do all of a sudden! I'm the leader here, whether I'm six foot or six inches tall! And I say nothin' doin'. I am not gettin' inside the shirt pocket of a dummy!"

Peter started to cry. Micky comforted him.

"Come on, Mike!" Davy shouted. "I want to find out about this carnival. Now would you please get into Petah's pocket?"

"I am not gonna take orders from you, shorty!" Mike shouted. "I may be smaller than you are, but I'm still tougher, small fry!"

Davy let out a frustrated sigh. Micky tried.

"Mike, come on!" Micky said. "People are going to start staring at us! I oughta squish you!"

"If I were my right height, I'd punch you in the mouth!" Mike screamed at him.

"If you were your right height and punched me in the mouth, I'd kick you in the head! Now get into Peter's pocket!"

"No!"

Davy sighed again.

"Forget it, Mick," he said. "There's a window sill nearby. We can let Mike sit there while we're talking to this Greg Samson guy."

"But what if someone sees him?" Peter shouted.

"'E'll stay in the shadows," Davy said. Then, he pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket. "And to make sure no one sees 'im, 'e'll 'ide undah me handkerchief."

"You guys are bossin' me around!" Mike shouted. "I'm not gonna take orders from a punch of dummies!"

"Do it Mike or I'll squash you like a roach!" Davy yelled.

"Bunch of dummies," Mike muttered as he climbed off Peter and into the shadows of the window sill. Davy covered him with the handkerchief.

"We won't be gone long," he said.

"You're still a bunch of dummies!" Mike yelled. Then, he realized he was taking his frustrations of being microscopic out on his friends. He sighed.

"Fellas, I'm sorry," he said. But the others couldn't hear him. His voice just couldn't carry as far as it did when he was six foot one.

Davy, Micky, and Peter walked up to Mr. Samson's window and knocked on it. Mr. Samson answered.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Oh, 'ello, we're the Monkees," Davy said. "We saw a postah of us and we need to talk to you about that."

"I thought there were four of you," Mr. Samson said.

"There are," Micky said. "But we can't perform tonight. Our lead guitarist is sick and can't play."

"Yeah," Peter said. "He's very, very sick. He's near death!"

"Then why are you here?" Mr. Samson asked. Peter's excuse sounded pretty suspicious. "Why would you leave someone near death alone?"

Davy, Micky, and Peter looked at each other.

"Uh, bye!" they called as they ran from the trailer.

Mr. Samson watched them run to the window sill. They saw the three Monkees talking to someone. He pulled out a pair of binoculars to get a better look.

"You blew it, Pete," Micky said.

"I was only trying to help," Peter said.

"I know," Davy said. "Well, let's go check out the carnival, anyway. It doesn't look too crowded right now."

"Just as long as we don't go on any rides," Mike said.

Peter put Mike in his pocket and walked off. Mr. Samson was delighted.

"A Texan that small," he said. "I'll be rich!"

The Monkees walked around the park. There wasn't too much to see. The food was terrible and the supports on the rides looked ready to give out any minute.

"Let's take a sneak peek in the tents," Davy said. "There's got to be something around 'ere to do."

Mike climbed on Peter's shoulder. The Monkees walked into the tent. Everything was dark.

"I can't even see my hand in front of my face," Micky said.

"It's dahk," Davy said. "Somebody turn on the lights."

The Monkees began talking at once. Then a cage dropped on them. They started shouting at once. Then, Mr. Samson came into the tent.

"Hello, Monkees," he said.

"It's 'im," Davy said. "What do you want?"

"Money," Mr. Samson said. "And I'll make a fortune with your pint size Texas buddy."

Mr. Samson reached into the cage and yanked Mike off of Peter's shoulder. Then, he walked off, leaving Davy, Micky, and Peter in the cage. Later that night, after no one showed up at the carnival for the show since the Monkees "canceled," Mr. Samson started listing the times when Mike could appear for the crowds.

"Seven days a week, ten shows a day," he said.

Mike glared at him. He was trying to think of a way to get out from underneath his plastic cup prison. He waited until midnight when Mr. Samson was asleep.

"Maybe if I push this thing to the edge of the table, I can jump off and get the keys to the cage," he said.

Mike pushed the cup over the edge and fell onto the floor. Then, he snuck under the table and tied Mr. Samson's shoe laces together. Then, he climbed up to his belt and got the key to the cage that held Davy, Micky, and Peter, and ran to the tent. The other three Monkees were asleep.

"Hey guys!" he shouted. He still was minuscule so he walked into the cage and yelled in Davy's ear. That didn't work. So he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle in Davy's ear. Davy jumped up and screamed. The other Monkees woke up.

"What was that?" Micky asked.

"Me, down here!" Mike shouted. Micky looked down and saw Mike with the key.

"Great!" he shouted. "Now we can get out of here!"

Micky took the key from Mike, opened the door, and ran out. Davy followed. Peter put Mike in his pocket and took off. They ran for the Pad and didn't look back at the carnival. The next day, Mike sat on the table, contemplating his size. He didn't like being small. There wasn't too much he could do at this size. He couldn't play his guitar, he couldn't stand up to Mr. Babbitt, and he couldn't write any new songs.

"Man, he's really down," Peter said.

"Yeah," Davy replied. "What ah we gonna do?"

Micky shrugged. There was a knock on the door. Micky walked over and answered it. It was Mr. Harrison.

"I got an antidote!" he shouted.

"Great! Get in here!" Micky demanded.

Micky and Mr. Harrison ran into the house. Davy and Peter were surprised.

"I've found the antidote," he said. "Bring Mr. Nesmith here."

Peter grabbed Mike off the table.

"Peter, what are you doin'?" he asked.

"We're going to make you big again," Peter said.

Mike shrugged. Peter put him on the ground. Mr. Harrison took an eyedropper out of a bottle of blue liquid. He got down on his knees and dropped a little of the liquid on Mike. Two seconds later, Mike was restored to his original height. Davy, Micky, and Peter cheered.

"We can finally play a gig," Davy said.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Harrison," Mike said. "Sorry I called you a snake in the grass. I was just mad about the guitar."

"Apology accepted," Mr. Harrison said. "And I'm sorry about the shrinking potion."

Mike and Mr. Harrison shook hands. Davy ran in between them.

"Let's celebrate!" he shouted. "We'll play our new song for Mr. 'Arrison!"

Mike nodded and picked up his guitar. Then, the Monkees played "Tomorrow's Gonna Be Another Day."