It was 2:00 pm on a Saturday afternoon. The summer sun was shining, and peaceful noises of people having fun could be heard from the beach. Even the rent had been payed, and there was no gig that night. For once, there was not one thing hanging over their heads to cause stress. It was perfect. Even more perfect for Mike, because the other three had chosen to take advantage of the perfect beach-going weather, leaving him alone to relax over a steaming hot cup of water and a copy of Howl. There was just one problem. On that particular otherwise-perfect Saturday afternoon, Mike Nesmith's spleen was bored as hell. But what can a spleen do to break its monotony of life?

"I saw the best minds of my generation HOLY SHIT!" Mike exclaimed. Suddenly he felt as though he were falling down an endless hole, his abdomen striking rocks constantly. He clutched his torso in pain; his pulse and respiratory rate almost doubled. Gasping for air, he fell to the floor, barely feeling the hard, somewhat sandy floor as his head struck it with the force of a dartboard. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He held his hand up to his face, not knowing what to expect. Had he been shot? Had his appendix burst? Through a mental haze he percieved that there was no blood on the hand before his face.

There are times when pain is so unbearable you wish you would die right then and there. And then there are times when pain is so unbelievable you wonder if you are about to die right then and there. This was such a pain.

He grasped frantically for anything to hold onto, choking with pain, barely even conscious. For a split second his mind was clear and he saw himself writhing on the floor. Then the corner of his mind which had been blank was occupied with feeling foolish. It was the only thing he could percieve besides the pain. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, they focused on the rafters, where a woman sat looking down at him.

"Bob," she said, smiling amusedly down at him. It was not an unsure query of recognition but a statement. She was casually perched amid the old beechwood 4x8s that kept a roof on the beach house.

"Connie? Is that you?" he manged to utter. "No. Who's 'Connie?' Who are you? Why is this happening? What are you doing to me?" The pain began to grow dull, though no less unbearable. His skull went numb and he involuntarily began to grin.

"Have you forgotten? I can't believe it. I'm not causing you any pain. Honestly, 'Bob,' I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I? You forgot this," she said disappointedly, tossing something down at him. He flinched and closed his eyes, afraid of what it might be. Almost as a reflex he held his hand out, where the object softly landed. Cautiously opening his eyes, he found himself gazing on a pipe.

Something inside clicked. He put the pipe in his mouth so that it rested on the right side of his face. He looked up at her with more and more recognition. Though she sat perfectly still, he could have sworn he felt her kick him right in the head. This feeling was corroborated by the sudden giggling smirk on her face.

"You are 'Bob,'" she said. Suddenly she was dead serious. "I don't know what happened, but somehow you forgot. Now get your ass in gear and start bringing some Slack to these boys like we agreed. Did I let you down last time I went to get a new wife for you? No, and I don't expect you to let me down now. I've only got 5 husbands now that Tim died. I'm coming back in one month, and these boys had better have some Slack." with that she jumped gracefully down from the rafters, landing on his hand, and walked out the front door.

"Mike!" Peter screamed, walking in the back door. He had just been out playing volleyball, and was exhausted. Coming back inside for water and sunscreen, he found Mike unconcious on the floor. He looked around for anyone else to know what to do, but there was no one around. He ran to where Mike lay and sat beside him.

"Mike, are you okay? Are you alive?" he asked frantically, trying to wake Mike by tapping him. "Oh, my god, please say something. Do something. Mike?"

"Wha? Peter?" Mike muttered from deep within a mental haze. "Where's "Connie"? You lack Slack, Jack. What's going on?" Suddenly his spleen reminded him. He rolled onto his side and double up with pain.

"What's wrong," asked Peter. He tried to put his hand on Mike's shoulder, but Mike only flinched with more pain, so he removed it.

"Peter. I don't know. But I can't think; I hurt. So bad. Then 'Connie' is here. Now you. What's wrong with me?"

"Mike, I want you to punch yourself on the stomach as hard as you can."

"What?!" Mike looked at Peter as if he had just slit his throat.

"Just do it, Mike. I know what I'm talking about," Peter pleaded with his eyes that this was a matter of life or death.

"If this doesn't help, it's gonna be your face next," threatened Mike as he grudgingly made a fist. He hesitated for a moment, and forced himself to bring the punch to his own stomach. It knocked the wind out of him. Coughing and sputtering, he didn't even notice for a moment that the pain had gone away. Then it hit him. The world came into focus, the pain died away, and he looked around. Peter was hovering over him, almost crying. "It worked, Peter," he sighed with relief and sat up with a start.

"Oh, Mike, I thought you were gonna die. I was so scared," he burst into tears and hugged Mike. 30 seconds later he still showed no signs of letting go. Mike eased away and sat on the couch. Peter stood up, dazed.

"Peter, what was wrong with me?" he asked, still not fully recovered mentally.

"It was your spleen, Mike," Peter whispered.

"My spleen?!"

"Yeah. It was bored or something, so it started messing with you. Umm, I gotta go. They're waiting for me outside," he said nervously, practically bolting out the door.

"Wait, Peter!" Mike called, but it was too late. He wondered what that was all about. Trying to make sense of what had happened, he looked around. Very catiously he lifted his eyes skyward where they gazed upon empty rafters. There was no sign at all of the woman who had been there. He looked back at the table where he had been before. Had it all been a spleen-induced hallucination? Why had Peter been in such a hurry to leave? His eyes fell upon the book, and he picked it up. A small pamphlet fell from its pages. He began to read it.

"Repent! Quit your Job! Slack off!"

Or had it really happened? Was he 'Bob?' Who was he? Who was 'Bob?' He went to the bay window and stared out on a sea of pink, sunburned faces.