The Marvelous Lives of The Beach Boys

Chapter Six: Standing Still

Disclaimer: None of the events featured are true, nor will they ever be in this lifetime.

Mike Love's home: March 14, 1967

"Hey, what the hell?" Mike barked angrily, his shirt slightly soaked in water. He glared daggers at the drummer, who held up an empty paper cup with no shame.

"Your loss, man."

"My loss?" Mike yelled, raising his arms dramatically, "You threw water at me for no reason, you stupid idiot!"

"Calm down," Dennis shrugged, rolling his eyes, "It's just water, you practically bathe in it every single day. By the way, you sound like a bitch."

Dennis- Mike was getting suspicious, what else was I supposed to do? I didn't wanna hit him and I had a cup of water, so throwing it at him was my only option! There you go, Brian, your secret's safe with me.

Mike- It's not worth it, Michael, remember your karma. Denny has a punch of steel, and you really don't want to face that again, let the kid be. Move on, stay calm.

(Meanwhile, at a local record store...)

"It's a shame Brian isn't here," Bruce murmured, looking through a pile of old records, "He would've loved some of these."

He picked up a 45 single of "I Get Around," which had a yellow discount sticker plastered on the picture sleeve, and shook his head. Carl raised a brow, taking the single and placing it on a shelf next to a few Beatles records. Al shrugged, cradling a copy of Daydream by The Lovin' Spoonful in his arms.

"We're so out," Carl muttered, "I mean, our records are being sold for discounted prices... Look, 'California Girls' for a quarter, we're really hitting it off with our demographic, huh?"

"I think we can get back to the top," Al chimed in, "Brian's hard at work as we speak, although I'm not exactly sure where he's doing that... but I know we're close to a redemption."

Carl nodded his head, then turned his attention back to the stack of discounted records. He could see a few more singles by the boys and he almost felt sick to his stomach.

"I don't wanna be a downer, but our songs suck," He admitted in a low voice, "We won't get anywhere if we're jumping from one genre to the next. Also, pardon my french, but they'll keep calling us pussies if we just rush and put out that cheesy crap we call good music."

Bruce scratched the back of his neck, "I hate to say it, but you're right."

"The only good songs aren't even written by any of us here," Carl responded, brutally honest, "With the exception of you, Al, your song was very well written and passionate."

"Thanks," Al answered, his tone slightly awkward, "Yours wasn't all that bad, Carl! I mean, even Brian liked it, that says a lot."

Carl- Brian practically supports everything I do, good or not. If I entered a butter eating contest, he'd definitely cheer me on and once again say, "I'm so proud of you, Carl!" He has a special bias for me, which isn't a problem at all, but I know when something I do is actually terrible.

Bruce dug through the pile, shaking his head bitterly as he picked up a single produced by his good friend, Terry Melcher. He muttered to himself, "Must be Paul Revere & The Raiders, those guys never get enough credit these days."

Carl looked out the large glass window beside the front counter, tapping his foot impatiently. There was a nice diner across the street and his stomach began to grumble loudly, he was in dire need of a good meal. He clutched onto his gut in embarrassment, then wandered off to where Al stood.