Give Death A Chance (9 page)

“It was fookin’ ugly,” John mumbled.

“Yeah, he ripped off both of our plonkers and stomped on them until they were as flat as shillings. And then he gave us both karate chops that knocked us out for a good long while…”

“Four fookin’ hours to be exact,” John mumbled.

“And when we got up, he was standing over us, saying over and over again, ‘You think that was bad? Wait’ll you meet the
Little
Monsters. You think that was bad? Wait’ll you meet the
Little
Monsters. You think that was bad? Wait’ll you meet the
Little
Monsters…”

“And here we are, meeting the Little fookin’ Monsters,” John mumbled.

I said, “Guys, Lady Gaga’s fans are mostly depressed and weird teenagers looking for somebody to tell them it’s okay to be depressed and weird. They won’t hurt you. Hell, they
can’t
hurt you.”

Ringo said, “I don’t know, mate, depressed and weird teenagers can be goddamn dangerous.”

“He’s right, y’know,” Paul said. “Especially if they have Monster powers.”

I’d never seen the Beatles so cowed, and as awful as they’d made the last month of my life, their vulnerability was at once disconcerting and discouraging. If they couldn’t bring themselves to throw down with a poser like Lady Gaga, what hope did humanity have? So I said, “Listen, the fans don’t have Monster powers, and Gaga is just some rich girl who stumbled onto the zeitgeist. You can get what you want out of her with your plonkers tied behind your backs. I mean, you’re the Beatles, the goddamn Beatles, now go in there and take that last step to the Toppermost of the Poppermost!”

They were silent for a moment, then George ripped off his New York Mets t-shirt, looked to the sky, and let loose with a Zombie moan that I’m certain was felt in the second balcony. John followed suit, and then Paul, and together, they created the kind of harmonic convergence that made
Rubber Soul
so damn timeless.

Ringo pulled a handful of
shuriken
from his New York Islanders sweatpants and said, “Someone’s about to get their nineteenth nervous breakdown, and I think her name is Lady Stepchild Germaphobe Goo Goo.”

“Wait—you’re leading us into battle with a Stones lyric?” John asked.

“What? I’m supposed to say, dear sir or madam, could you read my book? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe not,” John responded, “but you could say,
imagine all the people dying for today
.”

“That’s not a Beatle song, y’know,” Paul said. “That’s a Johnny song. I’d rather go into battle with a Stones song than one of your solo recordings. That’s not fair. You’d get all the royalties. Besides, saying something like,
look out for the band on the run
makes much more sense.”

George said, “Band on the run? Please. You know what would make sense?
Blow away, blow away, blow away
, that’s what.”

I said, “Guys, enough! How about something like,
help me if you can, and please please me and come together right now, because nothing is real, and your bird can sing, so roll up for the mystery tour, because the English army is about to win the war
?”

In unison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr said, “Fook yeah!” One minute later, the four of them were on stage, standing in front of the largest crowd they’d stood in front of as a full unit since their final concert in San Francisco on August 29, 1966. Lady Gaga—who was clad in some weird warrior garb that exposed her breasts; in a show of pseudo-modesty, she’d put electrical tape over her nipples—gawked at the lads, then brought her band to a halt in the middle of that insidious, ubiquitous fucking piece of pap, “Poker Face.”

As Ringo charged her, swords a’flying, Gaga said, “Ah. The Beatles. What a surprise.” Thing is, she didn’t seem surprised. She turned to the crowd and calmly, quietly said, “Please turn up the house lights.” As the Garden lit up like a million Christmas trees, Gaga said, “Little Monsters,
go
!”

And then, as one, the crowd let loose with a Monster roar that was as impressive as any unison Zombie moan I’d ever heard. (And after over a decade of researching the Beatles, I’d heard some impressive unison Zombie moans, believe you me.) As it went on, the roar became somehow unified; in other words, it started sounding less like 20,000-plus individual voices, and more like one single voice. And then, odder yet, the 20,000-plus individuals began looking less like 20,000 individuals, and more like a single entity. I assumed it was the trick of the light, so I rubbed my eyes, but when I looked at the crowd again, it had morphed into something horrible.

It wasn’t a blob, exactly—it had more solidity than that—but it was a mostly amorphous creature; if you peered at it carefully, you could discern a head and a body. It didn’t have any arms, legs, or eyes, so it oozed blindly toward the front of the arena.

As the Beatles backed away from the foot of the stage, Gaga laughed maniacally and said, “I knew this day would come.” More laughter, then, even louder, “I’ve been preparing.” More laughter, more volume. “I’m ready.” More laughter, more volume…and was she getting bigger? “Zombie musicians are relics, and they must be eradicated, and I’m the only person who can do it.” Yes, she
was
getting bigger, and her face was changing, becoming more defined, more experienced, more intelligent, and more angry. “It! Ends! Here!”

Ringo said out of the side of his mouth, “Who does she think she is, Jagger?”

And then, as she grew even more, the weirdo warrior outfit fell off, and the being was wearing only a small strip of fabric around her chest, and a smaller strip around her hoo-hah.

John gawked at the now 10-foot-tall blonde, and asked her, “What the fook is going on here, Gaga?”

“Oh, I’m not Lady Gaga, you undead douchebag.”

Taking in the yoga-toned muscles and the angry tone of voice, I said, “That’s right, you’re not Lady Gaga. You’re
Madonna
.”

“Hey, you! Up here. I have eyes,” she said, noticing that my pupils were glued to her astoundingly perky, astoundingly huge breasts. “You’re right, I’m not Lady Gaga! Nor am I Madonna! I’m…I’m…I’m…I’m…I’m…”

“Out with it, already!” John said.

“
I’m
Lady Madonna
!”

After a moment of stunned silence, I said, “Seriously?”

Ignoring me, Lady Madonna yelled, “
Now
, Little Monsters,
now
!”

The cry of the Monsters (or Monster, I suppose) shattered every light in the Garden, so the stadium went dark. Over the sound of the Monster roar, I heard Paul yell, “Now, Ringo,
now
, y’know,” and then I felt a series of whooshes, followed by another Monster roar, although this roar sounded less menacing and more pained. I assumed that Ringo’s
shuriken
had found their mark.

John cried, “Paulie, left! Georgie, center! I’m on the right!
Go, go, go, go, go
!”

Right then, the Garden’s emergency generators kicked in, and a handful of lights came to life, which enabled me to see something that I wish I hadn’t.

The Monster was now upright, and its head—which had taken on a more solid, head-like form—was practically touching the ceiling. It was flailing about, unsuccessfully trying to crush the Zombie Beatles, and the reason for the Monster’s lack of success stemmed from the fact that the lads were moving
fast
, as fast as they did during the infamous 1965 Montreal riot. With every step, they took a jab at the Monster, jabs that would’ve knocked over a small building…and yet the Monster remained upright.

Ringo then picked up Lady Madonna’s grand piano and hurled it at the Monster. His aim was true—it hit the creature in its center—which served two functions: A) It made the Monster wobble; and B) It distracted the foul thing enough so John, Paul, and George’s blows started causing some serious damage. With each strike, the Monster moved slower, until it came to a halt and fell backwards, destroying the entire north side of the Garden in the process.

Lady Madonna’s bass player elbowed me in the ribs, pointed at the gaping hole in the side of the building, and said, “Finally, man. This place should’ve been razed ten years ago.”

And then I heard a pained groan and a thump from behind me. I spun around, and was greeted by the sight of Ringo pinning a now normal-sized Lady Madonna to the floor with only his left foot. “Hey lads, should I finish her off?” he called to his bandmates.

The bassist said, “Not until the bitch pays me the five-large she owes me!”

As the band members reeled off how much they were owed, Ringo asked Lady Madonna, “If we don’t kill you, will you pay your band?”

John nimbly leapt onto the stage and said, “Yeah, pay your fookin’ sidemen, you she-devil!”

Lady Madonna gagged, “Let me go, and I’ll pay them right now.”

The Fab Four laughed. Paul said, “Nice try, y’know.” Then he reached underneath the strip of fabric guarding Lady Madonna’s hoo-hah, rooted around for a few seconds, pulled out a pile of thousand-dollar bills, and threw it at the band. “Here’s a bonus, blokes. Now get out of here before you get caught up in something you don’t want to get caught up in.” The band, like any self-respecting sidemen, followed the bandleader’s direction, and scattered off stage.

And then, it was just the Beatles, Lady Madonna, and yours truly.

John stood over their prisoner, and, after a lengthy staring contest, asked, “How did you do it, Lady Madonna? How did you get to the Toppermost of the Poppermost?”

She spat at Lennon, then asked, “What the fuck is the Toppermost of the Poppermost?”

“Christ, if everybody in this country a naff? It’s ruling a nation by means of pop culture.”

“Well then,” Lady Madonna said, “false modesty aside, I did it with a combination of looks, brains, and marketing.”

“What about talent?” Ringo asked.

“These days, talent is optional. If you find the pulse, put your finger on it, and push like a motherfucker, you win. You’re at the Tippermiss of the Pipperpiss.”

“Toppermost of the Poppermost,” John snarled, then added, “Fookin’ cunt.”

George said, “You’re telling us the same shite that Timberlake bloke told us.”

John said, “That hippety-hop fooker also said the same thing.”

Paul said, “It’s all about marketing, y’know. We don’t have to make any new music. If we find a good public relations company who can properly package us, we can play the old stuff, and be at the Toppermost for as long as we damn well please.” He paused, then added, “Which is good, because frankly, none of us have written a song as individuals that could make it onto a Beatles album.”

I mumbled, “‘Imagine’ is pretty good.” Fortunately, Paul didn’t hear me.

After a couple of beats, John said, “Fook the P.R. companies. We can’t be what we aren’t. We can only do what we do. I can’t allow us to become fake. We’re the Beatles, for fook sake, and if we can’t reach the Toppermost of the Poppermost on our own merit, we shouldn’t be there in the first place.” Then he kicked Lady Madonna in the head with such force that her noggin flew out of the hole in the side of the arena, and landed near the corner of 32nd Street and the Avenue of the Americas.

John gave us a satisfied smile, then said, “Let’s go to Washington and show ‘em what the Beatles are all about.”

JULY 24, 2009

Paul McCartney stared at the building and said, “Piece of cake, y’know.”

“You know what, Paulie?” George Harrison said. “This is the first time I’ve agreed with you on anything since 1965.”

Ringo Starr said, “It’s nice to see you two getting along for a change. There’s hope for us yet.”

“We’ll be in and out of there in half an hour, tops,” John said, nodding.

“I don’t know, guys,” I said. “This place is wired to protect itself from bombs and airplanes and assassins and stuff. What makes you think you can get inside?”

“Don’t you worry about that, Scribe,” John said. “Just take notes.”

The Poppermostmobile was parked on Pennsylvania Avenue, right across the street from the White House, and the Beatles were making their final preparations for what John claimed was to be their final attack on humanity. I told them I’d believe that when I saw it. John told me to piss off.

For reasons that were unclear to me, John, Paul, and George had put on torn and tattered suits, which made them appear as if they’d just come off the set of
Night of the Living Dead
…the 1968 version, of course. Ringo was wearing his Ninja suit—the very same one he wore on the infamous cover of
Ninja Monthly
back in 1971—which was perfectly pressed and starched. Me, I was clad in the same pair of jeans I’d had on for the last month, and one of the cheap-ass t-shirts that they’d allowed me to buy at a scummy truck stop in Memphis. It made my neck itch.

I told John, “I’ll take your damn notes, but this is it—right? After you’re done here, I can leave. You promised.”

John said, “Yeah, I promised. I gave you my word, and Zombies
never
go back on their word.”