Give Death A Chance Page 2

  JOHN: What the fook is the Internet?

  JUNE 16, 2009

  Close confines make for strange bedfellows. And sometimes smelly ones.

  It’s around 3:00 AM—and I say “around” because George (who is proving to be quite the technophobe) threw my nice new Tag Heuer watch onto the floor of the van, then jammed the broken shards inside his own ears, sans explanation, so I’m going by the position of the moon—and the lads are asleep, which, for me, is a blessing and a curse. The blessing part: The threats of bodily harm and taunting about my alleged “tiny mortal John Thomas” have come to a temporary halt. The curse part: You ever been stuck in a van with three sleeping Zombies? I didn’t think so.

  When they’re awake, their undead reek—a combination of rancid forcemeat with a spicy hint of burnt thyme—is bad enough. But John, Paul, and George snore, and their breath could peel paint, so add that all together, and you’ve got one writer who would gladly cut his nose off, and believe you me, my face wouldn’t mind being spited. (Oh, Christ. Without waking up—without even stirring, for that matter—John just belched out a gray cloud that briefly came to life, and then he hocked a steaming green loogie onto my leg, and then he tried to eat my pen. All while he was asleep. Seriously, I have no idea how Yoko deals with it.)

  John and Paul have been ragging on each other since we left Chicago; it’s a barrage of, “Fook your sheepdog up its arse, Macca” and “Nice paintings, Vincent van Shitehead.” And then there are the discussions/arguments, the crux of which is: What’s the goal of our tour?—a tour that John dubbed “Poppermost Over America 2009.” (Ringo calls it “A Bunch of Bollocks in a Van,” which I think would look considerably better on a T-shirt.) John wants to parlay the band’s inevitable success into becoming Presidents of the United States or, at the very least, “some cunts who wield some power.” Paul wants to make a quadruple platinum record or, at the very least, “Knock that tosser Michael Jackson off the charts.” (I didn’t think it worth mentioning that M.J. had seen the top of a chart since the Clinton administration. What would the point have been?) George wants to be left alone. Ringo wants to get laid.

  Me, I want my mommy. And some nose plugs.

  JUNE 19, 2009

  The band’s strategy for booking the Poppermost Over America tour leaves something to be desired:

  Step one: Go to city. Park in front of random mid-sized rock club.

  Step two: Hide in van until headlining band finishes soundcheck.

  Step three: Bum-rush club.

  Step four: Kill, dismember, and disembowel headlining band, then chow down on their brains.

  Step five: Kill, dismember, and disembowel club’s owner, then chow down on his brain.

  Step six: Kill, dismember, and disembowel bartenders and waitstaff, then chow down on their brains.

  Step seven: Tell club’s sound man that they’re taking the stage at midnight, and, if he makes a “pig’s breakfast” of the mix, they’ll kill, dismember, and disembowel him, then chow down on his brain. (Fuck if I know what a “pig’s breakfast” is. I’d look it up on Wikipedia, but, as I believe I’ve mentioned several dozen times, my sodding iPhone is dust. And I had, like, a zillion paid-for apps on there.)

  During the Kansas City bloodbath—while the Zombie portion of our traveling circus was doing dinner inside the club, i.e., chowing down on brains—Ringo and I were standing in a nearby alley, sharing a fatty. (That’s been the one saving grace of the whole mess: Ninjas grow the best weed, and Ringo’s connection in England was no exception. How he got three pounds of the stuff past customs is anybody’s guess. The dude is only a Seventh-Level Ninja Lord, but he’s got game.) After a long, deep toke that I felt in my toenails, I said, “Call me a crazy, Rings, but I don’t think this is the best way to conduct a tour. Might it make sense to hire somebody who knows what they’re doing to book the gigs?”

  Ringo said, “On paper, probably.”

  “It’d make your lives easier, it’d make my life easier, and it would significantly lower the body count,” I pointed out.

  Ringo took another toke—he was totally bogarting the joint, but I wasn’t about to kvetch, because he’d picked up a new Masahiro Tsunami Nin-to Katana sword at the Ninja World outlet store at a mall just outside of Milwaukee, and had been talking non-stop about how he was itching to give it a test drive—then said, “Body count is the means to the end, mate.”

  “What’s the end?”

  He said, “Washington, I should think,” then he handed me the roach, shot me a peace sign, and wandered back into the club.

  JUNE 22, 2009

  I don’t know if I’m going to get out of this alive or what—contrary to his initial pronouncement that “The Scribe’s brain is off-limits,” John’s been making noises about turning me, but he only says that when he hasn’t had a brain in a few hours, and, as all Beatle-ologists know, John Lennon gets cranky when hungry, plus, since he’s the only Zombie who gets sarcasm, he might be yanking my John Thomas—so since I might be dead before my time, I’m not too concerned about the fallout of the following statement:

  Lil Wayne can suck my dick.

  Let me explain.

  We’re stopped on the side of some dirt road in Nothingsville, Oklahoma, lost again. (Every time we end up lost—which happens, like, twice a day—I offer to buy them a GPS, to which Paul will inevitably say, “My sense of direction is impeccable, y’know,” after which John and George will inevitably pull off their plonkers, wave them in Macca’s face, and say in unison, “Which direction is this then, Paulie?”) Paul’s nose is buried in the road atlas, and John and George are screwing their weenies back on, and Ringo’s in the back, playing Sudoku, and I’m futzing with the radio, and I happen across KJMZ, 103.3, Hot 103 Jamz, Norman, Oklahoma’s number one station for hip-hop and R&B, the biiiiiiiig station. Now I’m always up for some hot jamz—especially if there’s a “z” involved—so I leave it there, and on comes Lil Wayne’s magnum opus, “Lollipop.” As is generally not the case, reception is loud and clear (the radio in the van is a vintage unit from 1995), so I let it sit, even though “Lollipop” blows.

  Two bars in, Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison’s ears fall off. To make things worse, this olive-colored slime oozes from their exposed ear cavities. Actually, “oozes” is downplaying it. I’ll go with “spurts.”

  Ringo gets blasted with a pile of the stuff, and he yells out, “Cover those fookin’ holes! You gobshites are fookin’ disgusting!”

  John, Paul, and George don’t respond, because John, Paul, and George can’t hear him, because John, Paul, and George don’t have any ears.

  The slime sizzles when it lands on Ringo’s face, but Ringo doesn’t seem fazed that the stuff A) is melting his skin, and B) smells exactly—exactly—like durian. If you don’t know what durian is—or if you’re a masochist—go to your local Asian supermarket, cut one open, and take a whiff.

  In the middle of all this slimy excitement, I opened the front door and made a break for it. It being July in the Dustbowl, it was hot as hell, and within a few hundred yards, I was exhausted and schvitzing like a Frenchman, so Ringo had no trouble catching up to me. Neither of us said a word as he dragged me back to the van by the collar of my shirt.

  When we returned, John, Paul, and George were leaning against the now-idle van, handing random ears back and forth; it was a litany of “This one’s yours” and “That one’s mine.” I could tell they were irked, because nobody tried to rip off any of my limbs as punishment for my attempted escape.

  We hopped back into the van—or, more accurately, they hopped, and I was thrown. Then Paul jammed the key in the ignition and fired up the vehicle. The radio cranked out more “Lollipop,” and boom, more ear explosions, and more slime all over Ringo Starr’s face.

  I said to Ringo, “Maybe I should turn off the radio.”

  Ringo wipes the durian-scented mess from his cheek and says, “Cheers, mate, maybe you should.”

  After a quick clean-up job and a b
unch of “What the fooks,” the Zombie contingency of our traveling circus sat me down—read: chucked me into the corner of the van—and launched into a loud interrogation as if they were a bunch of undead, rancid Jack Bauers.

  George picked up a quarter-sized blob of the ear slime from the floor, flicked it at my nose, and said, “Alright, Goldsher, what did you do?”

  The blop was foul, like dead-skunk-in-the-middle-of-the-road-stinkin’-to-high-heaven foul. Somehow managing not to toss my PB&J sandwich, I said “What do you mean, what did I do?”

  John said, “Do the math, Scribe. You take over the radio, and our fookin’ ears fall off.”

  I said, “All I did was change the station.”

  Paul said, “All you did was unleash hell, y’know.”

  From the front seat, Ringo mumbled, “Detached ears is unleashed hell? What a bunch of Nancies.”

  I said, “Guys, I’m not smart enough to unleash hell.” (It’s been my experience that Zombies appreciate self-deprecation; I know I would if green goo randomly leaked from my eyes.)

  John said, “I can’t argue with that now, can I?”

  “But,” I said, “I do have a theory.”

  George leaned toward me. “What’s that?”

  And then I let the bullshit flow: “Okay, so my guess is that you can point the finger at hip-hop, because this all happened after I put on that Lil Wayne tune, and I had the volume jacked up, and there was a lot of bass in the song, and I think the sub-woofers were dialed up high, and I’m pretty sure Wayne put a lot of 808 in the mix.”

  John asked, “What the fook is 808?”

  Ringo called back, “It’s a piece of electronic equipment that some naff invented to put live drummers out of business.”

  I nodded. “What he said. So my guess is that somehow an 808 kick, when played through a…” Here, I took a quick peek at the van’s speakers, then continued, “…Pioneer TSW303R, has an ill effect on the undead physiognomy to the point that, um, to the point that, um, to the point that, um…”

  John saved me: “To the point that our ears exploded. Scribe, you aren’t as daft as you look.” Then he called to Ringo, “Put on some more of that…” Then, to me: “What did you call it?”

  I said, “Hip-hop.”

  He winced. “Hippety-hop. Christ. Stupid fookin’ name. So Rings, put on some of that hippety-hop shite!”

  So Rings put on some of that hippety-hop shite—Kanye West’s “Love Lockdown,” to be precise—cranked it to eleven, and all hell was unleashed.

  Paul projectile-vomited a gelatinous pink orb that I assumed was an undigested portion of his dinner. It bounced off the wall of the van onto the floor, where it boinged up to the ceiling like a SuperBall. After a several more up-and-downs, it smacked wetly against the side window, then slowly oozed down onto the floor, leaving a slug-like trail of slime in its wake.

  At the same time, John’s left eyeball flew out of his head with an audible pop. Like Macca’s regurgitated brain, it bounced around the van, then, after a minute or so, broke into at least a dozen mini-balls, several of which nailed me in my maxi-balls. The pain in my lower body was tremendous, so I lay down and curled up into fetal position, which, as it turned out, was a bad idea, as I landed face first in a hot, steaming pile of blue who-knows-what. The weird part is that, after I sniffed some of the blue stuff, the pain in my nutsack went away, and a feeling of peace overtook my body and soul, a feeling that lasted about 30 seconds, at which point the van went up in flames.

  Ringo and I got the hell out of there with only minor burns, but fire doesn’t bother Zombies, so John, Paul, and George rescued all the equipment. Say what you will about Liverpudlian Zombies, those dudes can move; the only piece of gear that sustained any tragic damage was John’s red 1968 Gibson Flying V, but frankly, the damn thing sounded horrible and looked ridiculous hanging from his neck—who did he think he was, Yngwie Malmsteen or something?—so I was more than a little pleased it didn’t survive.

  We drew straws to see who would steal a replacement van, and Ringo lost. (That was for the best, because the other three lack any semblance of subtlety.) So, while Ringo was off doing his Ninja/thief thing, John put his arm around my shoulder and not-so-gently guided me away from his two bitchy, bitching bandmates.

  “So Scribe,” he said. “You seem to know a lot about all this hippety-hop and Lady Gaga shite. Have any ideas about how we can change our sound to appeal to the kids?”

  I said, “Wait—you’re asking me musical advice?”

  “Yes, I’m asking you musical advice. Who the fook else am I going to ask?”

  “John,” I said. “I’m a pissant bassist who toured with a handful of obscure bands. You’re a goddamn Beatle. If it weren’t for you, there’d be no me.”

  He said, “That doesn’t matter right now. If we’re going to accomplish our mission—if we’re going to the Toppermost of the Poppermost—we have to have as many fans in our corner as we can, and it strikes me that the people who buy music don’t want to hear about how all you need is love, or letting it be, or polythene fookin’ Pam. We need to dumb it down, mate. And who better to help us dumb it down than you?”

  “Thanks, John.”

  “My pleasure. So. Give me your sage advice, Scribe. How can the Beatles reach the masses?”

  “Well, the first thing you ought to do is make your songs available on iTunes.”

  “What the fook is iTunes?” John asked.

  “It’s an online music retailer.”

  “What the fook is online?”

  I said, “Forget it. I guess my two pieces of advice would be to stop killing your fans, because those are the people who buy your records.”

  He nodded. “Good point. Never thought of that. When I get hungry, I get sloppy. Done. Next piece of advice.”

  “Get advice from the people who’ve reached today’s masses. Chat with the stars. You’re the Beatles, and I suspect they’ll talk to you.”

  He mussed my hair and kissed the side of my cheek (yuck), then said, “Brilliant idea, Scribe. Fookin’ brilliant. I shall let you live another day.”

  JUNE 26, 2009

  It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re parked in the lot of the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater just outside of St. Louis. They lads are putting on their disguises, because they want to see the show without being harassed either by families of their victims or a slumming USZG. Their costumes make them look ridiculous—imagine the Fab Four clad in truck stop baseball hats, aviator shades, fake noses, and hipster t-shirts with ironic bastardizations of candy bar logos—but it was a start.

  John reached into his pocket and pulled out a pimp roll, then peeled off a hefty pile of twenties and threw them at my chest. “Go scalp us some tickets, Scribe. And get some good seats. But don’t spend too much. Jew them down like Ringo would.”

  “Piss off, you anti-Semitic cunt,” Ringo sneered.

  Paul said, “Yeah, shut it with that. Rings isn’t Jewish, and Alan is, y’know.”

  John said, “For fook’s sake, don’t any of you twats have a sense of humor? Besides, Yoko is 1/32nd Jewish.” He turned to me and said, “Don’t try wandering off. I’m watching.” Considering I’d tried to escape an average of once a day, it was a fair warning.

  It took me 30 minutes to land five tickets for the low, low price of $200 each—face value was $50, but the show had apparently been sold out for months, and that was the best I could do—then went back into the van. George opened the door, and in the light, even wearing his goofy outfit, you could tell it was the Quiet Zombie Beatle. I said, “George, the second you set foot out of this van, you’ll be recognized.”

  “And that would be mania,” he said.

  “Yes, George, that would be mania.” Everything with that dude was mania.

  “So what’re you going to do about it?”

  I pointed at my chest. “Me?”

  John pulled some more money from his wad and chucked it at my head. “Go get some makeup, Scribe. And make it f
ast.”

  “John,” I said, “we’re nowhere near anything?”

  He repeated, “Go get some makeup, Scribe. And make it fast.”

  When John Lennon put italics in his voice, you followed his command.

  *****

  Do you know how hard it is to keep a stinking, rotting Zombie from being recognized as a stinking, rotting Zombie? Do you know the best way to cover up undead stank? Do you know what kind of make-up best hides oozing facial craters? Do you know what Zombie breath smells like from two inches away? Of course you don’t. Because you’ve never had to disguise three undead dudes. Why, I’d venture to say you’ve never even had to disguise one undead dude. But—color me lucky—I have, thus I know the answers to those unanswerable questions…. which, by the way, are: Very, Febreze Pet Odor Eliminator, Chanel Pro Lumiere Correcteur Professional Finish Concealer, and toe jam.

  As I applied the finishing touches to Paul’s facial, I asked, “Why’re we starting with Justin Timberlake?”

  John said, “We’ve heard things about him.”

  I asked, “Like what?”

  Paul said, “Erm, things.”

  I repeated, “Like what?”

  John said, “Fookin’ things. Let her drop.”

  I said, “All you guys do is play gigs and kill people at truck stops. When and how the fook did you hear things?” I thought, Wait a sec, did I just say “fook”? Christ, I’m turning into one of them. Stockholm syndrome. Marvelous.

  John said, “Come on, Scribe, you wrote a book about us. You know that when we want to hear things, we hear things.”

  Paul said, “Zombies are resourceful, y’know, ‘specially those of us from the home of the Liverpool Reds. You should know better than anybody.”

  I said, “If you’re so goddamn resourceful, then do your own goddamn makeup!” Actually, I didn’t say that. If I had, one of them would’ve ripped off my ear and shoved it up my nose.