Give Death A Chance Page 3

  John said, “C’mon, you’re the genius journo. Why don’t you tell me how we hear things?”

  I brushed some stray blusher from Paul’s shirt and said, “I don’t know, maybe your magical Zombie radars picked up some sort of vibration coming from California that told you Justin Timberlake is a supergenius supervillain who thinks he can stop you from taking over the United States, and he telepathically summoned you to the show in hopes that he can battle you to the death, or the undeath, or whatever the hell kind of climax it is that Zombies and supergenius supervillains battle to.”

  John blinked. “Goodness, Scribe, that’s exactly fookin’ right.” He cupped his hand in front of his mouth, blew out a rancid puff of air, took a deep breath, winced, then smiled and said, “Right, then. Let’s roll.”

  So we rolled.

  We went around the back of the Amphitheater; it was the first time the Beatles had let me out in a crowd since the kidnapping, and if George hadn’t have had a death grip on my wrist, I’d have tried to make a break for it. After weaving our way through throngs of teenage girls who were so intent on worming their way into Justin’s heart and pants that they didn’t even notice the Zombified Fab Four were in their midst, Ringo went all Ninja on Justin’s 12-man security crew—one minute they were standing there, looking all bodyguardy, then the next, they were all unconscious, without a mark on them—and the five of us marched onto Timberlake’s bus. (Actually, the four of them marched. I was dragged.)

  Here’s the thing: Justin Timberlake has a big head. Like big as in beach ball big. Like big as in boulder big. Like big as in monster-truck-tire big.

  Justin squinted at me, and I felt an intense wave of dizziness that almost knocked me on my hindquarters. “Ah,” he said, “Alan Goldsher, author of Paul Is Undead, an oral history of the Zombie Beatles that will be published to great acclaim in…” Here he chewed his thumbnail. “Forty-seven days.”

  “How the hell did you know that?” Nobody knows who I am.

  Justin tapped his enormous melon with his index finger. “I know all, Mr. Goldsher. For instance, I know that your captors have come to battle me for reasons that are, well, I’ll just go ahead and say it: Lame.”

  I told Justin, “They’re just here to get some advice.”

  John said, “No, we're not.”

  Paul asked Justin, “What d’you mean, lame, y’know?”

  Justin stood up, pointed at Paul, and yelled, “SILENCE, LIVERPUDLIAN ZOMBIE!” He squinted again, and Paul flew backwards across the bus, where he crashed face-first into the front windshield and fell into a heap. I still can’t figure out how his head didn’t detach.

  John gawked at Justin and said, “Fookin’ hell, mate. Give a bloke some warning, why don’t you?”

  Justin said, “My pleasure, Zombie Lennon. If it’s a warning you seek, a warning you shall have. So. Hmm. Okay. I’m warning you that I’m going to make your pants disappear.” And then he squinted, and John’s trousers were gone, and his undead Johnson was flapping in the breeze for the world to see.

  Ringo winced and said, “Great. It’s Two Virgins all over again.”

  While John stared at his unsheathed unit, Justin said, “Mr. Lennon, sir, I understand that you and your little band have designs on ruling the United States. Now I can certainly get behind that—sometimes I, too, would like to run this country the way I feel it should be run—but I’m afraid I can’t permit it, because it’s my country, and if some paranormal entity is taking it over, it’s going to be an American, and that American will be me. So I must end you. I must stop the madness. You see, Mr. Lennon, I am a patriot.” And then he started singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which was lovely until he took it to the bridge and brought sexy back. I’ll spare you the details.

  Paul—who had recovered remarkably quickly—mercifully interrupted Justin’s filthy take of the anthem. “You don’t have a choice, y’know. You’re an obstacle, y’know. We’ll take you out, y’know. And we’re doing it today, y’know.”

  George whispered into my ear, “Scribe, if you can get Macca to stop saying ‘y’know,’ I promise that when I eat your cortex, I’ll leave enough in your head so you can still type.”

  I whispered back, “Sweet. I’ll see what I can do.” Like I was going to try and correct a Zombie’s lifelong (or undeathlong) vocal tic.

  Justin told Paul, “I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. McCartney. When I smell a battle, I want to taste it immediately.” He checked his watch. “But I have a show to do. Can we pick this up later?” He tapped his left ear four times, and his head shrunk back to its normal size. In all my years of tracking Zombies and Zombie hunters, I’d seen some weird shit, but nothing that weird. It actually gave me vertigo.

  “Consider your gig canceled, Timberlake,” John said, “The battle begins now. You’re going from N’Sync to n’dead.”

  Justin smirked. “That’s actually pretty sharp, Mr. Lennon. But not as sharp as this.” He then circled his pinky in the air, and John grabbed his gut and moaned. “Sharp enough for you?” Justin asked.

  John fell to his knees, then, through gritted teeth, said, “No clue what you’re talking about, mate. I don’t feel a fookin’ thing.”

  “Is that right?” Justin asked, after which he snapped his fingers, after which John grabbed his neck and made a harsh gurgling noise, after which Justin chuckled like, well, like a supergenius supervillain. “How about now?”

  Gagging, John said, “Just a slight tickle in me throat. Nothing a hot cup of coffee couldn’t remedy.”

  Paul, George, and Ringo advanced on Timberlake, but before they were within arm’s reach, he said, “Bye bye bye bye byyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeee,” and they came to a stop, frozen in their tracks. And when I say frozen, I mean literally frozen. I couldn’t help but be impressed that all it took for Justin to make icicles appear on their noses was a lousy song lyric.

  I asked Justin, “Dude, how’d you do that?”

  He smiled, then said, “Tell you what, Mr. Goldsher: After I do away with these interlopers, you can join Team Timberlake. You write a book about me, and I’ll teach you how to freeze a Zombie at four paces.”

  I said, “I’m in.”

  Still gagging, John said, “Fookin’ traitor. We take you across the country in a really, really nice van, and this is the thanks we get.”

  Justin roared, “Silence,” then turned to me and asked, “If you were a supervillain supergenius, how would you dispose of these fellows?”

  I said, “Gosh, I suppose I would…,” and then I trailed off, because it dawned on me that even though Timberlake seemed like an interesting guy, and he had a few solid songs to his credit, and a J.T. book would’ve gotten me a killer advance, if I had to make a choice between the Fab Four and a former pre-fab boy bander… Well, what would you rather have on the radio, another “Penny Lane” or another “What Goes Around…Comes Around”? So I said, “I suppose I would do something like this,” and then I grabbed a nearby coffee pot and emptied the contents on Justin Timberlake’s formerly oversized head.

  Unfortunately, the contents of said coffee pot had already been emptied. So I threw the pot at his formerly oversized head, a head that was apparently hard as diamond, because, when the pot cracked into his noggin, it exploded into dozens of scary shards…one of which embedded itself in Justin’s left eye.

  The eyeball—with the glass still sticking out of the pupil—exploded from his head with an audible pop, flew across the bus, and splatted on the window. (Two popping eyeballs in one week. Swell.) A thick, neon pink liquid waterfalled out of Justin Timberlake’s eye socket, splashing John and me. The second the pink goo hit John’s gray/green skin, he stopped gagging, came to his feet, and let out a Zombie moan that caused all the microphones on the stage—a stage that was a good hundred yards away—to feed back. He then picked up one of the shards of glass and ran it slowly across Justin’s neck, so slowly that one could discern his skin separating from itself. At that point, it was my turn t
o gag, a gag that evolved into a mess of projectile vomit, a mess of projectile vomit that landed all over Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr.

  Why was I not surprised that a bath in my stomach bile released the three Zombies from their Timberlakian spell?

  Justin ran his index finger across his gaping neck wound, sealing it shut. (Of course he did. I mean, why wouldn’t the guy who sang “This I Promise You” be able to glue his skin shut with a single touch?) He ran his hand through the blood that was dribbling down his neck, then licked his palm, smiled, and said, “All right, gentlemen, now I’m ready to battle for real.”

  I said, “You mean all that other crap was fake? You know what, J.T.? You suck! And not just your singing—The Open Road was the biggest piece of crap I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I can’t believe that shit didn’t go straight to DVD.”

  He shook his head at me. “Oh, Mr. Goldsher, Mr. Goldsher, Mr. Goldsher, I had such high hopes for you. I guess you’ll never be anything other than a sycophantic little worm who worships these Zombie heathens, a biased loser who will never understand the power of sappy pop music, the kind of sappy pop music that can only be created with Pro Tools, Auto-Tune, and samples.” Then he snapped his fingers, and all went black.

  JUNE 28, 2009

  Have you ever been awakened by a Zombie smacking you on the head with a 2” x 4”? I wouldn’t recommend it.

  When I came to, I was lying in the Poppermost van, John’s face mere inches from mine. He slapped my cheek a few times, then said, “Scribe! Scribe! Scribe!”

  I pushed his hands away—hands that were as hard as diamonds and cold as ice—and told him, “I’m up, I’m up, fook off.”

  For the first time since I met him, John’s smile didn’t have an ounce of malice behind it. “Aye, that’s the spirit, mate.” Then the smile was replaced by a horrifying grimace, and he said, “But if you ever push me again, I’ll Liverpool Process your American arse faster than you can say Mick Jagger is a ponce.”

  My entire body went cold, and I began to tremble. As most undead or Merseybeat experts are aware, the Liverpool Process is the disgusting manner in which Liverpudlian Zombies turn living humans into undead monsters. It involves snaking one’s tongue through one’s ear canal and into one’s brain, then removing a chunk of one’s brain with one’s tongue. Apparently it’s as painful as it sounds, but on the plus side, being a Liverpool Zombie seems more enjoyable than being, say, a Madagascarian Zombie, because Liverpool Zombies get to eat and have sex, while Madagascarian Zombies don’t even have reproductive organs. But that didn’t mean I wanted my American arse Processed, so I held up my hands and said, “No pushing, no pushing.” Lennon then hit me in the sack with the 2” x 4”, after which I covered my crotch and gasped, “What was that for?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you’re awake. You’ve been out for a while.”

  “Almost twenty-four hours, y’know,” McCartney said.

  Somehow, in spite of the fact my testicles were singing an aria of pain, I managed to pull myself up to a seated position and ask, “What happened?”

  George said, “Oh, nothing much,” then opened up Ringo’s bass drum case and pulled out Justin Timberlake’s head. Justin Timberlake’s giant head. Justin Timberlake’s decapitated head. “Just that.”

  Ringo clapped Harrison on the shoulder. “Quiet Beatle, my arse. Georgie did some stuff with his Gibson that would’ve blown Clapton’s mind.”

  George’s face turned green—or greener, really—then said, “Don’t ever, ever, ever say that name in my presence. Ever.”

  Paul said, “Let it go, Georgie. Clappy wasn’t the only one who had a go at her, y’know.”

  Ringo said, “I had a go at her.”

  John said, “I had a fookin’ go at her, too.”

  Paul said, “Me too, y’know.”

  Harrison glared at his bandmates, then ripped the nose off of Justin Timberlake’s lifeless face, which he popped into his mouth and chewed, and chewed, and chewed. Nobody said anything for a bit, so—being the kind of guy who hates awkward silence—I asked, “Had a go at who?”

  McCartney patted me on the shoulder, shook his head, and said, “Drop it, mate.” He slapped the back of Timberlake’s now noseless head and said, “Let’s talk about this, shall we?”

  Ringo said, “Georgie was phenomenal, Alan, simply phenomenal. After Timberlake stole your soul, George…”

  Before he could continue, I said, “Hold on: That psycho had the ability to take souls?”

  “Brother,” Ringo said, “if Justin Timberlake didn’t steal soul, can you imagine what his music would sound like?”

  “I shudder to think,” John said.

  “But we got yours back, y’know,” Paul said. “We even gave it a good cleansing.”

  Now that he mentioned it, aside from the knots on my head and the cannonball in my nutsack, I was feeling pretty good. “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  “Our pleasure,” Ringo said, then continued, “So anyhow, after that wanker stole your soul, George took off his own arm, then used it to clobber J.T. in the noggin. Hit him so hard that his head got all big, then it shrank down, then big, then small, then big, then back and forth.”

  “It was like somebody was blowing up a fookin’ balloon,” John said.

  Ringo said, “Then Macca here ran to the stage, grabbed a mic cord, and wrapped it around the bloke’s neck twenty-five times…”

  Paul said, “No. Twenty-six.”

  “I stand corrected,” Ringo said. “That all took a grand total of eight seconds…”

  Paul said, “No. Seven.”

  Rolling his eyes, Ringo said, “Fine. Seven seconds. Then the boy’s head popped right off of his body like it was a watermelon seed…”

  Paul said, “No. A grape.”

  John said, “For fook’s sake, Paulie, let Rings tell the fookin’ story!”

  Ringo thanked John, then said, “Then J.T.’s head flew up into the air, bounced off the ceiling, and landed in the waiting arms of George Harold Harrison.”

  George moaned, bit off Timberlake’s left ear, made a disgusted face, spit it out, then told Ringo, “For the millionth time, I don’t have a fookin’ middle name!” At that, the other three lads laughed hysterically.

  After he caught his breath, Ringo said, “Then we grabbed you, got your soul back, returned to the van, and made a getaway. Mission accomplished.”

  Paul said, “Actually, Rings, it wasn’t we who grabbed Alan. It was me.”

  And then came the argument: Finger pointing, name-calling, accusations, punches, magic spells, shuriken tossing, limb removals, limb reattachments, and fooks as far as the eye could see and the ear could hear. After about 20 minutes, I held up my hands and screamed, “Shut it!” Maybe it was because this was the first time I’d ever raised my voice in their presence, but they shut it. Knowing this might be the only time I would ever again have the floor—or, more accurately, the van—I said, “What’s wrong with you people?! Aren’t you the same guys who told the world that all we need is love? Aren’t you the same guys who said we could get by with a little help from our friends? Aren’t you the same guys who told us to let it be? This sure as shit is not letting it be.” I fixed John with what I hoped was a steely stare—it probably wasn’t, because I ain’t exactly the steeliest hammer in the toolbox—and said, “I seriously doubt this kind of crap going to help get you to the Toppermost of the Poppermost.”

  As John held my stare—surprisingly enough, he didn’t hypnotize me into thinking I was a chicken or, God forbid, Bob Dylan—I prepared myself for the inevitable beating, hoping against hope that he would leave my balls alone. Finally, with his eyes still fixed on me, he said, “You know what, lads? The Scribe is right. We sing about love, togetherness, peace, and all that shite, but when we’re alone, all that goes out the fookin’ window. Let’s make a pact right now: We save our aggression for the Timberlakes of the world. If you want to tear somebody’s head off, save i
t for, say, this Canadian wanker called Justin Bieber, who, it’s been foretold, will be stinking up the airwaves by the end of the year.” After Paul, George, and Ringo grunted their assent, John said, “And to seal our pact, let’s share a meal.” He then jammed his hand into Justin’s head’s mouth, swirled it around for a bit, pulled out a gray, gelatinous lump, and said, “Good brains, good meat, good God, let’s eat.”

  And good God, the Beatles ate.

  JULY 1, 2009

  We’re in the middle of southern Illinois, heading east, and I’m bored as all hell, itching to get back to my old life, even though last night was less awful than most of the other nights. We camped out in the middle of the woods: pitched a tent, cooked out, told horror stories—the whole shebang. It would’ve been quite lovely if Ringo hadn’t pinned me to a massive oak tree with his fancy-schmancy new Ninja sword. The pain in my earlobe was remarkable, but as angry and bloody as I was, I couldn’t blame him. I mean, I’d tried running off six times that afternoon—in one instance, I even tried to jump out of the van while it was moving, but John somehow caught me before I hit the pavement—and if I’d escaped and word got out that they let a pissant journalist like me slip through their fingers, that would’ve been awfully embarrassing for all of them—and it’s common knowledge that Zombies and embarrassment don’t mix.

  After a couple of hours, they unpinned me, and, for a change, fed me without my having to bitch about how hungry I was. Much to my delight, it turned out that Mr. Harrison knew his way around a campfire; he dumped a bunch of mushrooms (legal ones), red onions, garlic, potatoes, and herbs into a cast-iron skillet and created a goulash-y deal that was as good as anything I’ve ever tasted. And in case you were wondering, the dish’s protein was indeed a cerebral cortex…a big cerebral cortex…a big, gray cerebral cortex…a big, gray, tender, cerebral cortex…a big, gray, tender, juicy cerebral cortex…a big, gray, tender, juicy, tasty cerebral cortex. It was seasoned perfectly, and I was hungry as all hell, so I cleaned my plate, and it smelled so good that you’d have done the same damn thing, so don’t judge me.