Give Death A Chance Read online

  At sunrise, as we made our way back to the van, we heard an acoustic guitar and a couple of voices harmonizing “Tell Me Why” off in the distance. Ringo turned to John and said, “Those blokes are doing a mean Lennon impression, aren’t they?”

  It wasn’t awful, but it was just that: An impression.

  John spit a huge loogie on the ground; steam rose from where it landed. “Those blokes are doing a shite Lennon impression.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “You hear me, you shiteheads? You’re shite!”

  I said, “They’re not that bad.” You’d have thought that by now, I’d have learned to keep my opinions to myself.

  Paul cuffed me on the back of my head. “They’re really bad, y’know. Now, erm, shut it.”

  So we get to the van, and there’re a couple of familiar-looking guys sitting cross-legged in the dirt, made up to resemble Liverpool Zombies. In a feeble attempt to replicate those telltale undead sores, they’d glued what looked like oatmeal raisin cookies up and down their limbs; they’d also colored all their visible skin with what appeared to be green Magic Marker. The makeup job on the one with the shades looked especially amateurish; he could’ve come right from the set of an Ed Wood flick. When they noticed us approaching, the one without the shades dropped his acoustic guitar and said to the lads, “Check it out, check it out: This is the Lennon/Harrison 1965 San Francisco fight.” He nodded at his partner and said, “One, two, three,” and then the two of them danced a dance of undeath.

  Now I’ve seen footage of the San Fran bout, and save for the plonker detachments, those dudes slavishly replicated each and every Fab Four move to a “T.” After they were done, the un-sunglassed one stuck out his hand and said, “Noel Gallagher. This is my brother, Liam.”

  John mumbled, “What the fook are you guys?”

  Ignoring John’s question, Noel started jumping up and down like a newly toilet-trained three-year-old who had to pee, and said, “Ooh, ooh, oi, Johnny lad, listen to this.” Then he cleared his throat and said, “Fookin’.” He clapped. “Did I say it right? Fookin’? I said it just like you said it. Fookin’. Fookin’! FOOKIN’!”

  Liam took off his shades, threw them at the van, and said, “Right, right, almost forgot, we’ve been working on that. Fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’, fookin’!”

  Still jumping, Noel said, “Fookin’ fookity fook fook.”

  Liam added, “Fookity, fookity, fookity, fookington McFooker.”

  Noel said, “We’re saying it just like you, Johnny. Just fookin’ like you. What d’you think, mate?”

  Save for George—the Quiet Beatle—I’d never seen any of the lads speechless. Finally, after several moments of silence, John turned to me and asked, “Do I really say ‘fookin’ like that? All poncy-like?”

  John seemed almost embarrassed, and, as noted, an embarrassed Zombie is a dangerous Zombie, so I said, “Of course not, John. You say it perfectly.”

  Liam smacked me on the back of my head the exact same way Lennon does, except with one one-millionth of the force. “Shut it, you American fooker. My brother and me won’t hesitate to fook you up.”

  Noel nodded. “We’d fook you up like you’d never been fooked up before.”

  “There was be a whole lot of fookin’,” Liam said, “believe you me.”

  Noel said, “Fookity fookity fookering fook.”

  Liam said, “Fook fookering fookity fookity.”

  Then Noel counted off another one-two-three-four, and the two of them spent three minutes Beatle-esque-edly harmonizing the phrase, Fookity fookity fookering fook, Fook fookering fookity fookity. It was worse than anything I’d experienced in the Poppermost van.

  When the Gallaghers wrapped up their astoundingly unoriginal caterwauling, the lads stood silently for a good two minutes, before Ringo turned to John and asked, “May I?”

  John said, “You may.”

  On one hand, I’m generally against murder, even if the murderees are slavishly bastardizing the music of a band I adore. On the other hand, a world without Oasis is better than a world with Oasis, so when Ringo asked if I’d like to finish off Liam—Noel was already quite dead at this point—well, how could I refuse?

  JULY 4, 2009

  Thanks to a colossal directional miscalculation on Mr. McCartney’s part, we’re not in Atlanta as planned, but rather in some tiny jerkwater burg in Mississippi, a town that has nary a rock club to be found. But rather than navigate our way back onto the highway and get to Georgia, George decided he wanted to see the Deep South, so, after a loud band discussion that left me with a black eye thanks to an errant Harrison punch, we toodled around Shitsville, MS, basking in the glory of trailer parks and swampland. Why George was fascinated with this, I have no clue; when I asked for an explanation, all he said was, “Gugar brama, gurur vishnu, tasmaya shree, maheshwara,” and then he clammed up. That Quiet Beatle crap wasn’t cute anymore.

  John said, “Georgie, I couldn’t have phrased it better myself.” Then he turned to McCartney and mumbled, “What the fook is that nutter guitar monkey going on about?” Before Paul could answer, John told me, “I just decided how we’re celebrating American Independence Day,” then gave McCartney a noogie that would’ve killed a mortal and said, “Oi, Paulie, find us a store where they sell Union Jacks. I need ten of ‘em.”

  “John,” I said, “you’re not going to find one Union Jack in this town, let alone ten.”

  “Shut it, Semolina,” he hissed. (He’d been calling me Semolina since we crossed the Mason-Dixon line. It was getting old.) He then made Paul drive around the backwoods of Mississippi until, shock of shocks, two hours later, we found a thrift store that sold Union Jacks, at which point he shoved a pile of twenties into my hand and said, “Go buy some flags, Semolina.”

  I was exhausted, and my filter was off, so I blurted, “Quit fucking calling me Semolina, you fucking undead fuck.”

  George laughed. “Well put, Scribe. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  John flipped George the bird, then asked me, “Should I call you Prudence, then?”

  “Bite me.”

  “Michelle?”

  “Suck me.”

  “Long tall Sally?”

  “Eat me.”

  “Sexy Sadie?”

  “Jesus, fine, whatever, call me sexy Sadie. I’ll get the flags.”

  As I stepped out of the van, John said, “Don’t try to cut and run, sexy Sadie!”

  I called out, “Blow me, Eleanor,” then walked into the shop with Paul, George, and Ringo’s laughter following close behind.

  When I returned, I threw the flags at Lennon and said, “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their brains, Johnny-Boy.”

  John unfurled one of the flags, said, “Cheers, mate,” then ripped it into shreds.

  At that, Paul laughed and asked, “Erm, are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

  “I am,” Lennon said as he destroyed the other nine flags. His hands started moving so quickly that I was unable to discern what they hell he was doing; 15 seconds later, he was holding a three-piece Union Jack suit, which he threw at my face. “Forty-two regular jacket and thirty-six-by-thirty pants, I believe,” he said.

  I was actually a 38 regular, but he seemed like he was in a good mood, so I kept my trap shut so as not to set him off. “You want me to put this on?” I asked.

  “You’re not only going to put this on,” John said, “but you’re going to walk around the busiest part of the next big city we get to and belt out ‘God Save the Queen’ at the top of your fookin’ lungs.”

  As droplets of nervous sweat crawled down my armpits, I said, “Okay, the first problem is that the only version of ‘God Save the Queen’ I know the lyrics to is the Sex Pistols version, and I’m assuming that’s not what you’re after. Problem number two is that singing the British National Anthem—or any British song, for that matter—in the American South on July fourth while
decked out in a Union Jack suit would be suicide.”

  John said, “Okay, the first problem ain’t a problem, because we’ll teach you the proper version of ‘God Save the Queen.’” He paused, then asked, “Ringo, you remember the words, don’t you?”

  Ringo said, “Not a goddamn one of them.”

  He turned to George. “You?”

  George silently shook his head.

  To Paul: “You?”

  “No, y’know.”

  John sighed—a sigh that smelled like a baby zebra’s ass—then said, “Fook it, sing the Sex Pistols, then. As for the second problem, well, you say that singing the British National Anthem on July fourth in the American South while decked out in a Union Jack suit would be suicide. I say that not singing the British National Anthem in the American South on July fourth while decked out in a Union Jack suit would be suicide, if you catch my drift.”

  “Drift caught,” I said.

  George said, “Basically, you fight the rednecks, or you fight us.”

  “I understand.”

  Ringo said, “Sing out there, or die in here.”

  “I get it.”

  Paul said, “You’ll have a better chance against the crackers, y’know.”

  “Okay, okay, okay, just drive. Let’s get this over with.”

  When we rolled into the center of Hattiesburg some two hours later, Paul pulled over at what appeared to be the most crowded corner in the city, braked to a halt, and said, “Out.”

  As I opened the door, John said, “Any last words, mate?”

  I yelled, “Beatles suck! Stones rule!” and then hit the ground running.

  I thought I was moving pretty quickly, but when I came to a stop four blocks down the street, Ringo was waiting for me. “I’m watching you. Now get crooning,” he said, then flicked me on the earlobe—which sounds innocent, but Ninjas can flick their asses off, so it hurt like a bitch—and disappeared.

  So I wiped the blood from my ear, took a deep breath, and launched into a version of “God Save the Queen” that would’ve made Johnny Rotten kill me, then Malcolm McLaren, then himself.

  By the time I got to, Don’t be told what you want, don’t be told what you need, a small crowd had formed. When I sang, Oh lord, God, have mercy, all crimes are paid, an extra-large-sized gentleman with a Z.Z. Top beard drawled, “Ah don’t like them words that’re comin’ outta yer piehole, boy. I don’t like yer outfit, neither.” He then peered at my nose and said, “And that’s a Jew beak if ah ever saw one. That’s three strikes. I might jes’ kill yew here ‘n’ now.”

  I stopped singing and whispered, “Listen, you have to help me. I only have a few seconds before they’ll come for me. I’ve been kidnapped by three Zombies and a Ninja, and I need to escape, then get somebody to stop them before they take over the world!”

  As the growing crowd rumbled some unintelligible rumbly stuff, the bearded man said, “Listen, boy, the only thing ah hate worse than a Jew wearing some limey clothes is a Zombie.” He pulled a giant shotgun from his pants—no clue how he fit a shotgun in his pants, but that was neither the time nor the place to ask—then said, “Where them undead bastards at?”

  I turned around to point to the van, and found myself face to face with George Harrison. Quietly, he said, “I don’t know about the South, mate. They’re a bit tetchy about the race situation, it seems.” Nodding at the bearded man, he said, “This one could use a mantra. Or maybe a tab of brown. Or maybe a Thai stick. Or maybe a foot up his ass.” And then George shoved the bearded man to the sidewalk, removed the man’s foot from his leg, and shoved it up his ass. With his hemoglobin fountaining all over the street, the man squealed like a pig for two-ish minutes before bleeding out. Unsurprisingly, the crowd dispersed. Quickly.

  As I wiped the blood from my chin, George draped his arm over my shoulders and said, “We were just taking the piss, mate. We wouldn’t have let the rednecks have at you. At least I wouldn’t have. John, he’s a different story.”

  “You ain’t just whistling Dixie.”

  “Whistling what?”

  “Forget it.”

  “You mortals say the most naff shite. I should Liverpool Process you just so we could have a proper conversation.” He looked at the dead cracker and said, “But who has time for that kind of bullocks when there are meals to be eaten.” He let out a deafening Zombie moan and went to town on the bearded racist until all that was left on the sidewalk was a small puddle of blood, a spleen, a pancreas, and a kidney.

  JULY 10, 2009

  It was the middle of the night when Lennon shook me awake. (I assumed was the middle of the night, but, if you’ll recall, I don’t have a watch or an iPhone, thus I never have a true sense of time.) Without preamble or apology, John said, “So tell me about this Madonna cunt, then.”

  Once I regained some semblance of my faculties, I said, “John, she’s been in the public’s consciousness since, like, 1981. You can’t tell me that you’re so wrapped up in your weird Zombie shit that you don’t know about Madonna.”

  “I’ve been busy,” he said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just shut your gob, and tell me what the cunt is about.”

  “How can I tell you what the cunt is about if my gob is shut.” He gave me the look that was generally a precursor to a beating, so I sat up and said, “Okay, remember when we were talking about Lady Gaga a few weeks ago?”

  “Right, that one,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Yeah. That one. Basically Gaga is a Madonna wannabe.”

  “So this Madonna cunt bares her bristols to sell records?”

  “Well, yes and no. When she shows her, um, bristols, she generally puts some thought behind it.”

  John asked, “How the fook do you put thought behind something like that? You take off your top, and there they are, bristols for all.”

  “She likes to give her bristols some context. There’s sometimes choreography involved. And costumes. And periodically, a song that she actually sings. It’s part porn and part performance art.”

  “What the fook is performance art?” John asked.

  Under my breath, I mumbled, “The crap that Yoko does.”

  John asked, “What?”

  “I said, it’s utilizing various types of media to express your vision. It can be a canvas, or your voice, or electronics, or, in Madonna’s case, her bristols. But she keeps her bristols under wraps these days. She does a lot of yoga now.”

  John again rolled his eyes. “Georgie tried to get me into that yoga shite. It was smashing until my nose fell off during one of those fookin’ kapotasanas.” He paused. “Just so you know, we’re on our way to New York to see this Madonna cunt. I think she can teach us something.”

  “About what, exactly?” I asked. They hadn’t learned anything from Timberlake, and I suspected the same would be true with the Material Girl.

  “Dunno,” he shrugged. Then he clapped me on the shoulder—not hard enough to break my collarbone, for a change—pointed at my crotch, and said, “Maybe we’ll get her to play with your little guy down there.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’ll take a pass.” Since Lennon and I were sharing a moment—and it seemed like beating the crap out of me wasn’t in the front of his mind—I figured now was as good a time as any to ask him something I’d been curious about since they snatched me up last month: “John, if you want to rule the United States, why don’t you just hypnotize your way into the White House and be done with it?” Liverpool Zombies had scary-good mind control powers—if you’ve seen footage of the hypnosis-induced riots from the Beatles Shea Stadium concert in 1965 (and who hasn’t?), you’re well aware of that fact. “It would save a lot of time and effort,” I added.

  John looked away from me, then said, “You researched me. You know I’ll never use hypnosis as a means to carry out a mission.” That was true. It was common knowledge that when it came to landing a manager, or getting a record deal, or launching a confused
and confusing record label doomed to failure, the Beatles relied on their talent and smarts and talent rather than their paranormal powers. But those particular examples were music- and career-related, whereas taking over the country was a power play, and when it came to power plays from the Fab Four, nothing was off the table. Look at what happened in the Philippines. Or in Montreal. Or in London. Or in Hell. Point being, something seemed fishy.

  I said, “John, you and Paul have been at each other’s throats since Chicago, George is getting crankier…”

  “If that’s possible,” John interrupted.

  “Right, if that’s possible. And Ringo’s so sick of you guys that he’s about to jump ship.”

  “Rings always threatens to jump ship when he gets sick of us. I’ll just give him some flowers, and he’ll be fine.”

  “Fine, but even you would admit that things in the van aren’t exactly hunky-dory. So let’s blow off New York and go to Washington, bum rush the Oval Office, and put an end to this madness.” I honestly didn’t think there was any way they could possibly get a crack at Obama, as the White House has USZG’s coming out of its butthole. But John didn’t need to know that.

  Still avoiding eye contact, John said, “Bad fookin’ idea, Scribe. We’re going to New York. We’re sticking with the plan.”

  “I still don’t know what the plan is, exactly,” I said.

  “And you never will. Now shut the fook up go the fook back to sleep.”

  As he made his way to the front of the van, something dawned on me: “Hey, John,” I asked, “can you guys still hypnotize people?”

  Without turning around, he said, “Piss off.”

  “You can’t, can you? That’s why you haven’t hypnotized me. That’s why you had to decapitate Justin Timberlake, instead of taking over his big-ass brain. Man, no wonder Paul’s so worried about how many records you can sell. It’s all about the music now…. Not to mention he has Back to the Egg under his belt.”