Give Death A Chance Read online

  John grabbed me by my collar, pulled my face right up against his, and whispered, “First of all, Back to the Egg wasn’t that bad—it was a fook of a lot better than that Traveling Wilburys shite—and second of all, you keep our little chat here quiet, Scribe. If you mention anything about this conversation to anybody—and when I say anybody, that includes my fookin’ bandmates—I’ll rip off your plonker, and let you bleed to death on the side of the road without doing you the honor of Zombifying you. It’ll be simple for us to find some other hack writer to write the end of this story. Got it?” He shoved me to the floor and navigated his way to the front passenger seat.

  I croaked, “I got it, John. I got it.”

  JULY 12, 2009

  Madonna was waiting for us.

  Actually, Madonna wasn’t waiting for us, but rather her assistant’s assistant’s assistant, who made us sit for 58 minutes outside his office before we got to the assistant’s assistant, who made us wait for 72 minutes outside her office before we got to the assistant, who made us wait for 95 minutes outside her office, at which point we were finally granted an audience with the woman herself. How the Beatles managed to restrain themselves from killing any of Madonna’s myriad lackeys is beyond me.

  After Assistant #3 ushered us into a palatial office—expensive furniture, an Oriental rug I was scared to walk on, what was undoubtedly an original Picasso—Madonna, who was parked behind a desk that was bigger than my apartment, gave me the hairy eyeball and said, “You. Yeah, you. With the crappy tattoos. You’re not John, or Paul, or George, or Ringo, and I seriously doubt you’re Sir George Martin.” She stood up and snarled, “So who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” I was momentarily struck dumb, as she was wearing only a small strip of fabric around her chest, and a smaller strip around her hoo-hah. “Hey, you! Up here. I have eyes,” she said, noticing that my pupils were glued to her astoundingly perky breasts. Then she repeated, “So who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?”

  Paul said, “He’s Alan, y’know. He’s our Boswell, y’know. He’s, erm, telling our story, y’know.”

  “And if he wants to look at your bristols,” Ringo said, “let him look at your bristols. He’s had a tough go of it.”

  Madonna shook her head. “Okay, fine. I don’t have time to argue, so have a good gander at my tits, Boswell. But before we continue this discussion, you’re all signing an NDA. Especially Writer Boy here. I don’t like the looks of him.”

  Ringo said, “Well, apparently he likes the looks of you.”

  Madonna sighed, pulled a plain white t-shirt that probably cost more than I made in the last four years combined from her desk drawer, threw it on, then ordered her assistant to bring us a non-disclosure agreement, which I skimmed. The basic gist of it was if I wrote a single word about this meeting, Madonna could sue my ass into tomorrow. I signed the damn thing, which means if this little journal gets published, and I manage to survive the Poppermost Over America tour, Ms. Ciccone and I will meet again, this time in court…because I’m writing down every goddamn word I can goddamn well remember from the goddamn meeting:

  MADONNA: Okay, what do you assholes want?

  GEORGE: Assholes? You’re awfully quick to judge, Madonna.

  RINGO: Yeah, it usually takes at least an hour for somebody to realize we’re assholes.

  MADONNA: Oh, I could tell in a minute, Ninja Boy. Thirty seconds, even.

  JOHN: Hey Paulie, I think this one could use a shot of dustmen up her nose.

  PAUL: Or up something, y’know.

  MADONNA: I’ve had dustmen up my nose, smarty pants, and I like it, so if one of you Zombie freaks wants to rock out with your cock out, I’m game.

  ME: I wanna rock out with my cock out.

  MADONNA (ignoring me): That’s right, boys, I’ve slept with a Zombie or two in my time. I’ve had better. I’ve had worse. So, to repeat, what do you assholes want?

  JOHN: Listen, I don’t care for your music…

  MADONNA: Neither do I.

  JOHN: …but you’ve sold a lot of fookin’ records, and it could arguably said that at one time, you ruled the world…

  MADONNA: I did.

  JOHN: …and we’ve been off the scene for a while, and we were wondering if…

  MADONNA: You were wondering if I could help you get a record deal.

  PAUL and GEORGE: No…

  MADONNA: Well, the answer is, absolutely not. The Beatles haven’t put out a decent record since Abbey Road…

  ME: The Beatles haven’t put out any records since Abbey Road, dummy. Now do us all a favor, and take off your shirt, and show us your rack again. With nipple this time, thank you very much.

  MADONNA (ignoring me): You know what? I wouldn’t sign you guys if you paid me.

  JOHN: Right, first off, if we put out another record, we’re doing it ourselves, and we’ll sell it on…on…. (To me) What the fook do you call it Scribe, I-moons?

  ME: iTunes.

  JOHN: Yeah. What he said. And second off, we came here to ask your advice, as one musician to another.

  ME: She’s not really a musician.

  MADONNA (ignoring me): My advice? You want my advice? Fine, here’s my advice: Shut it down. Nobody cares about rock. Nobody cares about bands. Nobody cares about Zombies. And nobody, but nobody cares about the Beatles. Leave the music-making to the experts, guys. Leave it to the mercenary studio instrumentalists. Leave it to the dance remixers. Leave it to the producers. Screw guitars! Screw sitars! Screw drums! Screw handclaps! Screw live string sections! Screw complex chord changes, hummable melodies, and interesting song structures! Screw reversing the tape on your vocals…. For that matter, screw tape! If you guys can figure out how to do one of your cutesy songs over a breakbeat, maybe you’ll move a few units, but if you want to sell records and sell out stadiums, you’ve got do it how that big-head freak Justin Timberlake does it…

  ME: Or how Justin Timberlake used to do it.

  MADONNA (ignoring me): …and that’s the only advice I have for you. Now be gone. If you’d like, you can leave some dustmen with my assistant. I could use the protein.

  PAUL and GEORGE: Unintelligible Zombie moan.

  At that point, five ginormous bodyguards burst into the room, brandishing guns that were undoubtedly locked and loaded with diamond bullets—the only type of bullets that could kill a Liverpool Zombie.

  John glared at the gunmen, then at Madonna, then back to the gunmen, then back to Madonna, and said, “Why don’t you go masturbate on an awards show, you fookin’ twat.” And then we marched out in virtual lockstep, almost as if we were reshooting the cover of Abbey Road.

  JULY 20, 2009

  Because they don’t drink liquid, and since brains are to Zombies’ gastrointestinal systems as Imodium is to humans, the undead rarely have to pee or poo. But mortals do, which is a problem when the Zombies do all the driving and don’t like to stop until the gas needle is on E. This is even more of a problem when said Zombies want to drive across the United States as quickly as possible. I’ll spare details, because if/when somebody decides to read this thing, the last thing they’re going to want/need is details about is my and Ringo’s respective stomach and bladder distress.

  We’d have made it from New York to California in a couple of days, but George wanted to make a detour to Minneapolis. “I’ve been hearing about this Prince bloke,” he explained, “and he sounds like a right piece of piss. Might be able to learn a thing or two from him.”

  When we got to Paisley Park, we were turned away—that little purple dude is notoriously prickly with strangers, even the Beatles—but the lads were still irked from the Madonna episode, and John was hungry, and they weren’t taking no for an answer, so it ending up being a bloodbath of epic proportions. While Ringo and I sat under a tree and smoked the fattest fatty I’ve seen outside of a Cheech & Chong flick, Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison went to town on Prince’s posse. They sauntered out of the building some 30 minutes later,
with John holding Prince’s scalp above his head, a brain-eating grin plastered on his gray-green mug.

  Beheading Justin Timberlake and dismembering Noel and Liam Gallagher was one thing, but scalping Prince, well, I took some issue with that. If I hadn’t have been so fucking high, I’d have raised a stink, but as it was, I could barely stand, let alone talk, so Ringo carried me into the van and filled me with Cool Ranch Doritos and Jolly Rancher watermelon chewies. That Ringo Starr is, was, and always will be a bit of alright.

  Despite the lovely meal they ate at Paisley Park , the band seemed down, so conversation during the remainder of the ride across the country was limited to stuff like “Keep your eyes on the fookin’ road, Macca,” and “Change the fookin’ station, Macca,” and, “No, you can’t spark up while you’re driving, Macca.” Thus I had no idea why we were going to Los Angeles. I didn’t want to ask, because I didn’t want to set anybody off.

  When we finally rolled up to the city limits, John told me, “Get your notebooks ready, Scribe. This’ll need to be documented.”

  “What’ll need to be documented?”

  “This business with the hippety-hop. That shite is keeping us from reaching the Poppermost, and it has to end.”

  I said, “Wait—you’re telling me that you guys are going to put an end to rap music?”

  “You got it,” John said.

  “All hip-hop?”

  John repeated, “You got it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That might not be a good idea.”

  “Why’s that?” George asked.

  I knew that, if they put their sinister undead minds to it, the Beatles probably could wipe hip-hop off the face of the Earth—hell, they cut Sgt. Pepper, and if they did that, they could do most anything—and, well, wiping hip-hop off the face of the Earth simply wasn’t cool. Sure, there’s a lot of shitty rap out there, but there’s a lot of shitty everything out there, and a world without De La Soul just ain’t right. So I started spitballing: “Okay, there’re a lot of rap fans out there, and if they find out it was you guys who stopped rap, then they’ll unify and rebel against you, and no matter how powerful you guys are—and nobody’s denying you’re powerful—even you couldn’t withstand an attack by hundreds of thousands of hip-hop nuts…some of whom are undoubtedly Zombies or Ninjas themselves.”

  After a lengthy silence, Paul said, “He has a point, y’know.”

  John said, “As much as this pains me to admit, I think the Scribe is right.”

  George said, “But we still have to make an example of some hip-hop bloke. We have to let folks know they should tread lightly when sampling.”

  “And that drum machine crap has to be curtailed,” Ringo said.

  “So let’s at least execute the first part of the plan,” George said.

  After they all grunted their assent, I asked, “What’s the plan?”

  John gave me his most predatory grin and repeated, “Get your notebooks ready, Scribe. This’ll need to be documented.”

  A few minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of what had to be one of the gaudiest mansions in Beverly Hills: A solid gold gate, a hundred-yard-long driveway paved with cobblestones and silver, an enormous koi pond in the front yard, a moat, and a drawbridge. It was Olde England meets MTV Cribs, and it was awful. “Who lives here?” I asked.

  “Somebody with some horrible fookin’ taste, that’s who,” George mumbled, clearly appalled, undoubtedly picturing the splendor that was his castle back in England.

  John said, “A hippety-hopper lives here, that’s who. Apparently he’s the most famous hippety-hopper in the world. Apparently, he’s also protected by gangs of Cripples and Bloodies.”

  I said, “You mean Crips and Bloods.”

  “Whatever,” John said.

  “Ah,” I said. “Great. Well, I hope Zombies can survive being gatted by a Tek-9 or an AK-47.”

  “You hope Zombies can survive being what-ed by a what or a what?” Ringo asked.

  “Forget it,” I said. “So how the hell did you technophobes find out about the most famous hippety-hopper in the world?”

  John said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  I said, “I mean, you couldn’t have heard his music, because hip-hop makes your ears fall off…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” John snarled.

  “And I haven’t seen any of you ever open a newspaper or a magazine.” At that, Ringo snorted. “What’s funny?” I asked him.

  Ringo pointed at Paul. “Ask him.”

  “Shut it, Rings.” Paul warned.

  “No, go on, Paulie,” Ringo said. “Show Alan your stash.”

  “Nobody sees my stash.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a twat, Macca.”

  “Shut it, y’know.”

  Ringo sighed, then did that Ninja thing where he disappeared, and, no matter how many times I’ve seen it, it still freaks me out. He reappeared seconds later, seated in the exact same position, holding about fifty magazines. “This is why your pal Paulie here is so up on the American music world.”

  He threw the pile at me. The magazines bounced off my chest and spilled all over the van. And what magazines they were: Seventeen, Teen Vogue, Cosmo Girl, Teen Magazine, Teen People, Twist, Teen Voices, Popstar!, Elle Girl, Girls Life, Just 17, and Young Woman’s Journal. “Jesus, Paul,” I said. “Way to channel your inner twelve-year-old. You want me to see if I can get you a date with Miley Cyrus?”

  “Who the fook is Miley Cyrus?” John asked.

  “She’s the bird who plays that Hannah California on the telly, y’know,” Paul said.

  “Hannah Montana,” I said.

  “Right, what he said.” He paused. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t read these for fun, y’know. It’s research. Strictly research.”

  Ringo said, “Sure, Paul. Strictly research.”

  Paul glared at his drummer. “Yes, Mr. Starkey, strictly research.”

  “How many of those quizzes have you taken?”

  Paul looked away. “What quizzes?”

  “Oh, for fook sake,” Ringo said, then snatched up an Elle Girl featuring the cast of Gossip Girl on the cover. He riffled to the last page and read, “Are you hanging on to a toxic friendship?” He silently scanned the article. “Hmm, you scored a ninety-eight out of a hundred. I guess the answer is yes, then.”

  John looked offended. “Are you fookin’ talking about me? Are you calling me toxic?”

  “Listen to these questions,” Ringo said. “You and your BFF are bathing suit shopping. She tries on a less-than-flattering suit. Do you A) Give her a thumbs-up and exclaim, ‘You look hot’; B) Say, ‘I’d never wear it, but it looks good on you’; or C) Comment nonchalantly, ‘I’d keep looking.’” He put down the mag and said, “Paulie answered B. Typical passive/aggressive Macca shite.”

  Paul snatched the magazine from Ringo, then said, “If I didn’t read these, we wouldn’t be here right now, and you should all thank me for that—especially you, John, because if we end this bloke, we’re that much closer to the Poppermost.”

  “What bloke?” I asked.

  Paul riffled through the pile of magazines until he came across an issue of Teen People. He pointed at the cover and said, “This bloke.” The headline read, OUT OF REHAB, AND READY FOR A FRESH START! Paul continued, “This bloke dies.”

  I peered at the cover, then at the gaudy mansion. “You’re going to kill Eminem?”

  Nodding, Paul said, “That’s right, y’know. We’re going to kill Eminem.”

  JULY 21, 2009

  The routing on the Poppermost Over America tour has been nothing short of moronic. We started out in the Midwest, then worked our way south, then went all the way up to New York, then to Los Angeles, then back to New York. Either I’m the worst road manager in rock history, or the Zombified Beatles are a colossal pain in the ass. I’m going with option B.

  How we get to the next show doesn’t really matter, at this point, because there won’t be any more shows; all p
retense of this being an actual tour—meaning a road trip in which the lads play actual music at actual clubs for actual audiences that they don’t murder and maim in a flamboyant fashion—is out the window, primarily because all of the band’s gear is busted beyond repair. Sure, if John, Paul, George, and Ringo wanted to, they could procure some new instruments and amplifiers to replace what was destroyed yesterday—especially Ringo; Ninjas are good at procuring stuff—but they have other issues to deal with.

  Like what to do with Eminem’s corpse. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  We waited in the van for what seemed like several hours until we saw a sign of life on the Mathers compound, a sign that ended up being Eminem himself stepping out of his front door and grabbing his mail and newspaper. While the rapper perused his bills, or his post cards, or the sports section, or the latest issue of Teen People, or whatever, Ringo flew out of the van and put the guy in a headlock, then dragged him into the house. As John, Paul, and George, piled out after him, Lennon told me for the third time, “Get your notebooks ready, Scribe. This’ll need to be documented.”

  “Okay, John, okay, jeez, I’m on it.” Man, that John Lennon can be a pain in the pooper.