Give Death A Chance Read online

  “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 somet
hing 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.”

  Ringo pointed out, “Zombies always go back on their word, mate.”

  “Never, always, same difference. Semantics.” Before I could find out what that meant in terms of my freedom, John clapped his hands and said, “Where are we going, fellas?”

  “To the top, Johnny!” Paul, George, and Ringo unison’d.

  “To the top of what, fellas?”

  “The Toppermost of the Poppermost!”

  “That’s right, fellas. To the Toppermost of the fookin’ Poppermost.” He kicked open the van’s rear door, destroying it in the process—at this point, it didn’t matter if the van was intact or not, because if this little to-do went as planned, the van would be replaced by Air Force One—and the four of them jumped out and sprinted toward the White House at about a zillion miles per hour. It took them a few strides to realize I wasn’t keeping up, so George ran back, grabbed me by my hand—almost dislocating my shoulder in the process—and lifted me above his head, after which the Beatles resumed their advance. (I should mention that you haven’t lived until Zombie George Harrison has carried you across the White House lawn at a zillion miles per hour.)

  The gunfire started without a word of warning, and the shots came from everywhere: above, below, left, right, center, diagonal, everywhere. Over the years, the Beatles had become masters at dodging bullets—literally and figuratively—but I don’t think they’d ever experienced the sheer quantity of ammo that the United States Secret Service emptied upon them. They weren’t scared…but they weren’t not scared.

  Me, I was shitting myself, because I thought the lads were going to sacrifice me for the cause, but George didn’t use me as a human shield; rather, he pulled me into his gut, hunched over, and shielded me himself, which was fortunate, because he took about five shots in his back, shots that would’ve killed me. But George—impenetrable, cranky George—didn’t even flinch.

  I’m sure the band was most worried about Ringo, as Ninjas can be killed with bullets, just like any other mortal. (Liverpudlian Zombies, conversely, have a pretty good tolerance for gunfire.) But no matter how good the Secret Service marksmen were—and from where I was sitting, they looked damn good—they couldn’t touch the great Ninja Lord drummer, because Ringo could flat out move. Suffice it to say that Richard Starkey would be able to beat a Brazilian Three-Legged Meta-Snake in a 50-meter race, and if you’ve ever seen a Brazilian Three-Legged Meta-Snake—and you probably haven’t, because there are only four in the world—you’d know what I was talking about.

  We came to a halt at the front entrance, at which point the gunfire ceased. In the sudden silence, John pulled me away from George, put me in a relatively tolerable headlock, and called, “Do not resume fire, or I’ll kill my hostage and splatter his intestines all over the façade of this fookin’ place!”

  I yelled, “Oh, come on! You guys suck.”

  Paul whispered, “We won’t splatter you, y’know. This is just for leverage.”

  John roared, “I don’t know if you blokes heard what Paulie here just said, but if you did, ignore it, because it’s a fookin’ lie! We get access to the Oval Office, or we’ll paint the hallways with the Scribe’s blood!”

  George whispered, “He’s kidding.”

  John yelled, “I’m not kidding!”

  Ringo whispered, “He won’t do it.”

  John yelled, “I will absolutely do it!”

  Paul whispered, “Erm, won’t happen.”

  John yelled, “Will happen!”

  A voice then boomed from the heavens: “We will grant you access to the Oval Office, Mr. Lennon, but you will be accompanied by two Secret Service agents and four United States Zombie Guards.”

  John mumbled, “I hate those fookin’ USZG’s,” then he roared, “That’s acceptable! Just make sure that Obama bloke is there!”

  After a pause, the voice boomed, “The President is not available! You will have an audience with the Secretary of the Interior!”

  John called, “What the fook is the Secretary of the Interior?
”

  George added, “Who the fook is the Secretary of the Interior?”

  The voice boomed, “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions, but that’s the best we can do with such short notice.”

  John shouted, “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to camp out in the Oval Office until your Mr. Obama returns! I think there are plenty of brains to eat in this dump to keep us sustained for a while.” I doubted the Secret Service were aware that Liverpool Zombies could go for months without eating a brain, and I also doubted that the USZG’s—who knew about that sort of thing—were on the scene that quickly, so that was actually a decent threat.

  After a lengthy pause, the voice boomed, “The President will see you. Please don’t move. The USZG’s and our agents will be there momentarily.”

  Ringo pulled a shuriken from his cloak, held it to my neck, and yelled, “Okay, but no funny moves, or your American pal gets it.”

  George whispered, “He’s kidding.”

  Ringo yelled, “I’m not kidding!”

  John whispered, “He won’t do it.”

  Ringo yelled, “I will absolutely do it!”

  Paul whispered, “Erm, won’t happen.”

  Ringo yelled, “Will happen!”

  I said, “You know what, guys? Fuck you. And by the way, everybody hated ‘Free as a Bird.’ Everybody.”

  With a pained expression on his gray face, John said, “You really know how to hurt a guy, Scribe.”

  Before I could go on a detailed explanation as to why everybody hated “Free As a Bird,” two be-suited agents sauntered over, followed by four USZG’s clad in matching red Hazmat suits and clutching what appeared to be industrial-sized cattle prods.

  One of the guys in a suit said, “You guys be nice to us, and we’ll be nice to you.”

  John said, “We’re always nice.”

  The other suited dude said, “Sure you are.” As we walked across the White House threshold, he said, “It pains me to say this, but President Obama is looking forward to meeting you. Turns out he’s quite the fan.”