Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion Read online

  The problem is, since I’d been dead for so long, John was able to reanimate only my head. My body, as you can see, is mostly paralyzed. I can move my neck, and my hands are fine, and I have some slight movement in my arms, but my legs are useless. I have live-in help, and John made sure that will always be the case. John Lennon has murdered God knows how many thousands of people, but he’s a good man.

  I’m blathering on. You didn’t come here to talk about me. You want to hear about the lads.

  I saw them perform for the first time at the Cavern Club, and I knew right away they had something. I didn’t know anything about the undead—after all, there weren’t any zombies on tony old Rodney Street, where I grew up—and I wasn’t sure whether I should expect a murderous rampage for an encore, or what. Turned out the lads could keep it under control … most of the time. But only most of the time. Once in a while, they went off the rails. I assume you’re familiar with the Shea Stadium show.

  In any event, our business marriage happened fast. After that wonderful Cavern performance, I told John that they needed a manager. He immediately agreed and asked where he should sign. The rest, as they say, is history.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: Some folks say the Beatles’ story began after that Quarrymen show at St. Peter’s, y’know. Some say it was when we went off to play in Hamburg. Some say it was when Stu went vampire on us, and I took over on bass. Some say it was when we started our residency at the Cavern Club. Me, I point to the day we brought Brian Epstein aboard … and we restrained ourselves from zombifying him.

  That’s when I realized John might be right. Maybe we could do it. Maybe the Beatles could take over the whole world. And our first step toward world domination took place at the Decca Records studio, way out in bloody West Hampstead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1962

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: One of the first things I did when I took on the band was to make certain they developed some semblance of onstage decorum. They were a rough lot, those lads, and it showed before, during, and after their performances, and it needed to stop. It was all fine and good for them to wrap a bar stool around a heckler’s neck in Hamburg, but not in the UK. They had to learn to look, and somewhat act, the part.

  The first problem was their hair. The Exis got them in the habit of wearing what I suppose you could call a pompadour, and to my mind, that didn’t sit well with their overall look. I felt that having their ’dos stick up in the air emphasized what should have been deemphasized. That said, God knows I didn’t want them to cut it; they needed as much cover on their heads as possible, because John and George periodically broke out in festering skull sores, and long hair covered the evidence. More or less.

  Problem number two: their attire. They often wore leather, and to me, that made them look, erm, aggressive. Granted, they were aggressive—they were undead, for goodness sake, and you couldn’t expect anything less—but I felt like a change of costume would tone things down without sacrificing their innate zombieness, something John was quite concerned about, because, as he famously told Mersey Beat, “Until the end of time, I intend to stay as true to my zombie roots as possible.”

  So I suggested they try wearing matching suits, with the proviso being the suits were always a dark color. If they wore a lighter tone, any blood or brain fluid that spilled between sets would stain and be easily seen, whereas with black, nobody would be the wiser. I took them shopping, and they looked smashing.

  I firmly believed that a spiffy look would lead to a spiffy record deal. A logical thought, but at first, I was very, very wrong. Not a single label wanted to touch us. I didn’t know why, and I couldn’t figure out how to rectify it. Aside from the afternoon that George overturned a city bus, the boys handled the constant rejection well, but I could tell that John was reaching his boiling point.

  Zombies have been a familiar entity throughout the world for many decades now, and though the majority of them look somewhat grotesque, most of us have seen enough of the undead that we’re rarely fazed in their presence. A lumpy, gray face? So what else is new? Oddly positioned limbs? No biggie. Scars, permanent dried blood, scars, festering sores, and more scars? Who cares?

  On the other hand, few have seen a Midpointer up close and personal; thus, Midpointers tend to elicit a more noticeable reaction: they don’t cause a panic, but if you encounter one, you’ll likely be, at the very least, taken aback. It has nothing to do with the Midpointer attitude—demeanor-wise, they’re a perfectly nice lot, if not a little depressed—but rather their physicality. I can report that an up-close encounter with a Midpointer will disconcert even the most jaded zombie enthusiast.

  Midpointers are partly alive, partly dead, and partly undead, but unfortunately for them, they take on the worst physical characteristics of all three states of being. Immediately after their zombie-to-Midpointer transformation, their skin tone changes from typical undead gray to an almost translucent white, so translucent that in the correct light, their body’s infrastructure is visible. Making matters worse for the passerby, the infrastructure is inevitably severely damaged, so if you catch a glimpse of a Midpointer with his shirt off, you might be treated to a view of a lacerated liver or a punctured lung or a squashed heart. That being the case, Midpointers tend to wear extra layers of clothing, so, for the most part, you’ll only be treated to the sight of a chip in the skull or a sheared cornea. The clarity of the skin makes any scars and bloodstains stand out in sharp relief, which doesn’t exactly sweeten the view.

  And lest we forget, Midpointers float. That may not sound like a big deal, but try spending a few hours chatting with a blood-covered, ghost-skinned, bummed-out, deadish man who’s constantly hovering several inches off the ground. No matter how tough you think you are, your brain isn’t wired to be at ease in the presence of an odoriferous, gored-out floater.

  It takes a whole lot of physical trauma for a Liverpool zombie to become a Midpointer, and the vast majority of them are the by-products of horrible accidents, oftentimes involving high levels of heat; e.g., a bomb, a fiery car wreck, or a fall from a great height. Purposefully turning a zombie into a Midpointer is a difficult proposition, and for the transformation to occur, you have to hurt them badly. Very few humans have the strength or wherewithal to produce a Midpointer; thus most Midpointers are created by other zombies.

  All of which brings us to Dick Rowe.

  A legendary A&R man for Decca Records, Rowe was cited as being responsible for discovering and/or signing such acts as the Rolling Stones, Tom Jones, and Van Morrison’s first band, Them. After seeing the Beatles tear up Cavern both musically and physically, Rowe had Decca invite them into the studio for a New Year’s Eve session that would serve as their audition for the label. John, Paul, George, and Pete laid down a whopping fifteen tunes in an hour, and most Beatles fans justifiably think the quartet sounded damn good. Believing guitar bands were on their way out, and zombie bands would never find their way in, Rowe disagreed, and a couple of weeks after the session, Brian Epstein received the unfortunate verdict.

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: The boys felt terrific about their studio performance for Decca, and I knew they’d be heartbroken not to get offered a deal. I decided to deliver the news to John face-to-face, as it’s easier to console somebody in person than over the phone. It was the right thing to do … or, at least, that’s what I thought until I found myself lying on my arse in the middle of the street outside his flat.

  JOHN LENNON: Never meant to hurt Eppy. Couldn’t be helped. Strictly reflexes.

  BRIAN EPSTEIN: John wanted to speak to Rowe personally, and I thought that was simply an atrocious idea. The English record industry was tiny and insular—everybody knew everybody—and if John went after Rowe, word would get around, and it would make landing a deal even more difficult. I pointed out that we’d already been rejected by almost every label in town, and if he went after Rowe, nobody else would give them an audition, let alone a contract.

  He ignored me. He’s a bullheaded one. But that’s wh
at makes John John.

  JOHN LENNON: I called Paulie and told him to put on his best gear, because we were gonna have a little palaver with Mr. Rowe.

  He said, “Do you think that’s a good idea? I’ve been on the receiving end of your palavers, and I barely survived, and I’m a bloody zombie, y’know.”

  I said, “We’re just gonna talk to the man. That’s why I want you to wear your nicest outfit. I dunno about you, but I wouldn’t want to get my finest finery all fooked-up with blood and brains. If we look nice, we’ll be more apt to act nice.”

  He said, “What time did you make the appointment for?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “The appointment is when I say it is.”

  Another piece of the Beatles puzzle who I had to sweet-talk into speaking with me on the record, Dick Rowe, is a classic Midpointer: clear skin covered with seeming buckets of fresh-looking blood, incessant floating, eyes overflowing with blue tears. He’s made the best of his undead/dead situation, creating a comfortable, if not solitary, life for himself, a life lived in a small, nondescript London flat, surrounded by tens of thousands of albums, cassette tapes, eight-tracks, and compact discs. The blue tears that dot Dick Rowe’s cheeks mask the fact that he’s a quietly content individual—for a Midpointer, that is.

  Rowe rarely enters John Lennon’s or Paul McCartney’s thoughts, but conversely—and perhaps unsurprisingly—Lennon and McCartney are almost always on the former Decca maven’s brain, as he told me in August 2005.

  DICK ROWE: Was it a cock-up not to sign them? Yes. Would I do it differently if I had it to do over again? Musically speaking, no, I wouldn’t. The band wasn’t ready. The potential was there, but I wasn’t about potential. I didn’t have time to hold a band’s hand until they got their sound together. I needed hits, and I needed them fast. Sure, I was upper-level management, but I still had to answer to the moneymen, and for the boys on the eighteenth floor, failure was not an option.

  In terms of how it all affected me personally, well, let’s just say I might’ve made some different choices.

  The day after we let Brian Epstein know we were passing on the band, Lennon and McCartney burst into my office, without an appointment, wearing tuxedos. I’d met them briefly after one of their performances at the Cavern Club, but I didn’t know how simultaneously gruesome and charismatic they were until I saw them in the light of day. They were gorgeous and appalling, all at once.

  I stood up, offered my hand, and said, “Gentlemen. This is unexpected.”

  Lennon slapped my hand away. Fortunately he held back; if he had hit me with full strength, my entire arm would’ve flown through the closed window, across the city, and into the Thames. He said, “You’re right, mate. It is unexpected. Matter of fact, this whole situation is unexpected. I mean, what the fook d’you want from us?” After I asked him what he meant, he said, “Our tape. What was wrong with our tape?”

  I said, “Nothing was wrong with it, Mr. Lennon. You gents have a ton of potential. It was … nice. That’s all. Just nice.”

  In an eyeblink, Lennon was standing behind me. He whispered into my ear, “One thing the Beatles are not, Mr. Rowe, is nice.”

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: Right then, right when Johnny zoomed behind Rowe, I was certain that one of two things was gonna happen: John was going to hypnotize Rowe into giving us a recording contract, or he was gonna chuck him across the room.

  The answer: number two.

  JOHN LENNON: No chance I’d hypnotize him. Remember, I made that promise to the cosmos: no hypnotizing my way into a gig.

  Dick Rowe: I never saw it coming. For that matter, I still don’t even know what it was. A punch? A kick? Something telekinetic? Who knows? One second I was standing in front of my desk, and the next, I was on the other side of the room, on the floor, curled against the wall, with a framed photo of me and Jimmy Young on my lap.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: I grabbed John’s shoulder and asked him, “What the fook are you doing, mate? I thought we were gonna lay low, y’know. I thought we were gonna keep our monkey suits clean.”

  He said, “Yeah, well, I got caught up in the moment.”

  I said, “What moment? He offered to shake your hand. That’s not a moment. That’s a bloody pleasantry.”

  He said, “So you say. I say that we need to send a message to the music industry. We’ve gotta make an example of this Rowe bloke. Let everybody know they can’t mess with Lennon and McCartney.”

  I said, “What kind of example are you thinking of?”

  DICK ROWE: I’ve since been told by experts that Liverpool zombies have the ability to make their attacks painless for their victims, both mentally and physically. For me, Lennon was merciful, which I’ve heard wasn’t always the case. I’m sure my transformation was horrific, but I don’t remember a single thing.

  JOHN LENNON: The only reason I didn’t torture Dick Rowe was because Paul asked me not to. And when Paulie gives you those sad puppy-dog eyes, well, it’s hard to refuse him … and it has nothing to do with hypnosis. There’s a reason people call him the Cute fookin’ Beatle.

  PAUL MCCARTNEY: Johnny’s attacks were always intense, y’know, but this one was an Olympic-level performance. After he threw Rowe against the wall, he picked him up by his hair and zombified him in twelve seconds flat … and yes, I counted. But he did a sloppy job, because he knew he was going to kill him only moments later.

  John then unceremoniously dropped Rowe on the floor, ran to the other side of the office, and opened the window. Before Rowe even knew he was a zombie, John grabbed him by the waist, wound up like a cricket player, and underhanded him out the window onto the sidewalk thirty meters below.

  JOHN LENNON: In my defense, I took the time to look down at the street and make sure I wasn’t throwing Dickie onto any pedestrians, because I knew I was gonna throw him so hard that if he’d have landed on somebody, they would’ve been dead instantly. Killing somebody without eating them was pointless. At least I thought so then.

  I’d never purposely Midpointed anybody, and I wasn’t sure if it would work. But this was a ten-story drop, and I was comfortable thinking that that would end it, especially if he was falling at fifty kilometers per hour. If it didn’t work, I was prepared to go downstairs and set his body on fire.

  DICK ROWE: When I came to, I was in my own bed. Wait, check that: I was hovering over my own bed. I wasn’t in pain, but I wasn’t not in pain, and I think the only way you’d understand what I mean by that is if you get Midpointed, and I hope to God that never happens to you.

  JOHN LENNON: I’ll never let Dick Rowe become a zombie. No diamond bullets in the noggin for him. He’s a Midpointer for life and death. And whenever one of those blue tears drips onto his slacks, I want him to remember the names John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

  DICK ROWE: None of the Midpoint characteristics kept me from being able to do my job—frankly, all the Midpoint symptoms are more of a nuisance than anything else—so I kept right on working.

  Sometimes being the way I am has worked in my favor: Like Tom Jones said he signed with us instead of Vee-Jay, because he thought my floating was, as he put it, “far out, baby.”

  On the other hand, it almost hurt me with the Rolling Stones, as Mick had issues with zombies of any sort. But that’s another story.

  We now interrupt our narrative for a digression about zombie sex slaves. Everybody asks.

  John, Paul, and George had similar reactions when I raised the topic of sex slaves: brief silence and a frightening glare, followed by the threat of a painful death without reanimation. No confirmations. No denials. Just really, really scary warnings. Thus, nobody can say for sure if the three undead Beatles used their zombie powers to create minions of women who would fulfill their every sexual desire.

  There is, nonetheless, some compelling evidence that points toward … something.

  LYMAN COSGROVE: I’ve been told that the most controversial chapter of Under the Canal is chapter nine, the section about the sex life of beings who
have undergone the Liverpool Process. And saying that’s the most controversial is quite a statement, because both zombologists and casual undead watchers alike have made it clear that they believe the entire book to be exceedingly controversial. I’ve never shied away from controversy, however, and I never will.

  Lyman told me that he hasn’t made any new zombie sex discoveries since the original publication of Under the Canal, so rather than discuss something he’s discussed time and again, he prefers I pull the information verbatim from his book, so as to avoid any possible inconsistencies.

  FROM CHAPTER NINE OF LYMAN COSGROVE AND ELLINGTON WORTHSON’S UNDER THE CANAL: THE UNDEAD OF ABYSSINIA CLOSE AND THE BIRTH OF THE LIVERPOOL PROCESS:

  There are precious few studies on the sex life of the Homo Coprophagus Somnambulus, as many zombies are unable or unwilling to engage in the act at all. Female zombies find it difficult, if not impossible, to naturally lubricate, and male zombies suffer from a plethora of obstacles, running the gamut from an inability to produce and/or maintain an erection to penile detachment.

  For the fortunate zombies born via the Liverpool Process, sex is a realistic possibility, but fully satisfying sex, less so. For females, the chance of reaching orgasm is infinitesimal. Of the 7,153 female undead I questioned, only one has experienced a post-process climax, and the veracity of her claim is questionable, as the person who reanimated her left the poor woman with only 89 percent of the brain fluid necessary to enjoy a satisfying undeath.

  Males, however, are far luckier. They can easily achieve multiple orgasms, as many as ten an hour. (One gentleman claimed that he ejaculated 214 times in a twenty-four-hour period.) On the downside, the orgasms are less than fulfilling. Dustmen particles do not create the same sensation as seminal fluid, possibly because dust is not a singular entity and is not able to create the proper traffic flow down the vas deferens highway. (We speculate that the vas deferens is one of the body’s internal components not affected by the Process; we may never know why, as no male zombie has been willing to donate his penis and/or testicles for study.)