Give Death A Chance (5 page)

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 it 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.

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.”