Give Death A Chance by Alan Goldsher

“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 something 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