Give Death A Chance by Alan Goldsher Page A

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