GIVE DEATH A CHANCE
The British Zombie Invasion 2
By Alan Goldsher
BooGoo Press
Give Death a Chance: The British Zombie Invasion 2
© 2012 by Alan Goldsher
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Published as an e-book January 2012 by BooGoo Press
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-617509-76-6
For more information, please visit www.alangoldsher.com
Cover art by Jeffrey Brown. © 2012.
Interior art by Kate Griffiths, Mik McDade and Jess Paul. © 2012
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover
Titlepage
Copyright
Contents
JUNE 15, 2009
JUNE 16, 2009
JUNE 19, 2009
JUNE 22, 2009
JUNE 26, 2009
JUNE 28, 2009
JULY 1, 2009
JULY 4, 2009
JULY 10, 2009
JULY 12, 2009
JULY 20, 2009
JULY 21, 2009
JULY 23, 2009
JULY 24, 2009
AUGUST 1, 2011
Acknowledgements
Ever been in a van with a band after they’ve been on tour for three measly days? No? Well, as a guy who’s played bass professionally for a couple of decades, I have. Many times. Many, many times. And it ain’t pretty.
First of all, when touring, you’re in constant close confines, so by the time day three rolls around—unless everybody’s taking regular servings of Prozac—the vibe in and out of the van is sullen and silent at best, and flat-out squirrely at worst. Say or do one wrong thing, and it could start an epic argument that’ll last from Cleveland to Philly, then continue through soundcheck, during the show, then at the afterparty, and the afterafterparty, and the afterafterafterparty. During one overnight drive from Phoenix to San Francisco with a band that shall remain nameless, the drummer and I almost came to blows over some peanut butter. I wanted to eat it, and he wanted to…to…to… Christ, I can’t even bring myself tell you what the demented fuck wanted to do to that innocent jar of Jif crunchy.
Second of all, there’s the smell. Unless you’re U2, or the Red Hot Chili Peppers, or Bruce Springsteen—you know, an act with a touring budget the size of our national debt—and you have one of those jacked-up tour buses with all the amenities of a four-star hotel room (e.g., 1,000 thread count sheets, running water, flushable toilets, satellite television, Spectravision porn, etc.), it’s not a guarantee you’ll get an opportunity to clean your entire body, because not every venue where you perform has a shower. Your more responsible, more compassionate bandmates will go off into a quiet corner and give themselves a bath with baby wipes, but there’ll always be some holdouts who are perfectly content going au naturale, which is French for “stank.” Even if three-quarters of your band is fresh as a daisy, somebody’s going to be a dick about washing up, so your vehicle, more likely than not, is going to reek.
Third of all, the eating situation is a farce. If you’re an intrepid shopper who loads up on groceries at every given opportunity, you’ll be more or less fine, but if you don’t plan ahead, you’re stuck with all fast food, all the time. And fast food means upset tummies. And upset tummies mean stinkier vans (a combination of farts, B.O., and half-eaten Quarter Pounders doth not an enjoyable ride make). And stinkier vans mean shorter tempers. And shorter tempers mean fisticuffs over peanut butter.
It sucks like a Dyson, but, when you add three power-mad English Zombies and a frustrated Ninja into the mix, you’re looking at one bitch of a tour.
And I’m on that bitch of a tour.
A bitch of a tour that I wanted no part of.
Now you may say, If this touring thing is so bad, Alan, then shut it down. Chuck your bass into the Chicago River. Give up the music, because, let’s be honest, you’re a better writer than you are a bassist, so just write. Just write. Just write.
Trust me, if I had my druthers and a pile of fuck-you money in the bank, I’d give it up all together—the writing, the bass playing, the whole schmeer—and change my name, get some plastic surgery, hide out in some a nameless town in Italy, and eat all the pasta I could get my tongue on.
Thing is, John Lennon won’t let me.
JUNE 15, 2009
The Beatles are on their reunion tour, and, much to my chagrin, I’m their roadie-slash-advance-man-slash-road-manager-slash-whipping-boy. I’d like to quit my new job—no, I’d friggin’ love to quit my new job, really—but, if I bail, John promises he’ll tear off my “plonker”—his word, not mine—then rip off my arm, then stick the dismembered arm over the hole where my “percy”—his word, not mine—used to be, then stick my “pillock”—his word, not mine—where my arm used to be. Considering the multiple beatdowns he pasted upon my person while I was researching my book Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion, I have no reason to doubt him.
On the plus side, Ringo Starr told me, “If shite goes down, Brother Alan, I’ve got your back. I’ll protect you from the lads.” I know he means well, but there’s only so much one Ninja drummer can do when up against multiple Liverpudlian Zombies. Ringo has fighting chops to burn, and could probably take John, or Paul, or George mano a mano, but if he was outnumbered three to one, it would be a quick, ugly match.
It’s been 72 hours since the Double Door Massacre—if I were writing a newspaper article about that night, that’s what I’d have called it, “The Double Door Massacre”; second choice, “The Fab Four Fracas”—and aside from a handful of bathroom pit stops, several McDonald’s runs (yuck), and a drive-by at a CVS in Gary, Indiana, to procure me a massive pile of notebooks, a bunch of multi-colored ballpoint pens, and a couple of new t-shirts, we haven’t rested.
I don’t know what the media is saying about what went down in Chicago last Wednesday, because the lads won’t let me listen to any news. It’s all classic rock radio, all the time. (And commercial radio sucks these days due to, logically enough, the commercials. Heaven forbid the lads bothered to pick up any CDs before we hit the road.) Each time we move out of range of one classic rock station, Paul McCartney—who, much to my chagrin, handles the majority of the driving duties, and I say chagrin, because the man has zero road skills, which you can’t blame solely on the fact that he’s used to driving on the right side of the road like most Englanders; he’s simply an incompetent driver—searches for another outlet that serves up the Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, and Roy Orbison tunes they so crave. That’s all fine and good, but A) I, personally, would love to hear a bit of John Coltrane or Ben Folds; and B) More importantly, I want to know what’s happening in the outside world.
I want to know if anybody or everybody knows about the exploding heads that splattered yellow and gray goo all over my favorite gray t-shirt.
I want to know if anybody or everybody knows about the ravine of blood that soaked the Double Door dance floor.
I want to know if anybody or everybody knows about the shattered skulls, the dismembered limbs, and the guy whose spinal column George Harrison used as a back-scratcher.
I want to know if this is real.
*****
The irony about the Double Door gig is that once the lame-o soundman behind the mixing board properly dialed in the band, the guys sounded pretty good. “Paperback Writer” was a bit of a mess—it was hard for the boys to nail th
e intricate vocal harmonies on that one, even with a sound system far more advanced than the ones they were using on the last tour, back in ’66—but the old stuff, everything pre-Rubber Soul, was pretty on point. John forgot the lyrics to the second verse of “I Am the Walrus” and replaced it with these weird semi-rhythmic moans, but that was the only true blight on the performance. Aside from that whole killing-the-audience thing, of course.
A number of folks at the club recorded blips and blops of the show on their iPhones, or BlackBerries, or whatevers, but since the club is now a pile of ashes, and every bit of solid material—be it a person or a cell phone—was incinerated, nobody will ever see or hear what went down, so y’all are gonna have to trust me on my word. If I were reviewing the show for Entertainment Weekly, I’d give it a B+. It had a nice beat, and you could dance to it…if you still had both of your legs. And/or your face. And/or a beating heart. And/or a working brain.
The morning after the gig—12 hours after they’d taken me in custody—much to Ringo’s chagrin, Paul insisted returning to the club, or where the club used to be, before we headed to wherever the hell it was they were taking me. (They hadn’t given me an itinerary, which was silly, because they told me I was the road manager, and the road manager is supposed to know where the next gig is. But whatever.) Ringo said, “Why you want to go back, mate? What’ll there be to see? It’ll be a bunch of dust.”
Paul said, “I just want to make sure, y’know.”
I mumbled, “Make sure of what?” Those were the first words I’d uttered in hours.
John said, “Ah. Lovely. The Scribe is heard from. Thought you were chuffed with us. Great to hear you talking, mate. Good morning, good morning, good morning, guh!”
I grunted.
“Right. That’s enough out of you, then.” Then he said to Paul, “Rings has got a point, Paulie. What the fook do you want to make sure of?”
Paul said, “Erm…to make sure we finished the job.”
They’re trying to avoid leaving the van, of course, because A) They’re the Beatles, and, as George put it, “The less Mania, the better”; and B) The last thing they want is some USZG’s on their ass. (That’s USZG’s as in United States Zombie Guards, whose brain trust, I suspect, are already big-time cheesed-off with the lads, as John took out a couple of their best men before he left New York.) All of which means whenever the lads need anything—food, water, shuriken, the latest issue of Undead Booty—it’s on me. That’s why they let me live in the first place. That’s why snatched me. I’m their conduit to humanity.
We’ve run out of gas twice already although we haven’t even left Chicago yet, because Paul insists on driving around and around the city to, as he put it, “Take the public’s temperature, y’know.”
I said, “What temperature?” In general, I try to avoid saying anything, because every time I open my mouth, John rags on me, and there’s only so many times one can be referred to as a “cuntish dustmen repository” before one gets a little fed up. But John was asleep, and I was curious.
Paul—who’d briefly allowed Ringo to take the wheel, thank God—said, “I, erm, I want to see what the world thinks of us.” (Other than living brains, the two things Paul McCartney is most obsessed with are his band’s image and their sales figures.) He turned around and continued, “You’re the writer, mate. What do you think they think of us?”
George told Paul, “This is mania. Enough. Who cares what the world thinks of us? Bloody hell.” The two of them had been sniping at each other for hours. I’m telling you, rock bands plus vans equals insults, arguments, and shitty vibes.
I said to Paul, “If I were to guess, I’d say the public is a combination of pissed, scared, and thrilled. But no matter what, they won’t look away.”
Paul said, “So, y’know, if we made a new album, it’d sell, right?”
I said, “Um, yeah. You might sell a copy or two.”
John Lennon was the only Zombie I’d ever met who got sarcasm, so I wasn’t surprised when Paul said, with all seriousness, “Well, a copy or two’s a start, y’know.”
Ringo asked, “You don’t think there’ll be backlash?”
I said, “Well, not right this second, of course. You didn’t leave any survivors to tell the tale.”
George interrupted, “We left one survivor, my friend: You. Because you know what’s happening out there. You know the score.”
I said, “Um, I really don’t know the score. Ringo busted my iPhone…”
Ringo said, “Sorry ‘bout that, mate. Errant shuriken. Occupational hazard. You know that.”
I continued, “So I don’t have online access, and aside from the two gas stops and that 7-Eleven run, you haven’t let me out of the van, so how am I supposed to offer any context as to what happened when I don’t know what’s happening? And remember, you didn’t advertise the show, so it’s not like a lot of people know you were there in the first place.”
Addressing the rest of the band, Ringo said, “You gents didn’t think this through very well, did you?”
George pointed at John. “He was the brains behind this plan.”
In a less explosive situation, I would’ve made a brain joke. Now, not so much.
Nobody said anything for few minutes, and then Paul turned around and asked me, “So the record would sell, yeah?”
George yelled, “Watch the road, Rings!”
After Starr narrowly avoided plowing into a blue Prius, I told McCartney, “Paul, you’re the frigging Beatles. Of course the record will sell.”
Paul asked, “Even though we’ve killed a person or three?”
George added, “Or a million.”
I said, “Yes, even though you’ve killed a person or three. Or a million. See, the public loves having their buttons pushed. I mean, look at Lady Gaga.”
John asked, “Who the fook is Lady Gaga?”
I said, “Wait—you guys haven’t heard of Lady Gaga?”
And then our conversation turned into an Abbott and Costello routine—that is, if Abbott and Costello were covered with orange, pus-filled, oozing, steaming sores that smelled like the industrial section of Elizabeth, New Jersey.
JOHN: What did I just say?
ME: You said, Who the fuck is Lady Gaga?
JOHN: No, I said who the fook is Lady Gaga?
ME: Who the fuck?
JOHN: No. Who the fook.
ME: Wait, fook isn’t fuck?
JOHN: Fook is fook. And fook is fook.
ME: So fook isn’t fuck?
JOHN: Just answer the question, Scribe. Who the fook is Lady Gaga?
ME: She’s a singer.
GEORGE: Can she sing?
ME: She’s okay. She likes to wear goofy clothes and show off her hoo-hah.
PAUL: Now that’s intriguing, y’know. She sells records?
ME: Lots.
PAUL: Because she lets everybody see her box?
ME: Some might say that.
PAUL: Does she bare her bristols?
ME: Sometimes.
PAUL: D’you think we should show off our plonkers, then?
RINGO: For the love of God, no.
JOHN: Yoko wouldn’t approve.
ME (mumbling): I wouldn’t approve.
JOHN: What was that, Scribe?
ME: Nothing.
GEORGE: No, please, Alan. Share. Offer us your sage advice. You’re the brilliant journo.
PAUL: We won’t eat you, y’know.
JOHN: At least not yet.
ME: Okay, fine. Lady Gaga is a living and breathing woman. Her breasts are attractive. Her legs are attractive. Her tuchas is attractive.
RINGO: What’s a tuchas?
ME: Yiddish for tush.
GEORGE: You should know that, Rings, being Jewish and all.
RINGO: Are you making fun of me nose again?
GEORGE: If the Kleenex fits.
JOHN: Shut it, the lot of you. Scribe, continue.
ME: Men enjoy watching her because she’s attractive. Wom
en enjoy watching her because she’s provocative. If she were less attractive, or didn’t market herself as well as she does, she probably wouldn’t be as popular as she is, but in today’s entertainment world, if you want mass-market success, photogenicism and clever outfits are almost as important as talent.
RINGO (pointing to John): You don’t think this one is attractive?
JOHN: Yeah, Scribe. Am I attractive?
ME: You’re gorgeous.
JOHN: Thank you.
PAUL: Get back to how many records she’s selling, y’know.
ME: I don’t have the numbers, Paul. And I can’t look it up, because, if you’ll recall Ringo broke my iPhone, and I don’t have Internet access…
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