Smiling, Paul said, “Everybody loves the Beatles, y’know. I bet you blokes do, too.”
The biggest USZG said, “Until five minutes ago, I did love the Beatles.”
Paul glared at John, and said, “See, that’s the thing about taking this approach. Sure, we get to rule the world, but we lose fans along the way. Lost fans means lost record sales, y’know. And lost record sales means our royalty statements will be messy, and…”
In a tone that sounded what slow death must feel like, John said, “Shut it, Paulie. The Poppermost is near.” His tone was so creepy that Paulie shut it.
They’d evacuated the building, so for the next five minutes, our footsteps echoed up and down the empty hallways, until we arrived to the carpeted area outside the Oval Office entrance. The Secret Service agents took their positions on either side of the door leading to the inner sanctum, and the four USZG’s stood directly behind us, prods humming and ready. The agent to the left said, “The President will see you now.”
The smallest USZG said, “If you so much as harm a hair on the President’s head, we will end you and everything that is dear to you. And I will make it my mission in life to destroy every Beatles record in existence.”
“Good luck with that,” Paul said. “That’s a lot of records, y’know.”
“And don’t forget about the MP3’s,” I said.
John asked, “What the fook is an MP3?”
The agent to the left then repeated, “The President will see you now.”
And there he was, seated on his desk, my fellow Chicagoan, Barack Obama, appearing wholly presidential and wholly unfazed. For that matter, he even looked kind of happy. As we approached the desk, he stood up and offered John his hand. “Mr. Lennon, this is an honor. Call me Barry.”
John looked at the President’s hand, then at the President, then back at the hand, then back at the man. “I’m afraid I can’t shake the hand of a man I’m about to kill.”
If it was possible, Obama’s smile widened. He asked, “John, why do you want to kill me? I thought all you need is love, brother.”
After a quiet Zombie moan, John said, “We want to get to the Poppermost, and you’re in our way, so you must die. No Zombification for you. Just eternal sleep.”
Somehow, the President’s smile brightened. “The Poppermost? Hell, why didn’t you say so? That’s no problem. You can have the damn Poppermost.” He went back around his desk, pulled a briefcase from one of the lower drawers, and loaded it up with some papers. “It’s all yours. I’m outta here. This is the worst job ever. You guys’ll probably have an easier time with Congress then I ever did.” He pulled an iPhone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, handed it to me, and said, “Listen, before I split, can you take a picture of me with the Fab Four?”
I was so blown away by this turn of events, that I dropped the phone on the floor; fortunately, it didn’t break—unlike my iPhone, the iPhone that, if you’ll remember, Ringo trashed. Not that I’m bitter or anything. I said, “My bad, Mr. President. Sorry, sorry, sorry…”
Obama chuckled, then pulled another iPhone from his other breast pocket and said, “Don’t worry about it. Now get cracking, because I want to be on a plane to Chicago before the press gets wind of this.” He motioned to the band and said, “Okay, gentlemen, bring it in. Let’s get a good picture, here.” After I took a few photos, Obama said, “Hold on a sec,” then turned to George and added, “Mr. Harrison, let me get a big old smile out of you. You’re Malia’s favorite.”
Ringo said, “George hasn’t smiled in twenty years. Good luck with that one.” But George was so charmed by the soon-to-be-retired President that he involuntarily grinned…. Thing is, years of eating brains hadn’t done wonders for his teeth, so I kept him out of the frame, because those choppers would’ve scared the shit out of Malia Obama. Hell, they scared the shit out of me.
After the photo op, Obama picked up his briefcase and, chuckling, said, “Time for me to get back where I once belonged. Have fun at the Poppermost, gentlemen!” And then he skedaddled out of the White House and into the private sector.
John, Paul, George, and Ringo stared silently at the door for a good long time, lost in thought. One might believe that upon reaching the goal that they’d sought for so long, they’d be in a celebratory mood, but I understood their contemplativeness. When you realize your dream—when you achieve something that in your heart of hearts that you never thought you’d achieve—it can be daunting, even for Zombies who have seen and done the kinds of things that the Beatles have. I couldn’t imagine what was going through their heads. Were they excited? Uneasy? Ecstatic? As much hell as they’d put me through, I’d come to care for them in a weird way, and was more than a little curious to find out their innermost thoughts, and I knew they’d tell me exactly what they were feeling, because that’s one thing the Zombie Beatles have always been: Honest.
Finally, after an almost unbearable silence, John gave each of his bandmates a deep, meaningful look, then took a deep, meaningful breath, and said, “This is fookin’ boring. Let’s go make a record.”
AUGUST 1, 2011
Bet you didn’t know there was a recording studio in the White House basement. Turned out that Jimmy Carter fancied himself a crooner, and he used to sneak out after hours and sit in at local Washington cabaret bars. But by the end of his term he never left the building for fear of being assassinated. Hence, the in-house studio.
The lads have been recording since the night Obama left them in charge of the country, and it’s going horribly. Since they last wrote any new tunes together, John and Paul have grown apart musically; John gravitates toward esoteric, distinctly un-rocking noise music, whereas Paul has become fond of smooth jazz-like R&B. It’s like Sonic Youth trying to collaborate with Boyz II Men.
George is being a good soldier, playing exactly what he’s told, but I can tell he’s ready to explode. Ringo just sits behind his drum set with a hangdog expression plastered on his normally affable mug. The good thing is that, unlike every one of their recording sessions between 1967 and the breakup, they haven’t gotten into one of those physical and verbal battles that left feelings hurt and entire villages destroyed.
Still, I wasn’t having the best time in the world.
At 10:00, I told the guys that I was going to bed—I was sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom, which wasn’t all it was cracked up to be—but before I made it to the door, John dragged me into the control room, sat me down on the sofa, and said, “You know you can go, mate.”
I said, “I know. I’m going.”
“No, you can go home. You can go back to Chicago. Go hang out with that Obama bloke.”
“Yeah, I know. But how often do you get a chance to watch the Beatles make a record?”
John shook his head. “Quit talking shite, Scribe. You have better taste than that. This isn’t a record. This is a steaming pile of kangaroo dung.”
I wasn’t about to call a Lennon/McCartney song a steaming pile of kangaroo dung, but I couldn’t lie and say it was quality music, so I gave John a noncommittal grunt.
Nodding, John said, “That’s what I thought. And I appreciate your honesty.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“By saying nothing, mate, you said everything.” After a surprisingly companionable silence, John said, “I looked at your notebooks. I read what you wrote about us. More honesty. I didn’t like it…”
“I told you you wouldn’t.”
“But I appreciated that you wrote with your heart. Makes me want to keep you around for a good long while.”
Shaking my head, I said, “I’ve gotta get out of here eventually, John. This isn’t good for me.”
“What isn’t good for you?” John asked.
“Being around Zombies. Humans without any kind of paranormal powers and the undead don’t mix. I can literally feel my mind bending.”
“Nothing wrong with a bending mind,” John said.
“For a Zombie, maybe. But not for a mortal.”
“Well then, Scribe, I have a question for you. How about if I Zombified you? How about if I made you a Liverpool Zombie?”
“Um…”
“Listen, Alan, your life is all about writing, and doing yoga, and eating Mexican food, and watching Chicago sporting events. Now that sounds like a pretty fookin’ good life to me, mate, and, if I’m you, I’m wanting that life to go on forever. And let’s face it: you’re not getting any younger, and I don’t even know what to say about your wardrobe, but it’s all going downhill. You’re not looking as good as you did when you interviewed me ten fookin’ years ago, but the good news is that, if you stay on this planet for all eternity, you can get your shite together like nobody’s business.”
He had made some good points, and I told him so.
“Of course I made some good points, Scribe. I’m Johnny fookin’ Lennon.” He chuckled, then said, “So let me take you down where there’s nothing to get hung about.”
It was a frightening, albeit intriguing offer. Relatively speaking, Liverpool Zombies lead a decent undeath: They could eat human food; they could have sex and even ejaculate; and they were as strong and fast as Hell. On the other hand, as a Liverpool Zombie, I’d be shunned by family, by loved ones, by strangers, by animals, and, well, by every being other than a Zombie, and this shunning would go on forever.
So. On one hand, I could be an immortal on this mortal coil, while alienating 99.9999 percent of the humanity on the planet, all while hanging out with the Beatles. On the other hand, I could continue on with what, for the most part, has been a pretty damn good life, a life filled with love, warmth, and sincere human connections.
John and I stared at one another for who-knows-how-long, and an unspoken communication passed between us, and I saw in his eye how horrible and wonderful eternity as a Liverpool Zombie would be. Horrible. Wonderful. Horrible. Wonderful. Horrible. Wonderful.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, then told him my decision.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my awesome fans for their awesomeness.
Thanks to my agent Jason Allen Ashlock of Movable Type Management for the support and encouragement.
Thanks to Larry Norton, David Wilk, and all the fine folks at INscribe.
Thanks to Kate Griffiths, Mik McDade, and Jess Paul for their magnificent artwork.
Thanks to Jeffrey Brown for his badass cover.
Thanks to my lovely wife Natalie, for her love and, well, for being her.
Alan Goldsher is the author of 13 books, including the acclaimed remix novel Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion. As a ghostwriter, he has collaborated with numerous celebrities and public figures. For more information, please visit http://www.AlanGoldsher.com or write [email protected]
Table of Contents
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
Give Death A Chance Page 8