Beatles in a Beetle

Omake #1 - Don't Look Up . . .

A/N: Hi everybody! I couldn't quite resist writing a little extra for this story, since you all enjoyed it so much :0) This is an alternate version of Chapter 5 (The Glitter Games). Ta for reading!

Paul was awoken by a clicking noise. He didn't particularly want to be awoken, though, so he stayed curled up in his warm bed with his eyes closed. He figured that Brian had probably come to wake them up for an "early start," as he too often did. Still, Paul wished the manager had waited until after the wake-up call, at least.

Yep, there he is, thought Paul grimly as he heard a floorboard creak.

"'M coming, 'm coming," he mumbled sleepily, pulling his covers over his head.

He heard nothing. He started to fall asleep again.

Hang on, that's odd, Paul suddenly thought. Shouldn't he have said something by now?

The bassist pulled back down the sheet slightly and cracked one of his eyes open tentatively, preparing to be blinded by the morning sun. However, the hotel room was still pitch black, the only light coming from the illuminated face of the alarm clock, which marked the time as 2:18.

Paul opened his other eye and turned his head, scanning the room.

There. The door connecting his and Ringo's room with John and George's was open a crack. And next to it stood a shadowy figure, holding something long and thin in its hand.

Paul swore mentally.

"What're you doing in here?" he squeaked in a feeble attempt to be authoritative.

"Shh!" whispered the figure, putting a finger to its lips.

"I will not shush!" said Paul loudly, recovering his voice.

"Shut up! You'll wake him up!" replied the figure in a familiar Scouse accent.

"John?" whispered Paul, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"Yeah, of course, you idiot! Who else'd be sneaking into your room at 2:30 in the morning?" hissed John as he approached Ringo's bed.

Their heads both jerked around wildly at the sound of an ill-disguised titter.

"Er . . . was that you, John?" whispered Paul tentatively, his hands clenched around the edges of the sheet.

"Funny, I was gonna ask you that," replied John, spinning slowly in a complete circle.

"Psst, Ringo!" urged Paul quietly. "Are you up?"

"What're you doing?" complained John angrily. Ringo continued to snore loudly.

"I guess it wasn't him . . . ." muttered Paul.

Another titter ricocheted around the dark room before it was hastily muffled.

Paul flicked on the light beside his bed. Yellow warmpth oozed across the beige carped and dipped into the mountains and valleys of the messy blankets.

Paul stared at John. "I don't see anybody," he commented.

"Keep your voice down!" hissed John, his eyes darting back and forth across the empty room from behind his glasses. Slowly, he stalked over to the wardrobe in the back corner, tiptoeing carefully over the carpet.

"Gotcha!" he shouted gleefully, yanking open the door to the cupboard. Four empty hangers and an extra blanket stared back at him morosely.

Paul stifled a snigger. "Yeah, I think you've really found the culprit now, John."

"What's going on in here?" complained George, sticking his tousled head through the door connecting their rooms.

"We're conducting a thorough police search," blustered John, puffing out his chest. "Be a good lad and keep out of the way of the professionals."

Suddenly, a loud crack snapped through the room. John, Paul, and George glanced around frantically for the source. Ringo snuffled and turned over.

"Who's there?" called George, adding under his breath, "John, if you're having me on . . . ."

A muffled giggle escaped and flittered around the room like a bird trapped indoors.

"Where's it coming from?" asked Paul.

"Sounds like somebody's giggling upstairs," commented Ringo blearily, struggling up to a sitting position.

"We're on the top floor, you daft git," dismissed John.

Another crackling snap popped through the room, followed by an ominous creak. All four Beatles stared at the ceiling tiles in alarm as they buckled downward. Soon a mess of metal framework, white fiber ceiling tiles, strands of pink insulation, and teenage schoolgirls had collapsed to the beige carpet with an almighty thump.

George coughed halfheartedly and tried to brush some of the white powder now coating everything off of his sleeves. Paul clutched his chest and tried to make his heart slow down by hyperventilating. Ringo blinked.

"Can I help you, miss?" inquired John, offering one of the two girls a hand. She gripped it and unsteadily pulled herself to her feet.

"You're John," she remarked dreamily as he helped her friend stand up.

"You got that right," replied John easily. "I'm St. John the Baptist, have been ever since I was sainted."

"George!" shrieked the other, throwing herself at the coughing guitarist.

"No, I'm not!" George feebly attempted. "I'm . . . I dunno, Ringo!"

"Oh," muttered the girl, disappointed. "Sorry." She leapt away from him and glanced around the room.

Mal chose this moment to kick in the door and rush in, the cavalry of two close on his heels.

"What on Earth . . . ." mumbled Neil, staring at the scene before him.

Brian moaned. "The PR!" he exclaimed sadly. "The press! They can't find out!"

"Would you care for some glitter glue?" inquired John of the first girl, handing her a tube. "It's Happy Hour, so you get a bonus discount."

A/N: And it's the end of the extra! Thanks for reading!