Beatles in a Beetle

Reception

The Beatles, own them I not do. You thank.

A/N: Yay! Chapter Two! Any ideas/thoughts? If I keep going, do you want a real plotline to develop or are you content to let it keep rambling? Tell me what you think in your reviews! Once I get 10 reviews, I'll post a chapter sometime in the next couple of weeks! Thanks for reading!

An hour and several mad dashes from frenzied fans later, the four Beatles traipsed into the hotel lobby, considerably worse for the wear. Paul was missing his jacket, George was dripping wet, Ringo's back had "You're our favourite, lover boy" written on it in lipstick, and John had somehow lost his shoes. The latter walked up to the reception desk, wincing as he stepped on a pebble.

"I'd like the key to my room, please," requested John, leaning over the desk, just a little too close to the face of the receptionist, a balding man in his mid-forties. The receptionist leaned back slightly, taking in John's rumpled suit, ripped tie, long hair, slightly manic smile, and intense stare.

The receptionist was controlled enough to only appear vaguely flustered by the younger man's appearance.

"Name, sir?"

John leaned even closer, squinting at the man with the "Lennon stare" intimidating only to those who didn't know he was "blind as a bat," as Paul often put it. John glanced over his shoulder warily, winking at the screaming girls outside the glass door, before turning back to the receptionist.

"Don't tell anyone," whispered John confidentially, "But I'm Marilyn Monroe."

The receptionist leaned back a little more, scanning John warily, eyebrows raised.

"Erm . . . okay," replied the receptionist. He pulled out the guest register.

"Lennon . . . McCartney . . . Porter . . . Starkey . . . Nope, I don't see a 'Monroe' in here," replied the receptionist, trying to maintain some degree of normality as he ran his finger down the list of names. He looked up to see what the other strange young men were doing. Paul was sitting in an armchair from the waiting area, which the Beatles had pushed against the door as a barricade against the fans. He was smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine, smoothing down his hair with his right hand as he held the magazine with his left, looking utterly relaxed despite the girls pounding on the glass behind him. Ringo was examining the items in the bland waiting room.

As he picked up an ashtray, he peered into the shallow, glass dish and called, "Anybody in there?" Ringo's back was to the desk; the receptionist could quite clearly read the red message scrawled across it, though Ringo seemed unaware of the writing.

George shook himself off like a dog, spraying water across the furnishings of the lobby. He then crouched under the glass ashtray Ringo was holding.

"Colonel Mustard here," he called back to Ringo, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Haloo, Colonel!" replied Ringo laconically. "Everything going according to plan?"

"Quite!" exclaimed George in a posh accent. "How about at your end of things?"

"Everything continues spiffingly," beamed Ringo.

The receptionist turned back to John. John was fiddling with a fountain pen he'd purloined from the desk. He looked up slowly and treated the receptionist to one of his "crip" faces, jutting his chin toward the older man, pushing out his lower lip with his tongue, and crossing his eyes.

The receptionist blanched.

As Ringo put down the ashtray, George poked him.

"Gotcha!" gloated George, dancing away from Ringo as the drummer aimed a finger gun at the lead guitarist.

"There ain't room for the both of us in this here town," growled Ringo in a pseudo-American accent.

George blew a raspberry at Ringo. "You couldn't get me if you tried."

"Bang! Bang!" yelled Ringo, advancing toward George. George threw his arms in the air and moaned theatrically.

"Boys, boys," tutted Paul, looking up from his magazine. "That's quite enough for today, don't you think?"

"Fine," muttered Ringo, turning to look at Paul. Behind his back, George clambered up, clutching the nearest chair as he aimed his own finger gun at Ringo.

"Prepare to die!" yelled George triumphantly. "Bang!"

Ringo gasped, falling to his knees.

"I am got!" he exclaimed. "I'm dying!"

At the reception desk, John abruptly switched out of crip mode. "We're in the suite at the top floor. Actually, we've got the whole top floor, if you want you can just give me all of those keys."

"I don't feel comfortable-" started the receptionist feebly, but he was interrupted.

"I think it's time these shenanigans came to an end, boys," said a posh voice from the staircase. The Beatles looked over to see Brian Epstein standing at the foot of the stairs, appearance as immaculate as ever. The receptionist looked as though he might faint from the sheer relief of it.

John stuck his tongue out at Brian. "Aw, come on, we were having fun!"

"And you've got a press conference in forty-five minutes. I do hope you'll be presentable," sniffed Brian.

"Yes, mother," muttered John rebelliously. Ringo clambered up from the floor and George shook himself off again. Paul got up and dropped his magazine carelessly back onto the chair, giving a cheeky wave to the girls behind the door. They screamed even more loudly.

"There's no need to overexcite them, Paul," reprimanded Brian as the Beatles congregated around him. The manager got their keys from the receptionist and escorted the band to the stairs. As they began to ascend, Brian in the lead, he turned his head to speak to them.

"By the way, where's the car?"

"Ummm . . ."