Beatles in a Beetle

Trashed by Dinosaurs

In this, the author of this shall be known as X. Those depicted therein as possible property of another or as property of no one shall be known as Y, or more commonly in the plural form Ys, also known as the Beatle or more commonly in the plural form the Beatles. This itself, the story to which this agreement of sorts pertains, shall be known as Z. In Z, X does not own Ys. Best part: No multiplication.

A/N: Well, aren't you lucky! Two updates in two days! And it's not even Christmas yet! And wow, Macca40's ALREADY reviewed!  Buckets of thanks to ya!  Also, drop by Beatlemaniacs United! [Insert magic word here]?

Back in the hotel room, Neil was still glaring worriedly at his watch. George was humming "Heartbreak Hotel" to himself and fiddling with a corkscrew. Mal strode over to the windows.

"That's odd," the roadie said to no one in particular. "There aren't as many girls out there as there were before."

"Mmm," said Neil.

"When are we going down?" asked George.

"In two minutes and thirty-nine seconds," said Neil.

George got up from the bed and ambled over to the hotel room mini-fridge.

"Oh look, they've got juice and snacks in here," said George. "How nice."

He reached for a small bag of trail mix.

"Dunno why they put trail mix in a fridge, though," he contemplated as his fingers brushed the plastic wrapper –

"NO!" yelled Mal and Neil. George froze.

"What's wrong?" asked the Beatle. "Has something happened?"

"You can't take that!" gasped Neil. "They'll charge you an arm and a leg for it!"

"Can I give them two legs instead? I need both arms to play guitar," deadpanned George. "Anyroad, shouldn't they put the price in there if it's not complimentary?"

"Time to go," said Neil, standing up abruptly.

George shrugged and swung shut the mini-fridge door.

"Good luck," called Mal as they exited the hotel room.

George followed Neil down the stairs.

"Can I grab some food from the kitchen on our way out?" asked George.

"Sorry, mate, can't stop. We're running late," replied Neil.

George stuck out his tongue at Neil's back as they reached the foot of the stairs. Neil turned left.

"Hang on, weren't we supposed to go right?" asked George, pointing his thumb back over his shoulder.

Neil shook his head and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "No, see, here's the directions," said the road manager. "'Down the stairs, left, second right, kitchen, service door, bus,'" he read.

"Lead on," said George dryly. The pair set off down the hallway.

"Is it my imagination," said George as they neared the second door on the right, "Or is the screaming getting louder?"

"Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't say that," moaned Neil. "That means I'm not imagining it."

"D'you think they've found the bus already?" asked George. "That's fast, even for our fans."

Both Liverpudlians jumped as they heard a loud shriek and a clangorous clatter from inside the kitchen.

"That doesn't sound good," muttered George.

More screams and crashes wafted under the kitchen door, along with smoke and the smell of burning pancakes.

"Definitely not good," agreed Neil, shouting to be heard over the racket.

They both jumped as something large and heavy smashed into the kitchen door. The screams had intensified to a Decibel level so high it was probably illegal in some countries.

"Run!" shouted Neil at the top of his lungs. He and George barreled away in the direction they'd come as the kitchen door popped off its hinges. A gang of preteen girls rushed through the gap and filled the hallway behind the Beatle and his associate as they raced down the hall to the lobby.

"Oh, it's you again!" said the receptionist in horror as George skidded into the lobby, shocked by the sudden change of flooring from carpet to polished marble. Neil grabbed George by the shoulders and propelled him back into a run.

"Sorry, gotta run!" George yelled over his shoulder to the bewildered receptionist as he burst out of the hotel into the dawn mist.

Mal paced in circles in the hotel room, glancing at his watch repeatedly and biting his lip. When it was finally time for him to go downstairs, he flung open the door, took one last glance back at the hotel room, and then hurried to the stairs. He jogged down them two at a time.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, his mouth dropped open in shock. The hallway looked as if it had been trashed by dinosaurs with five spikey tails each. Torn yellow wallpaper drooped lazily from the walls, and the carpet didn't resemble a carpet so much as a flattened hairball. A couple of girls still remained in the hallway. One had a black eye and was nursing a broken ankle; the other was kneeling, kissing the disgusting carpet, eerily murmuring the mantra, "He was here, he was here, he was here . . . "

Mal leapt over the girl kissing the carpet and ran down the hall and through the kitchen. He barely noticed the broken dishes, the disheveled and in some cases unconscious kitchen staff, or the pair of waiters frantically spraying fire extinguisher over everything.

As the roadie burst out of the kitchen, he found the tour bus being rocked side to side like a rowboat in the Atlantic during a thunderstorm. It was surrounded on all sides by weeping fans, a couple of whom had even climbed atop the bus's roof.

Mal shouldered through the crowd and managed to slip into the bus without being followed. Brian and Ringo were sitting as far from each other as was possible on the small bus. Brian was rubbing his temples, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Ringo was staring morosely at his Beatle boots.

Mal cleared his throat.

"Where are the others?"

Brian's head jerked up. Ringo's followed suit a second later.

"The others?" asked Brian.

"Weren't you supposed to go last?" asked Ringo.

"I did," said Mal. "Hasn't anybody else showed up yet?"

The look of horror on Brian's face told the roadie all he needed to know.

A/N: Reviews? Tell us what you think, what you want, what you hope, what you cherish.