Beatles in a Beetle

Somebody Had an Obsession

The Beatles. A Moste Mysterious Entitie, all thee know'st about these Creatures is that they are not thine nor anyone else's Sanctified Propertie. (That Includes Doctor Lennon 007).

A/N: Aaaaaand another chapter! You win the lottery, omgringo, and thanks again for the reviews! Also, mucho thanks to Macca40 on Wattpad and to singertobe on FanFiction!

"Third door on the left!" announced John proudly. He flung open the door and grinned cheekily at Paul as he stepped into what he thought was a room.

"That's not a room," warned Paul belatedly as John careened down the dark staircase to the basement. The bassist leapt down the stairs three-at-a-time after his friend, pulling the door shut behind him.

"You alright?" asked Paul when he reached the bottom.

"Never better," panted John, pulling himself up using the uneven stone walls. "Bit dark, though, isn't it?"

Paul reached up, grasping the metal pull-chain of a ceiling light.

"There you go," he said, yanking the chain. A single, bare bulb dimly illuminated the cellar.

"Look!" said John, pointing behind Paul.

"This isn't right," said Paul, scratching his head. "C'mon, let's go."

Just then, a sound akin to a jet plane taking off erupted somewhere above them.

Paul grimaced. "On second thought, I'd rather avoid those fans. What do you think, John? Er, John? Are you listening?"

John was staring at the room behind Paul's shoulder.

"That's a lot of clothes . . . ." said John.

Paul looked over his shoulder. "Whoa."

The basement was one large, dark, stone room that extended beneath the entire hotel. The whole space smelled of dust and mildew. The only natural light shone in through grimy window-wells. Arches and columns held up the old building above, and in between the arches were racks and racks of old clothes.

"Somebody had an obsession," said Paul, sounding slightly awestruck.

"What're these doing in a hotel basement?" wondered John.

Paul shrugged.

John ambled over to the nearest rack. The clothes didn't seem to be organized in any sort of theme, with flapper dresses next to Edwardian suits and Victorian corsets.

"We have to get out of here before the fans find us," said Paul, striding up behind his friend.

"Ooh, these are just smashing!" exclaimed John in a posh accent, pulling a particularly hideous pair of yellow knickerbockers and holding them up to his chest. "Perfect arm warmers!"

"How about we go out one of these window wells?" suggested Paul, gesturing to the top edges of the room.

"Nah, what if we get stuck and the fans recognize us?" John said dismissively. He added, "Try this out!" and held out a kilt to Paul.

"Well, if we're going to be stuck down here, might as well," said Paul with a grin.

As he sailed out the hotel doors, George was surprised to see that there were only one or two fans still in front of the hotel.

"They must all be inside or at the bus now," panted Neil, reading George's mind as he followed the Beatle out the door.

"What's our backup plan?" asked George as they raced down the sidewalk.

"Mal and Brian should come get us in the rental," said Neil, gasping for breath as the careened around a corner past a shocked newspaper hawker.

"You mean the rental John totaled yesterday?" inquired George grimly. Neil paled and stammered something indecipherable.

"Is there a backup-to-the-backup?" asked George desperately as they dashed across the deserted early-morning street.

Neil shook his head. "Didn't . . . think . . . we'd need . . . one," he wheezed.

They raced into an alley and doubled over to catch their breath.

"So what do we do now?" asked George.

"I dunno . . . hang out at a coffee shop, maybe?" proposed Neil.

"Yeah, when I want to get torn apart by screaming thirteen-year-old girls, remind me of that plan," snapped George sarcastically.

"Speaking of teenage girls," said Neil, pointing down the alley over George's shoulder. The guitarist whipped around to see two rather plump girls jogging down the alley, each sporting an "I Love George" button the size of a flattened tennis ball.

"Come on! Let's go!" hissed Neil.

"Relax, I've got a plan," muttered George. Then, he yelled, "Look! It's George Harrison!" pointing past Neil to the end of the alley.

The girls shrieked and barreled past George and Neil to the end of the alley, where they dashed across the street and out of sight.

"Not even a thank you," sniffed George. "Ungrateful young people."

Neil looked at his friend in awe. "Nice job! Keep that up and we don't have to worry!"

"No way is that gonna work again," said George resignedly.

"I hope the others are alright," said Neil.

"Oh, you look dashing!" said John happily, expansively gesturing to Paul's clothing. "Except you're technically not supposed to wear underwear under a kilt."

"You look simply marvelous yourself," gushed Paul. "I'll go back round this pillar and take them off."

As the bassist retreated around the pillar to take off his underwear, John straightened his lopsided "Votes for Women" sash and rearranged his straw boater.

"There we go!" exclaimed Paul, beaming as he returned from behind the pillar. In addition to the kilt, he was wearing a bright purple Edwardian waistcoat, a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, and a fake walrus moustache. He also had on a puce beret and threadbare black knee-socks.

"You need shoes, too," mused John, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He was wearing a Victorian wedding gown that was inexplicably missing the bottom half of its skirt, which seemed to have been ripped off at some point. Under the dress, the yellow knickerbockers were clearly visible, and he had rather haphazardly thrown on a small fur coat over the cream-coloured dress. Over the coat was his "Votes for Women" sash. He was also wearing bright pink high heels and the aforementioned straw boater.

"That's a good idea," said Paul. He stepped over a discarded zoot suit to get to the hat-wearing busts lined up against the back wall. "You should wear this instead of your boater," he advised, tossing a black flapper hat to the rhythm guitarist. John caught it by the tips of his figures and ecstatically replaced his boater, tossing the straw hat across the room.

"How do I look?" asked John. Paul looked up from rummaging through a disorganized pile of shoes.

"Jolly good," said Paul in a posh accent. "What do you think about these?" he inquired, holding up a pair of blue Wellington boots patterned with rubber ducks.

"Smashing," agreed John. He attempted to cross the room over to Paul, hobbling dangerously on the thin heels. "How on earth do women walk in these things?"

"What, Wellingtons?" asked Paul, sitting down to pull on the boots.

"No, heels," grimaced John as he teetered, dangerously close to toppling to the ground.

Paul suddenly looked up at John, the second boot dangling from the bassist's hand. John could practically see the cartoon lightbulb above his friend's head.

"I know how to get out," said Paul.

A/N: Reviews: the epitome of desire to a fanfiction writer such as myself. If you leave me one, Andorra may just spare you from their evil schemes . . . .