Beatles in a Beetle

Edmund Younger

I own lots of Beatles records, and I have an ever-growing collection of Beatles biographies, t-shirts, bootlegs, posters, and other memorabilia. I don't actually own the Beatles themselves yet, but I have put in a bid on eBay for something called a Sir James Paul McCartney . . . we'll see if anyone outbids me! If they don't, apparently airfare and first week's worth of finest vegetarian cuisine are prepaid! (Though I'm not quite sure what I've bought if it needs to eat . . . .)

A/N: Sorry, I know, it's another short chapter. The next few aren't going to be super long. But they'll be funny, I promise! Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers: on FanFiction, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, The Beatles Honeydoll22, the Mysterious Guest, and omgringo; on WattPad, Macca40 and CityofStarlight. May the Beatles be with you!

The next several hours passed by rather blurrily for the Beatles. They were shunted from dressing room to rehearsal to dressing room to rehearsal to dressing room to concert in a rather dizzying fashion. As they trooped off the stage after the first concert, sweaty but pleased with themselves, they were intercepted by Brian.

"What did you just do?" asked the manager furiously.

Ringo cocked his head to one side.

"Scratched my nose," replied John, lowering his hand from his face. "No need to worry, it's perfectly normal behaviour."

Brian growled. "The Beatle bow!"

Paul raised his eyebrows. "No, we didn't do the bow."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Brian.

"Sorry, we forgot," said George. "Now can we relax, please?"

"No, you have to meet Mr. Edmund Younger," replied Brian.

"Why?" inquired Ringo.

"He's the sewage director of the Ipswich Corporation," said Brian.

"What does he want with us?" asked Paul.

Brian sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "I haven't the foggiest. But he's in your dressing room, waiting to give you a hearty slap on the back."

George made a face at Brian as they pushed down the cramped hallway and into the dressing room. The dressing room itself was filled with people – reporters, makeup artists, fans, models, and a middle-aged man with large sideburns and a jovial smile.

"Hello!" said the man with the jovial smile. "I'm Edmund, Edmund Younger, head of the sewage treatment plant for the Ipswich Corporation."

"What happened to the older one?" asked John.

The man blinked at him, apparently nonplussed. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Did you off him to get the job?" inquired George, catching on.

"Sorry about them," Paul hastily interposed, grinning. "I'm Paul, Paul McCartney, head of the bass department of the Beatles Corporation." He extended a hand to Mr. Younger, who tentatively shook it.

"Yeah, you're definitely on the base level of the corporation," snarked John.

"Oh, shut up," replied Paul.

"So, what do you do at the sewage treatment plant, then?" Ringo asked Mr. Younger, the latter of whom was looking more and more flustered. "You don't look very dirty."

"I operate in an administrative capacity," replied Mr. Younger.

Ringo frowned.

"That means paperwork," added Mr. Younger condescendingly.

"But doesn't the paper get dirty?" wondered Ringo.

"Anyroad, what brings you to our 'umble dressing room, Mr. Edmund Younger, sewage treatment plant manager for the Ipswich Corporation?" asked John, smiling and widening his eyes, tucking his chin in toward his neck.

"My daughter is a great fan of yours," said Mr. Younger, sounding as though he had begun to question his daughter's judgement. "I've come to get your autographs for her."

"Why isn't your daughter here, if she's the fan?" asked George.

"She couldn't come, she's got a school play tonight," replied Mr. Younger.

Paul looked disappointed. "Your daughter missed a once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet her idols for a school play? And she's not even coming to the concert?"

Mr. Younger's face grew rather stormy. "At least one person in this country has her priorities straight."

Brian, who had been talking to Neil in the back corner, briskly strode over to the Beatles.

"Here you are, boys," he said, hastily shoving a photograph of the Beatles into Paul's hands. "Sign this for Mr. Younger's daughter."

The Beatles congregated around the photograph and quickly signed it. As George added his John Henry to the picture, a sudden flash of light temporarily blinded him. He blinked to see a photographer standing in front of him.

"For the Evening Star," said the photographer by way of explanation. "We're documenting Mr. Younger's struggle for promotion in the Ipswich Corporation."

George drew in a sudden breath. "Oh, I see why you've come here! You want publicity!"

Mr. Younger looked shocked. "How dare you!"

George quickly added the rest of his signature to the photograph and thrust it into Mr. Younger's hands.

"Tell your daughter we're sorry she couldn't make it," sneered George.

"Thank you very much," said Mr. Younger contemptuously. "I'll be leaving now. Good luck at the concert."

"Bye Edmund!" called John after the sewage treatment plant manager's retreating back. "Still wonder what happened to the first one," he muttered to Ringo.

"There's someone else I'd like you to meet," said Brian, herding the Beatles over to a different part of the dressing room.

"Lord, give me patience," muttered George in Paul's ear.

"Let's hope this is the last one," murmured Paul in reply.

A/N: A simple choice lies before you: To review or not to review; that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/the slings and arrows of outrageous hilarity,/or to take keyboard against a sea of mirth/and by reviewing, enjoy it.