John felt sick as he allowed his eyes to read, re-read, and re-read yet again, the ominous black print leaping out at him from the very page of the newspaper he now grasped between shaking fingers. Somehow, word about a simple physical change had gotten out and the press, as usual, was on top of it. They'd found out as they often would, went public with it, and now as a lovely result, the world was on top of it, as well. Together, they all knew. They all knew what he'd become. What he was still becoming. What John Lennon truly and undeniably was. A monster. A horrible kind of monster, living a horrible kind of life. The worst kind of monster. The bane of his own existence. And worse, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. There wasn't a thing he could do to change this. To reverse its effects. To reverse its damage.
The choice in wording was cruel; the words themselves, taunting the targeted rhythm guitarist, as they commanded his reluctant attention; successfully fulfilling their goal of cramming his head with its slander. Over and over again, they worked together to scream out in black magnified letters, their shared message of menace; to unleash upon him, their hurtful emotion-seeking missiles of propaganda. "Fat Beatle..." John Lennon, the 'fat Beatle'. Fat. Fatty, fat, fat. Fat. Fat John. Only, it wasn't propaganda. Not quite. Propaganda were half truths. Misinformations... And he wasn't not fat... was he? Of course he wasn't. Not fat was a label for his band mates. Not fat was the complete opposite of what he saw of himself on a daily basis. The complete opposite of the discouraging mess that had claimed him for new identity. He knew already what the world thought of him whenever they took the time to scope him out. He didn't need a written broadcast to tell him. They saw the fat Beatle. The sorry sap that to them, was an elephant in size when compared to the likes of dainty Paul McCartney and no less than the size of a whale when compared with a bony George Harrison and a pint-sized Ringo Starr. Who was he kidding?
'You are fat, Lennon,' his mind freely stated, abruptly taking over his free-range thoughts without much invitation to do so,'A regular, soddin' ham. Look at y'trying to accept brutal reality in spite of yer bruised ego... It's no wonder Cyn hates the sight of ye'.' He could almost hear them laughing; the world. Not with him, as he would often lead them to doing with his sometimes childish antics and dry, often cynical-inspired way with words; but at him. At him. Laughing at him. For the first time in what seemed like a history of histories, the rhythm guitarist was succumbing rapidly and unwillingly to the laughingstock position. And not in a way that he had any control over.
Heaving a sigh, John finally freed his hands from the edge of the slandered mess and allowed the newspaper to tumble carelessly to the floor. Laugh at him, will they? He'd show them. He was John Lennon for chrissake. John the musician... the rhythm guitarist... the songwriter. He hadn't come all this way to be reduced in the blink of an eye to 'Fat Beatle: John Lennon... Fatty, fat, fat Beatle, John...' He was greater than that. And just as well, he could easily force himself to face and rise above anything and everything the world threw at him. Even a bit of extra... weight... and all traces of resulting humiliation...
With a bit of renewed willpower, the rhythm guitarist allowed his eyes to confirm the proposed truth about himself. He gazed down first at his tell-tale stomach, his hands automatically gravitating towards some of the intrusive rolls protruding out from beneath the snug waistline of his pants. They jiggled slightly at his touch, like a vengeance-filled gelatin. He gazed next at his betraying, pudgy hands, at how much his fingers had swelled over the course of this past year; a year that had been filled to the brim with ongoing stress, depression, overeating, and overdrinking. The results were unflattering. If he kept carrying on as he'd been, he'd soon have a hard time finding his dick beneath the layers of fat embalming what had once been his smooth and toned stomach. Never mind his dick, he'd never catch sight of his feet again! He was disgusting. Completely repulsive. How was it he had allowed himself to get so bloody carried away? How could he not have taken proper notice enough to stop this horrific transformation from becoming the norm? Regardless, he had seen enough. He didn't need to see anymore dead giveaways courtesy of his stupid body. He was a pig. End of story. It was no wonder, the press thought so. 'S'no wonder the world does, as well..." John murmured this last part aloud with ample dejection. Bloody fucking hell. There it was in black and white. It couldn't get much more realistic than that.
"Say something, Johnny?"
The rhythm guitarist looked up in slight surprise as George took a seat at the kitchen table across from him. Quickly regaining what was left of his shattered composure, he sprang a heated glare on the lead guitarist all but liking his unexpected intrusion, not to mention nosy nature. "What's it to ye', Harrison?" he grumbled.
His mind long since on to other things, George failed to notice his band mate's impulsive actions or his dark and brooding mood. "What's fer brekky?" he asked lightly as though all was right in the world. His hungry eyes were already tearing apart the kitchen in search of all things edible. "I could go fer some pancakes... or maybe some eggs and hash..."
His words trailed off as John hastily shoved his chair back and promptly removed himself from the table. "Why should I know what's fer brekky?" he snapped mockingly, "'Cause I'm fat?"
George shrunk back slightly in his seat, his eyes refocusing on John in pronounced astonishment, "What are ye' on about? I jus' thought since yer the first one up today, you'd know of some grub, 's'all."
"Well, I don't!" was Lennon's indignant response.
George frowned, unable to fathom what was unraveling here at the rhythm guitarist's temperamental hand, "Well... take it easy, mate... It was only an assumption, y'know..."
"And a stupid one at that! Do the world a bloody favor from now on, Harrison, and keep yer assumptions to yerself!"
"But..."
"But nothing." John was gone in an instant, any appetite he may have awoken with completely vanquished by the day's unwanted assertion of trials and tribulations. Somehow, though, he wasn't overly disturbed by his diminished will to eat. It was reason enough not to have to stuff his face like the pig that he knew himself to be. He might never eat again. And the press, they'd find something new to glorify. He was sure of it.
__________________________________________________________________________
Despite an overhanging cloud of confusion left behind courtesy of John's latest outburst, George found himself shrugging with a lack of concern as an aftermath of silence befell the kitchen. Another day, another classic Lennon mood swing, he'd automatically figured. Typical. It would've been weird without one at any given point of the day, to the say the least. As per usual, the world would keep on turning and life would go on. The lead guitarist rose from the seat he'd initially flopped down in and went about the kitchen hunting for the one thing that could easily surpass as food. It was obvious that Mal had yet to replenish their weekly supply of groceries so the pickings presented to him this morning were painfully slim. By the looks of it, choices were limited to either cereal or... cereal...
"Morning, Geo..."
George turned to look behind him as Paul entered the kitchen, a sleepy but friendly smile aimed in his direction, "First one up?"
George returned his attention to the box of cereal he'd been about to zero in on prior to the provided distraction. "Nope, John was in 'ere a little bit ago, but he seems to 'ave disappeared fer the time being," he responded casually, "Left in a bit of a huff, really."
"Oh?" Paul strolled further into the kitchen and was about to grab a seat at the table when he noticed the recently discarded newspaper on the floor nearby. "Oh and I see he couldn't take the time to clean up after himself beforehand, the lazy git..." He hastily approached the mess for a closer look, "...Who else would leave behind such a bloody, disorderly mess?" With an added grunt of disgust, the bassist bent down to collect the large scattered sheets of creased paper and proceeded to piece them together in the order he assumed they had come in. "...What is this? Today's news?" Upon scanning the first page for answers, his eyes landed on a particular article supported by the band's name in boldfaced letters. 'The Beatles Provide a Look of Life on the Road', he read aloud with a bit of piqued, casual interest. "'Ey, there's an article in 'ere about us," he announced after a while.
George's subdued reaction portrayed all but captivation, "Yeah? When isn't there?" he mumbled disinterestedly. He finally grasped his chosen box of cornflakes having finalized his decision and made his way towards the table, setting it down in front of him, "Fancy some cornflakes?" he asked, turning to face Paul once more.
"Yeah... That would be lovely, Geo," Paul muttered, semi-distractedly.
George watched for a bit with mild interest as the bassist proceeded to lay the newspaper out flat across the surface of the table next to his box of cornflakes, obviously intrigued by the article. "What's it about?" he asked finally, not sure if he even really cared.
Paul's eyes working a million miles a minute, continued to skim the page, "Yesterday's series of interviews..." he responded slowly. He started to say more when a specific grouping of words caught his eye mid-scan, "Bloody 'ell..." he murmured instead.
"What?" George asked, crossing the kitchen again in search of some cereal bowls.
Paul lifted his gaze and settled them on his younger mate, "Do you know if John's read this yet?"
"How should I know?" George demanded impatiently, "I'm not his bloody keeper, y'know. What is it?"
"Bloody press referred to Lennon as the 'Fat Beatle!'" Paul frowned.
Again, George shrugged, "As usual, they don't know left from right. We know that's not true and I'm right certain John should know it as well. If anything, I bet 'e's laughing in their faces rather than off crying about it."
Paul couldn't seem to detach the frown from his face. He'd noticed something about Lennon lately. His self-confidence level hadn't been the greatest these days.
"Quit dwelling on it," George scolded, "You'll only end up making a mountain out of a molehill. Put that thing away and eat something."
'What if the mountain's already a molehill?' Paul couldn't help thinking. The bassist relented, nonetheless, and finally folded the paper back up like originally intended. Casting it to a corner of the table distant from them, he grabbed at the box of cornflakes and proceeded to pour himself a bowl.