Give Death A Chance (7 page)

At that point, five ginormous bodyguards burst into the room, brandishing guns that were undoubtedly locked and loaded with diamond bullets—the only type of bullets that could kill a Liverpool Zombie.

John glared at the gunmen, then at Madonna, then back to the gunmen, then back to Madonna, and said, “Why don’t you go masturbate on an awards show, you fookin’ twat.” And then we marched out in virtual lockstep, almost as if we were reshooting the cover of
Abbey Road
.

JULY 20, 2009

Because they don’t drink liquid, and since brains are to Zombies’ gastrointestinal systems as Imodium is to humans, the undead rarely have to pee or poo. But mortals do, which is a problem when the Zombies do all the driving and don’t like to stop until the gas needle is on E. This is even more of a problem when said Zombies want to drive across the United States as quickly as possible. I’ll spare details, because if/when somebody decides to read this thing, the last thing they’re going to want/need is details about is my and Ringo’s respective stomach and bladder distress.

We’d have made it from New York to California in a couple of days, but George wanted to make a detour to Minneapolis. “I’ve been hearing about this Prince bloke,” he explained, “and he sounds like a right piece of piss. Might be able to learn a thing or two from him.”

When we got to Paisley Park, we were turned away—that little purple dude is notoriously prickly with strangers, even the Beatles—but the lads were still irked from the Madonna episode, and John was hungry, and they weren’t taking no for an answer, so it ending up being a bloodbath of epic proportions. While Ringo and I sat under a tree and smoked the fattest fatty I’ve seen outside of a Cheech & Chong flick, Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison went to town on Prince’s posse. They sauntered out of the building some 30 minutes later, with John holding Prince’s scalp above his head, a brain-eating grin plastered on his gray-green mug.

Beheading Justin Timberlake and dismembering Noel and Liam Gallagher was one thing, but scalping Prince, well, I took some issue with that. If I hadn’t have been so fucking high, I’d have raised a stink, but as it was, I could barely stand, let alone talk, so Ringo carried me into the van and filled me with Cool Ranch Doritos and Jolly Rancher watermelon chewies. That Ringo Starr is, was, and always will be a bit of alright.

Despite the lovely meal they ate at Paisley Park , the band seemed down, so conversation during the remainder of the ride across the country was limited to stuff like “Keep your eyes on the fookin’ road, Macca,” and “Change the fookin’ station, Macca,” and, “No, you can’t spark up while you’re driving, Macca.” Thus I had no idea why we were going to Los Angeles. I didn’t want to ask, because I didn’t want to set anybody off.

When we finally rolled up to the city limits, John told me, “Get your notebooks ready, Scribe. This’ll need to be documented.”

“What’ll need to be documented?”

“This business with the hippety-hop. That shite is keeping us from reaching the Poppermost, and it has to end.”

I said, “Wait—you’re telling me that you guys are going to put an end to rap music?”

“You got it,” John said.

“
All
hip-hop?”

John repeated, “You got it.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That might not be a good idea.”

“Why’s that?” George asked.

I knew that, if they put their sinister undead minds to it, the Beatles probably could wipe hip-hop off the face of the Earth—hell, they cut
Sgt. Pepper
, and if they did that, they could do most anything—and, well, wiping hip-hop off the face of the Earth simply wasn’t cool. Sure, there’s a lot of shitty rap out there, but there’s a lot of shitty
everything
out there, and a world without De La Soul just ain’t right. So I started spitballing: “Okay, there’re a lot of rap fans out there, and if they find out it was you guys who stopped rap, then they’ll unify and rebel against you, and no matter how powerful you guys are—and nobody’s denying you’re powerful—even you couldn’t withstand an attack by hundreds of thousands of hip-hop nuts…some of whom are undoubtedly Zombies or Ninjas themselves.”

After a lengthy silence, Paul said, “He has a point, y’know.”

John said, “As much as this pains me to admit, I think the Scribe is right.”

George said, “But we still have to make an example of
some
hip-hop bloke. We have to let folks know they should tread lightly when sampling.”

“And that drum machine crap has to be curtailed,” Ringo said.

“So let’s at least execute the first part of the plan,” George said.

After they all grunted their assent, I asked, “What’s the plan?”

John gave me his most predatory grin and repeated, “Get your notebooks ready, Scribe. This’ll need to be documented.”

A few minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of what had to be one of the gaudiest mansions in Beverly Hills: A solid gold gate, a hundred-yard-long driveway paved with cobblestones and silver, an enormous koi pond in the front yard, a moat, and a drawbridge. It was Olde England meets
MTV Cribs
, and it was awful. “Who lives here?” I asked.

“Somebody with some horrible fookin’ taste, that’s who,” George mumbled, clearly appalled, undoubtedly picturing the splendor that was his castle back in England.

John said, “A hippety-hopper lives here, that’s who. Apparently he’s the most famous hippety-hopper in the world. Apparently, he’s also protected by gangs of Cripples and Bloodies.”

I said, “You mean Crips and Bloods.”

“Whatever,” John said.

“Ah,” I said. “Great. Well, I hope Zombies can survive being gatted by a Tek-9 or an AK-47.”

“You hope Zombies can survive being
what-ed
by a
what
or a
what
?” Ringo asked.

“Forget it,” I said. “So how the hell did you technophobes find out about the most famous hippety-hopper in the world?”

John said, “Don’t worry about it.”

I said, “I mean, you couldn’t have heard his music, because hip-hop makes your ears fall off…”

“Don’t worry about it,” John snarled.

“And I haven’t seen any of you ever open a newspaper or a magazine.” At that, Ringo snorted. “What’s funny?” I asked him.

Ringo pointed at Paul. “Ask him.”

“Shut it, Rings.” Paul warned.

“No, go on, Paulie,” Ringo said. “Show Alan your stash.”

“
Nobody
sees my stash.”

“Oh, don’t be such a twat, Macca.”

“Shut it, y’know.”

Ringo sighed, then did that Ninja thing where he disappeared, and, no matter how many times I’ve seen it, it still freaks me out. He reappeared seconds later, seated in the exact same position, holding about fifty magazines. “This is why your pal Paulie here is so up on the American music world.”

He threw the pile at me. The magazines bounced off my chest and spilled all over the van. And what magazines they were:
Seventeen
,
Teen
Vogue
,
Cosmo Girl
,
Teen Magazine
,
Teen People
,
Twist
,
Teen Voices
,
Popstar!
,
Elle Girl
,
Girls Life
,
Just 17
, and
Young Woman’s Journal
. “Jesus, Paul,” I said. “Way to channel your inner twelve-year-old. You want me to see if I can get you a date with Miley Cyrus?”

“Who the fook is Miley Cyrus?” John asked.

“She’s the bird who plays that Hannah California on the telly, y’know,” Paul said.

“Hannah Montana,” I said.

“Right, what he said.” He paused. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t read these for fun, y’know. It’s research. Strictly research.”

Ringo said, “Sure, Paul. Strictly research.”

Paul glared at his drummer. “Yes, Mr. Starkey, strictly research.”

“How many of those quizzes have you taken?”

Paul looked away. “What quizzes?”

“Oh, for fook sake,” Ringo said, then snatched up an
Elle Girl
featuring the cast of
Gossip Girl
on the cover. He riffled to the last page and read, “Are you hanging on to a toxic friendship?” He silently scanned the article. “Hmm, you scored a ninety-eight out of a hundred. I guess the answer is yes, then.”

John looked offended. “Are you fookin’ talking about me? Are you calling me toxic?”

“Listen to these questions,” Ringo said. “You and your BFF are bathing suit shopping. She tries on a less-than-flattering suit. Do you A) Give her a thumbs-up and exclaim, ‘You look hot’; B) Say, ‘I’d never wear it, but it looks good on you’; or C) Comment nonchalantly, ‘I’d keep looking.’” He put down the mag and said, “Paulie answered B. Typical passive/aggressive Macca shite.”

Paul snatched the magazine from Ringo, then said, “If I didn’t read these, we wouldn’t be here right now, and you should all thank me for that—especially you, John, because if we end this bloke, we’re that much closer to the Poppermost.”

“What bloke?” I asked.

Paul riffled through the pile of magazines until he came across an issue of
Teen
People
. He pointed at the cover and said, “
This
bloke.” The headline read, OUT OF REHAB, AND READY FOR A FRESH START! Paul continued, “This bloke dies.”

I peered at the cover, then at the gaudy mansion. “You’re going to kill Eminem?”

Nodding, Paul said, “That’s right, y’know. We’re going to kill Eminem.”

JULY 21, 2009

The routing on the Poppermost Over America tour has been nothing short of moronic. We started out in the Midwest, then worked our way south, then went all the way up to New York, then to Los Angeles, then back to New York. Either I’m the worst road manager in rock history, or the Zombified Beatles are a colossal pain in the ass. I’m going with option B.

How we get to the next show doesn’t really matter, at this point, because there won’t be any more shows; all pretense of this being an actual tour—meaning a road trip in which the lads play actual music at actual clubs for actual audiences that they don’t murder and maim in a flamboyant fashion—is out the window, primarily because all of the band’s gear is busted beyond repair. Sure, if John, Paul, George, and Ringo wanted to, they could procure some new instruments and amplifiers to replace what was destroyed yesterday—especially Ringo; Ninjas are good at procuring stuff—but they have other issues to deal with.

Like what to do with Eminem’s corpse. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We waited in the van for what seemed like several hours until we saw a sign of life on the Mathers compound, a sign that ended up being Eminem himself stepping out of his front door and grabbing his mail and newspaper. While the rapper perused his bills, or his post cards, or the sports section, or the latest issue of
Teen People
, or whatever, Ringo flew out of the van and put the guy in a headlock, then dragged him into the house. As John, Paul, and George, piled out after him, Lennon told me for the third time, “Get your notebooks ready, Scribe. This’ll need to be documented.”

“Okay, John, okay, jeez, I’m on it.” Man, that John Lennon can be a pain in the pooper.

Turned out that Ringo headlocked Eminem a bit too hard, and the dude had passed out. While we were waiting for him to regain consciousness, John and Paul got into one of their take-off-my-own-arm-and-beat-you-with-it-until-I-get-bored battles, which I’m sure sounds fun to watch, dear reader, but, when you’ve seen it as often as I have, it gets old.

Eventually, the rapper awoke. “Yo, whassup?” he asked, trying and failing to sit up straight.

John looked at me and said, “And there’s another reason why rap needs to be made extinct. It drives me bloody mad when blokes start their sentences with
yo
.”

“Yo, I hear you,” I said.

As Ringo snorted, John told me, “Listen, you cheeky cunt, just because we’ve kept you alive this long doesn’t mean we’re going to keep you alive…”

“Let’s be honest here, John,” I said, “if you were going to kill me, or eat me, or Zombify me, or whatever, you’d have done it already. You know it, and I know it, and rap boy over here knows it, too.”

“Knows what, yo?” Eminem asked.

John said, “And there’s
another
reason why rap needs to be made extinct. It drives me bloody mad when blokes
end
their sentences with
yo
.”

Eminem sat up and said, “Yo, suck my dick, yo.”

Gritting his teeth, John asked Paul, “Can I fookin’ kill him now?”

“Erm, no, not yet,” Paul said. “I think he can help us. He’s in touch with the teenage girl crowd, and that used to be our crowd. He can tell us how he relates to them.” He looked at Eminem and said, “So. How do you relate to them?”

Eminem repeated, “Yo, suck my dick, yo.”

Paul stared at Eminem, then at Lennon, then back at Eminem, then back at Lennon, and said, “Johnny, you may fookin’ kill him now.”

“With pleasure.”

Eminem stood up and began to speak in a rapid-fire, distinctly non-street voice: “Wait, wait, wait, no, no, don’t kill me, please, let me explain myself.”

“What the hell is there to explain?” I asked.

“A lot,” Eminem said. “You see, I’m a product of marketing.”

“A
what
?” John asked.

“Mania,” George mumbled, rolling his eyes. “Simply mania.”

Ignoring them both, Eminem continued, “I’m not real. I’m not Eminem. I’m not even Marshall Mathers from Detroit, Michigan. I’m Irving Rabinowitz, from Greenwich, Connecticut.”

Paul turned to me and said, “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Apparently,” I said, “Eminem—the toughest white-boy rapper from the toughest section of the toughest town in the country—is actually a nebbish from the ’burbs.”

“What the fook is a burb?” John asked.

“Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that this dude is a poser.”

Eminem held up a single finger and said, “Not a
poser
—a
product
. A well-thought-out, tightly developed, one-of-a-kind rapping corporation. You want to know how I did it?”