"This is your opportunity to be a hero, Doctor Lennon 007!" he cried.  "Tell them you don't own the Beatles!"

A/N:  Special early release on WattPad for Macca40 -- thanks for the help with "Nerk Twins," mate!

At around three-thirty, the Beatles were lounging around their suite, alone for once.  George, who had scooped up his deck of cards on the way out of the van, was playing solitaire with them, sitting cross-legged on the floor.  The cards were a bit oddly curled from being soaked in the bathroom earlier but were still legible enough to read.  Ringo was curled up in an armchair, reading a comic book.  John was sprawled across the sofa, his feet up on one armrest and his head on the other, watching the television.  Paul sat on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, leaning back against the couch at John’s feet.  He was immersed in a newspaper one of the reporters had left behind.

“I can’t believe Brian didn’t let us bring in our instruments,” complained George as he scooped up his cards.

Paul folded up his newspaper.  “I know!  Here we are, doing nothing, when we could be practicing!”

“You want to be doing work now?” asked John, incredulous.

“Come off it, you like music as much as I do,” said Paul.

“D’you want to play cards or something?” asked Ringo, slapping shut his comic book.

“I’d rather watch telly, if it’s all the same to you,” replied John.  Ringo threw the comic book at him.  It bounced off John’s legs and hit Paul in the head.

“Ow!” complained Paul, straightening his wig.

“Your poor fake hair, that must really have hurt it,” John sympathized.

For a while all they could hear was the weatherman on the television, George shuffling his cards, and the fans screaming outside.

“I know what we can do!” exclaimed Ringo.

“I’m all ears,” said George.

“Ooh, can I be noses?” asked John eagerly.

“Let Ringo talk,” admonished Paul.  John wordlessly mimed zipping shut his mouth, locking it, and throwing away the key.

“Let’s play charades!” suggested Ringo happily.

The other three Beatles looked at each other and shrugged.

“Sure, why not?” said George.  He slid his cards back into their box.

“You go first, Rings,” said John, pointing lazily at the drummer. 

“Hang on, let me turn off the telly,” said Paul.  He stood up, walked over to the television, bent down, turned it off, and returned to his seat on the floor.  John pulled out his notebook to keep score.

“I’ll do that,” said George quickly, reaching over and grabbing the notebook from John.  “We’re not letting you give Ringo negative seven thousand points again.”

“Everybody ready?” asked Ringo.

“Fire away,” said George.

Ringo pushed himself out of his armchair and stood in front of the other Beatles.  He put his arms above his head, linking his hands to form a circle, and spun around in slow circles.

“Genghis Khan!” yelled John triumphantly.

George raised an eyebrow at John.  Paul craned his neck around to look at the rhythm guitarist.

“Er . . . how d’you get Genghis Khan out of that?” asked Paul dubiously.

John looked crestfallen.  “But . . . it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

George and Paul both shook their heads.  Ringo, meanwhile, was spinning faster and faster.

“Er . . . a model?” suggested George.

Ringo shook his head as he continued to pick up the pace of his spinning.

“A – a dancer!” exclaimed Paul, pointing at Ringo excitedly.  The drummer grinned as he tripped over his own feet and plummeted to the floor.

All four burst out laughing.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” asked Paul in between giggles.

Ringo nodded.  “You took your time, didn’t you?  I was supposed to be a ballerina, but I expect ‘dancer’ is close enough.”

George snorted.  “You’re not a very good ballerina.”

Ringo got up and ambled back to his chair, grinning.

“Your turn, Paulie,” said John, grinning wickedly as he pushed Paul into the middle of the carpet with his foot.

Paul clambered up and stood with his back to them for a second.  They watched him.

“Er, that it?” asked George.

Paul suddenly spun around on his heel, aiming a finger gun at John.  Ringo jumped.

Paul stayed frozen, knees bent, feet twisted around each other, finger gun aimed at John.

“A bank robber?” asked George.  Paul shook his head slightly.

“Your wig’s off kilter now,” said John.

“A fugitive?” suggested Ringo.

Paul shook his head again.

“You have to give us something else to go on,” said John.

Paul thought for a minute, then put down his hands and started gyrating his hips slightly.

“An exotic dancer!” exclaimed Ringo.

“No, definitely not,” Paul snickered.

“Humphrey Bogart from Casablanca,” guessed George.  Paul looked at him incredulously for a second.

“Genghis Khan!” yelled John.  The other three giggled.

“Do something else,” ordered Ringo.

Paul raced over to the other armchair and sat down it.  He mimed driving a car.

“A reformed convict who’s now a taxicab driver and an exotic dancer on the side?” asked George.

“It’s not that complicated,” complained Paul.

“A magician?” asked Ringo.  George and John stared at him until he squirmed slightly.

“Vroom, vroom,” said Paul helpfully.

John tipped his head to one side.  “Jack the Ripper?”

Paul groaned, “Imagine I’m going really fast in a sleek car.”

“You’re not allowed to talk!” complained Ringo.

“James Bond!” exclaimed George triumphantly.

Paul rolled his eyes.  “Finally!”

He returned to his spot at the base of the couch.  George got up and handed Paul the score sheet on his way to the middle of the room.

John peeked over Paul’s shoulder at the notebook:

John:  -3

Paul: 1

George: -3

Ringo: -3

“Hey, Ringo!” called John.  “You, George, and I are all tied for last place!”

“Okay,” said Ringo indifferently.

“Got something,” said George.

Everyone else grew attentive as George positioned himself.  The lead guitarist mimed holding a microphone and singing into it, legs splayed out to each side, his hips twitching forward with his right leg.  He danced around strangely for a few seconds.

“Genghis Khan!” exclaimed Paul.  John and Ringo laughed and George grinned, shaking his head.  “Oh well, it was worth a try.”

“You’re Elvis!” said John suddenly.

George stopped dancing and pointed at John.  “Bingo!”

John punched the air.  “Yes!”

Paul hurriedly added up the points:

John:  -2

Paul: 0

George: -3

Ringo: -3

The bassist handed back the notebook to George as John leapt into the middle of the room.

“Go on, then,” prompted George.

John made a grumpy face, the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated frown.  His eyebrows were bunched up as close to the middle of his face as he could get them.  He put his hands on his hips threateningly and marched over to Paul in mock anger.

“Genghis Khan!” exclaimed Ringo.  George and Paul both burst out laughing.  John shook his head, still wearing his angry face.  His Beatle wig twisted around, blocking off one of his eyes.  He reached up and tugged the wig back into place angrily.  He bent over Paul, glaring down at the smirking bassist.  Then, John took his right hand off of his hip and wagged his finger in Paul’s face, mouthing what appeared to be a silent rant.

“A schoolmarm!” tried Paul through his laughter.

“Close, but not quite!” yelled John in mock furor.

“Brian!” cried George.  “You’re Eppy!”

“Well done!” said John happily, clapping the youngest Beatle on the back heartily.

“Yes, well done, everyone,” said Brian sarcastically from the doorway.

The Beatles looked up guiltily to see Brian, Neil, and Mal standing in the doorway.

“Time to go to the concert hall,” said Mal.

“I’ve changed my mind,” grumbled Brian.  “You’re grounded too, Ringo.”

Ringo looked outraged.  “I wasn’t the one who was impersonating you!”

“It doesn’t matter, you’ve been part of all their hairbrained schemes since the bathtub incident earlier,” replied Brian, his words even more clipped and posh than usual.

“If anyone’s curious, the final points tally was John: -2, Paul: -1, Me: -2, and Ringo: -4,” said George conversationally, handing the notebook back to John.

“Congratulations, sir!” said John, shaking Paul’s hand vigorously.

“Time to move!” said Neil impatiently.  “Bus’ll be pulling around the corner any minute now.”

“Atten-tiioooon!” yelled John.  The other Beatles scrambled into a line, standing ramrod straight.  Paul tried to tickle George into breaking position, but George swatted his hand away before he had the chance.

“Ready . . . Quick march!” announced John.  “Hup, two, three, fawar!  Hup, two, three, fawar!”  He lead the Beatles in their march past Brian and out the door.

“You see, we musicians can only count to four,” he added cheekily as he passed the manager.  “And is that a grey hair?”

Brian fumed his way after the world’s most famous rock and roll band.

Neil and Mal exchanged a glance.  Mal shrugged.

“At least they’re leaving,” said Neil hopefully.

My friends, a matter of great import has come to my attention:  Reviewing is requested on this installment of Beatles in a Beetle.  Good luck.