I don't own the Beatles! In fact, none of us can ever own anything! The world is a free place of love! Hallelujah Hare Krishna Flowers!

A/N: I may not be updating as frequently in the future as I have of late, but I'll have the next one in a few days! Buckets and buckets of thanks to the Mysterious Guest and omgringo on FanFiction and to CityofStarlight and Macca40 on WattPad!

By 2:30, the Beatles were tired of telling the press their favourite colours and what they would do when the bubble burst. Lunch had come and gone, but the reporters had refused to leave the suite where the Beatles were imprisoned until their next concert. Brian, Neil, and Mal weren't around to usher them out, either; first some local official had kept the managers away, then an angry man in a bowler hat had shown up and demanded immediate payment for his Volkswagen rental car.

"Or I'll sue!" he had yelled dramatically at Neil and Mal, waving a piece of official-looking paper in their faces. They had escorted him to wherever Brian was dealing with the local official, leaving the Beatles to fend for themselves against the reporters.

It was clear that either John or George was going to give way to the inevitable and get rid of the press. John was lashing out at the journalists at every possible opportunity ("What sort of women do you like?" "Ones who don't ask me annoying questions like that"), and the "Quiet Beatle" was retreating further and further into his shell ("What, in your opinion, is the Beatles' best record, and why?" "Mmm"). Paul was still posing for the cameras as usual, and Ringo was holding up fairly well.

John was the one who finally cracked.

"Do you have any hobbies outside of music?" asked a middle-aged reporter.

"Yes," replied John. There was an awkward pause, in which everyone in the room became quiet for different reasons. They looked at John.

The journalist cleared his throat. "And what are these hobbies of yours?"

"Magic," replied John with a straight face.

"Really?" asked the female reporter John had insulted earlier.

"Yes. Wanna see a magic trick?"

The writers and photographers exchanged glances. "Sure, why not?" replied the man who had originally asked the question.

"Excellent!" exclaimed John. "Which trick should I do?" he asked George in a stage whisper.

"How about the disappearing Beatles?" requested George dryly.

"Right, lads! Away!" ordered John. He trooped into the bathroom, the other Beatles not far behind. As Ringo stepped over the threshold, he swung the door shut behind them.

The reporters all stared at the door.

"What do we do now?" asked Ringo.

"Shh!" said the other three.

The reporters continued to stare at the door.

"I can't believe we just did that," said George with a grin.

"Shh!" said the others again.

The reporters blinked at the door.

"Was something supposed to happen?" asked one.

"We should go out the window!" suggested John in a whisper.

Paul, who was closest to it, peered out.

"Nah, it's too high up," he whispered back.

"Shh!" said George and Ringo.

A babble of conversation slowly picked up in the Beatles' suite.

"Put these on," whispered George, handing out a Beatle wig and skull cap to each Beatle.

Ringo smiled as John and Paul gaped appreciatively.

"This is brill!" exclaimed Paul approvingly.

"Why didn't I think of this?" mused John as he pulled the skull cap over his mop top.

"I thought we might spread a little more rumor in the press, this way," said George. "You know, they'll see that it looks suspiciously like a wig . . . ."

"Now shh!" muttered Ringo. The other three got quiet.

The press's conversation outside the bathroom got louder.

"I wish I had my guitar," said George wistfully.

John suddenly cackled. "I've got the perfect idea!"

"What's your idea?" asked Ringo.

John pushed himself past Ringo and George to where Paul was standing, next to the bathtub.

"Out of my way, McCartney," said John authoritatively.

Paul yelped as John stepped on his foot.

"Sorry," said John, not sounding sorry at all. He clambered into the tub.

"If I turn on the tub, they'll be really confused," he said.

"Won't you get wet?" asked Ringo.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm turning on the tub, not the shower," said John as he turned on the water.

Fwoosh, went the shower. Water sprayed throughout the tiny bathroom, soaking John in seconds and spritzing the other Beatles.

The conversation grew silent in the other room.

"There's a noise!" exclaimed one in a whisper. "I wonder what'll happen now!"

They listened avidly to the shrieks coming from inside the bathroom.

"Do you think they're alright?" asked someone hesitantly.

"So what?" asked the female journalist dismissively, "Either way it's a good story."

The shrieks inside the bathroom intensified. The press waited anxiously.

Water started to leak under the door and soak into the carpet.

Inside the bathroom, Paul was standing in the tub. He filled up another complimentary cup with water from the now-overflowing bath and tossed its contents out the window.

"We have to keep bailing out the room, mates!" he cried joyously. "And enjoy the water!" he added, sticking his tousled, wet head out the window, Beatle wig askew. The girls below screamed and battled to get under the McCartney-induced rain.

The other three were preoccupied scooping up handfuls of water from the floor, where it was already ankle-deep, and splashing each other. Ringo yelped as George dove for the drummer's leg and pulled him to the ground. They both fell in a giggling heap on the floor, sloshing water out under the door. Ringo grabbed his wig and held it on.

Meanwhile, John reached into the tub and realized, to his delight, that he could aim the showerhead by reaching up and tilting it. He grasped the water source and aimed it straight at Paul.

"I've got you now!" yelled John gleefully.

"Gak!" sputtered Paul back, spitting out water.

The press were frantically taking notes when Brian, Neil, and Mal burst into the room.

"Did anyone here spill water or anything?" asked Mal. "We've had some dripping into our roo—"

He turned to look at the bathroom door. Brian and Neil also turned. They listened to the muffled shouting from the other side of the door. Mal could only stare at the water sluggishly travelling across the carpet.

"Out!" said Brian authoritatively. "I don't know what you've done, but please leave." He and Neil herded the reluctant press out of the suite.

Mal crossed the room and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Time to come out," he called.

He listened to the giggling and frantic shuffling inside the bathroom, smiling when he heard the shower being turned off.

Inside the bathroom, the Beatles all took off their wigs and frantically air-dried them as much as they could by shaking them vigorously.

"Remember, no shaking your heads!" whispered George. "Else they'll just fall off, and there's no fun in that!"

"How'll we keep them on during the bow?" asked Paul. "You know, at the end of the concert."

"For the first concert we won't do the bow," decided John. "We'll say we've forgotten."

"And the second one?" asked Ringo.

John shrugged. "Who cares? We know our hair is real."

The Beatles replaced their wigs, carefully straightened their sopping clothes, and left the bathroom triumphantly.

Brian, Neil, and Mal stood in front of them, glaring.

"How dare you plant ideas in their heads," said Brian furiously, pointing at John.

"Like a farmer!" said John wonderingly.

Brian fumed, "Go and change! Now!"

"Yes, mother," said John defiantly as the Beatles marched past their managers to their bedrooms.

A/N: Quick! Batman's dying, and the only way you can save him is to post a review!