In the afterlife, John Lennon and George Harrison are laughing so hard they've accidentally broken their harps.  No, not at my story, I'm not that big-headed.  They are laughing at you for believing I own the Beatles, when they are as free as can be.

A/N:  Hi everybody!  Thanks to singertobe and omgringo on FanFiction and to Macca40 on Wattpad for all the support!

Brian led the way briskly through the kitchen, Ringo trailing along behind.

"Ooh, crepes!" exclaimed Ringo as he looked around at the bustling room.

"Nope, we've got to keep going," said Brian. "Sorry, Ringo."

Ringo looked crestfallen, but he dutifully followed Brian out the windowless back door and into the supply-truck alleyway behind the hotel. The sole occupants of this alley were a pair of unsightly dumpsters, a bus with reflective windows, and a stray cat. The stray cat started at the opening of the door and ran away, leaving Ringo and Brian alone with the bus and the dumpsters.

Brian continued to walk briskly toward the bus. The bus didn't move. Ringo didn't move. The dumpsters didn't move. A chilly breeze gusted past.

Brian turned around as he reached the door of the bus, his scarf flapping in the wind.

"What's wrong?" he asked the stationary drummer irritably.

Ringo glanced around the deserted alleyway, bewildered. "There's no one here," he finally managed.

"Yes, I know! Now get in the bus before that changes!"

"But . . . fans are always here," said Ringo slowly. "There must be some sort of trick. Maybe it's an ambush!"

"It's five thirty in the morning! Of course they're not here yet!"

"But Neil said they were . . . ."

"They're probably congregated around the front."

Ringo glanced warily down the alley. "I don't hear them screaming or anything." His voice lowered to a whisper as he continued, "It's unnatural."

Brian turned his back to Ringo and rapped on the bus's door. The drummer cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Anybody there?" he called loudly. Brian whirled to stare at Ringo in horror, but his scarf got blown straight into his face. For a moment, he could only see polka dots. Brian didn't have a chance to pull the scarf off his face before something heavy bowled him over, into the bus through its now-open door.

The thing got off Brian as the bus door slammed shut. Brian coughed and pulled the scarf off his face to look up at the thing.

The thing had a large nose, mop top, and several rings.

"You alright?" panted Ringo.

Brian stared at the door and panted as a horde of screaming girls simultaneously threw themselves at the tour bus. The bus rocked from side to side drunkenly.

"How are the others going to get in here?" wondered Ringo aloud.

Brian shot Ringo his most withering death glare, the one he normally reserved for John.

"What were you thinking?" spat the manager.

The rest of the Beatles were blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding several floors below. Paul and John were playing "epic tic-tac-toe" on John's notepad, with George as referee. Mal was double-checking the rooms to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything, and Neil was nervously staring at his watch.

John scribbled something into the 9-square-by-9-square tic-tac-toe game, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"He can't do that!" Paul objected. "You can't put in a pentagon unless there's at least one irregular cluster nearby!"

"Yes, I can! There's a wizard to the left, see?" said John defensively.

"Oh, come off it, that's ridiculous," Paul groaned. "Wizards are meant to protect squares from greater-sided objects! What do you think, George?"

"Hang on a mo," frowned George. He bent over the tic-tac-toe game, analyzing it carefully, before straightening up to announce his verdict. "Well, you're right that the wizard doesn't justify his positioning of the pentagon, but he can still put it there."

"How?" asked John and Paul simultaneously.

"See, you've got a fourth-dimension squiggle there," said George, pointing to another square, "And that counts as a cluster for the purpose of positioning two-dimensional regular geometric shapes, remember?"

"Oh yeah," said Paul, nodding. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I knew that all along," said John quickly. "I was just testing our referee."

Neil looked up from his watch. "Time to go, guys."

John flapped shut his notebook, and he and Paul got up.

"Nice knowing you," he said melodramatically as they headed for the door. "If we don't come back, tell Cyn I love her."

"Will do," said George, tipping an imaginary hat at them. "Best of luck to you, boys."

"Thank you kindly," said Paul in a horrendous cowboy accent before slamming shut the door.

"What was it Brian said?" asked Paul as he and John headed for the back stairs. "Down the stairs, to the left? Or was it the right? Then what?"

"I thought you were listening," sniffed John. "You're the responsible one, after all."

Paul scrunched up his face like he'd taken a bite of an apple and it had been filled with hot sauce. John loved that facial expression. He poked Paul's scrunched nose.

"You were the one taking notes!" said Paul indignantly. "And don't poke my nose!"

"Oh yeah," said John. He whipped out his notebook, flipped it to the appropriate page, and handed it to Paul.

"Four (or five) scare and seven (or six) years ago, there was a dustbunny," read Paul aloud. "His name were Miranda, for he was often of the Maranda clan. Maronda's boast friend, a dragon of highest proportion, was christened SteveBob. SteveBob heralded from the shitty of SweatnessAndSugar, capital shitty of the dragoons. One day, Marondu decided to get marred to another dustbunny. SteveBob wiggled against this coarse of action."

Paul stopped reading and looked up at John, aghast. "This is it?"

John's eyes widened in a failed attempt at Paul's "doe-eyed sincerity" look. "That's all I could get down, he was talking awfully fast for dictation."

Paul snorted as they reached the landing. "That innocent look doesn't work on me. After all, I invented it."

"You did no such thing!" exclaimed John as they reached the foot of the stairs.

"Moment of truth," said Paul. "Right or left? And don't fool around, I want to get on the bus before the fans mob it."

"Right," said John promptly.

Paul looked at his best friend suspiciously.

"What?" said John, "I want to go the right way just as much as you do! We'd be going through the kitchen, and I want tea before we start!"

"Are you sure he said right?" asked Paul. "Cause I'm pretty sure he said left, then right."

"I thought he said right," said John. "Wasn't it right, then third left?"

"Okay, right then," said Paul, shrugging. "There can't be many fans anyroad, it is five thirty in the morning.

Lennon and McCartney turned right, heading down the rather dark hallway and in completely the wrong direction.

A/N:  Reviews please my muse.  They turn her away from eating popcorn and watching Gilligan's Island reruns for the nth time.  They turn her to her pen and paper and laptop, and they guide her hand as she continues her utterly pointless saga.