If any of you believe that I own the Beatles, you'd better correct that assumption quickly. If you don't, I've been told that the Secret International Police (SIP) will apprehend you and subject you to the worst torture known to mankind: locked in an elevator with Barry Manilow playing in the background nonstop.

A/N: Finally, I'm back! Thanks so much to my reviewers - FanFiction: Macca's Little Teddy Bear and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad: Macca40, cityofstarlight, and MasterofFire; Archive of Our Own: McLennonLuv and Trying to Think of a Funny Name! Also, thanks to those of you who read and/or reviewed my silly WattPad exclusive "Old Habits Die Hard" :0)

It was far from bright when Brian woke up George and Ringo earlier that morning. In fact, the bedroom was pitch-black.

"Time to get up, boys," muttered Brian, shaking George's shoulder roughly.

George groaned, "Why?"

Brian moved on to Ringo. "Rise and shine. We've got an emergency press conference in the hotel lobby in ten minutes, and you have to get dressed before then!"

Ringo sat up, his mop top sticking up in the back. "Wha?"

"Hurry!" urged Brian. He leaned over to the bedside table between George and Ringo and turned on the light.

Both Beatles moaned in protest. George hid under the covers and Ringo's hands flew up in front of his eyes.

"Put out that light!" grumbled George.

Brian yanked off the guitarist's blanket. "And I'll do that to the sheet, too, if you don't get up."

George and Ringo reluctantly hauled themselves out of their beds, their eyes still gummed half-closed with sleep.

"What're we doing again?" inquired Ringo, pulling a sock onto his right hand.

"A press conference," replied Brian. "And that goes on your foot, Ringo. George! Don't put that in your hair!"

The manager raced over to George and yanked a toothbrush out of the confused guitarist's hand.

"Oh . . . yeah, right," replied George. "It's just early, I guess."

"Too early," agreed Ringo, fumbling with the back of the shirt he'd put on wrong-way-round. "Where are the buttons?" he asked no one in particular.

"What do we say to the press again?" wondered George, rubbing his eyes with one hand while trying to scrub his teeth with a comb in the other.

"Paul is ill in the hospital, and John is taking care of him there until he gets better," coached Brian slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Ringo frowned as he finally figured out what was wrong with his backwards shirt. "Oh!"

"Wait, what're we supposed to tell them?" asked George, picking up his pants and staring at them confusedly.

Brian sighed. "Paul is ill and John's with him."

Ringo blinked. "We're ill, and Paul and John are gits," he attempted.

"No no no!" moaned Brian. "Paul's ill, and John's with him in the hospital. We don't have anything to do with it."

George looked utterly flummoxed. "Are they going to accuse us of making ourselves ill so Paul and John can go on vacation to farm carrots?" he asked. "Why would we make ourselves ill so that Paul and John can have all the financial gain?"

The guitarist tapped the side of his nose intelligently and snapped his cufflinks authoritatively onto his collar.

"No!" exclaimed Brian loudly. "Paul made John ill so they could go to the hospital!"

Neil pushed open the bedroom door. "Really? I thought Paul was ill."

"What did I say?" Brian asked him.

"You said carrots made John ill so Paul could take care of him at the carrot farm," replied Ringo sensibly, taking a break from trying to figure out why there seemed to be an extra button on his shirt.

"Three minutes 'til the press conference," called Mal from the sitting room.

"Just tell them you don't know," said Brian, exasperated. "We can't let them find out what really happened."

Three minutes later, the youngest and eldest Beatle trooped into the hotel lobby, closely followed by Brian, Neil and Mal. They were met by a tousled-haired, bright-eyed Derek Taylor.

"Hello, Mr. Press Secretary," greeted Ringo. "How's everything going in London?"

"How would he know? He's right here!" replied George.

"Just took the red-eye up here; Brian said it was an emergency," muttered Derek, glancing at his watch. "Right, you two, up on the podium. It's showtime."

Derek, George and Ringo surmounted the "podium," a rather dilapidated stage in a darkened corner of the lobby. A faded poster stuck to the wall next to the stage still advertised "Robert MacCleary and his Fantastic Comedy Bagpipe Trio, 7:30 PM, December 2, 1959." The collection of photographers and reporters rushed over, conglomerating at the base of the stage. They all began to talk at once.

"Quiet, please!" asked Derek firmly. The press settled down, though many reporters raised their hands. Derek pointed to a slender blonde man in the back corner to start off the questioning.

"Where are John Lennon and Paul McCartney?" inquired the handsome young reporter, notepad at the ready.

"I don't know," replied George mechanically. "Do you, Ringo?"

"No, I don't, George," answered Ringo, sounding like a stilted newscaster.

The young reporter frowned and jotted something down in his notepad. He tried to ask a follow-up, but Derek had already called on someone else.

"Are the Beatles breaking up?" inquired a rotund reporter with an impressive walrus moustache.

"I don't know," replied Ringo.

"But we do like your moustache," added George. "You're a regular trend setter."

The reporter fingered his moustache, flummoxed.

Derek called on the next reporter, a rather horsey-faced female reporter right below the edge of the stage.

"Who's keeping you in the dark about all this?" she asked shrilly.

George shrugged. "We don't know."

Derek called on the young blonde reporter again, who was grinning in a manner reminiscent of John Lennon about to pull a prank.

"What are your names?" asked the reporter, still smirking mischievously.

"Haven't the foggiest," replied George, winking at the young man, who grinned back.

"That's funny, I don't remember either," contributed Ringo, scratching his head. "Somebody must've put something in my tea."

"Do you drink tea regularly?" asked George over the sudden uproar of questions from the press.

"I don't kn –" started Ringo, before Brian raced onto the stage.

"Stop! STOP!" screamed Brian, adding in a dangerously low voice, "Get off the stage, you two. I'll deal with you later."

Mal and Neil briefly followed Brian onto the stage to escort George and Ringo off.

"Although Paul and John are temporarily indisposed," Brian attempted from the stage, "I promise, as soon as they are both well, Glasgow will have an absolutely free makeup concert!"

Derek glanced in alarm at Brian, the latter of whom didn't seem to notice.

Meanwhile, the roadies led the two remaining Beatles around the periphery of the room, right past the blonde reporter.

"Nice job," whispered the young man, grinning.

"You didn't do too badly yourself," replied George in a hushed voice, grinning back. "Brian'll murder us, though," the lead guitarist added to Ringo as Neil and Mal led them into the elevator.

"I hope he makes it quick," answered Ringo gloomily.

"Do we get the rest of the day off, then?" George asked Neil and Mal. "Unless John and Paul leap up out of the ground, that is."

Neil shook his head. "You've still got a lot of work to do to clear this mess up."

A/N: Quick, SIP's coming! And they are armed . . . with FRUIT GALORE! Post a review, before it's too late! Don't condemn yourself to eternal torment in the Barry Manilow elevator!