The last time I said I owned the Beatles, they made me go to court-mandated counselling.  Whether I own the Beatles or not, I'm not going through THAT again, so, let it be known that I do not own the Beatles!

A/N:  Bit of a filler chapter, but it could be worse ;0)  Thanks so much for your reviews!  FanFiction:  Macca's Little Teddy Bear, leah9712, and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad:  cityofstarlight, Macca40, MasterofFire, and InmylifeIloveLennon.

George, Ringo, Brian, Neil, and Mal all dove out of the BBC's regional broadcasting centre. Coats flapping in a brisk gust of wind, they raced across the pavement and leapt into the limousine waiting for them at the door. Mal slammed the door in the faces of panting fans and reporters alike.

"I'm hungry," complained George as the car rolled into motion. "Can we stop to get some fish 'n' chips or something?"

Brian sighed, staring out the window at the passing bombed-out cathedral. "I'm sorry, we're much too busy, George."

"It's twelve thirty!" moaned Ringo. "We've been up since the sun wasn't."

"Come on, Brian, we're starving!" added George. Mal found himself nodding in agreement and jerked his head to an abrupt stop.

Brian tore his gaze away from the window and glanced at Neil.

Neil shrugged. "It would be nice to have a break and a bit of food."

Brian leaned back in defeat. "If you insist."

Mal twisted around to tell the driver where to pull over. Soon, the two Beatles and their attendant road crew leapt out of the car, their shoes slapping the rough pavement. The five young men bolted into the somewhat grimy fish 'n' chips shop across the road.

Several workingmen looked up from their baskets of chips to stare at the well-dressed newcomers. Conversation slowly sank into nothingness as even the old man behind the counter looked up from the old-fashioned, wrought iron cash register to eye the successful Liverpudlians suspiciously. A family of tourists sitting near the window goggled at the celebrities.

Brian cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the walls of silence.

"Should we seat ourselves?" the manager asked.

The shopkeeper straightened his flat cap contemplatively. "Go ahead."

"Ta!" called Ringo over his shoulder as the Beatles' entourage seated themselves in the booth nearest the back.

The workers hunched over their food, continuing to glare at the interlopers on their communal lunch break. The interlopers themselves shuffled into their booth and wriggled out of their coats. Outside, a car drove past, fragmenting the light on the textured, white plaster ceiling. The teenage daughter of the tourist family leaned over to her mother excitedly and whispered something into the older woman's ear.

"Where's Derek?" Neil broke the silence.

"Wrapping something up back at the BBC," replied Brian. Ringo glanced around the room to see everyone else hanging on their every word.

A waitress ambled down the hall from the kitchen and stopped at the Beatles' table.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

As she took Neil and Mal's orders, George followed Ringo's gaze to see the teenage girl standing up awkwardly from her family's table, being encouraged by her mother. The two Beatles watched the older woman's bright red lipstick shimmer in the low lighting as she laughed, revealing rather crooked white teeth. Her son, still in short pants, blew a raspberry at his sister.

"What would you like?" the waitress asked George. The youngest Beatle didn't reply, still absorbed in people-watching. Ringo tried to kick him under the table, but missed, kicking Brian's ankle instead.

Brian started and stared at Ringo. What? mouthed the manager.

Ringo shook his head frantically, mop top fluttering from side to side.

"Er, I'll just have fish and chips, thanks," said George, finally jerking himself back to his senses unaided.

The waitress jotted this down and turned to Ringo.

"Same for me," he said hastily.

She looked over at Brian.

"I'll have –" he started.

"Excuse me?" asked the teenage girl, who'd finally plucked up the courage to approach them. Her accent betrayed her as an American; the autograph book clutched between her soft fingers revealed her as a fan.

"Yeah, sure," sighed George, reaching out for the autograph book. "D'you have a pen, Neil?"

Neil shuffled around in his pockets for a pen. The girl pried the book away from her chest, where she'd been hugging it, and held it out to George. He pulled it out of her hand with one of his own while grabbing Neil's pen with the other, flipped the book to a clean page, and signed it with a quick flourish. He passed the pen and the book to Ringo, who added his own large signature confidently to the page before handing the book back to the girl. She received it with trembling fingers.

"Thank you," she said tentatively.

"No problem," replied Ringo with a warm smile. She blushed and retreated to her table as quickly as she could while maintaining dignity.

The middle-aged local men in overalls continued to glare at the booth in the back corner.

"What would you like?" the waitress prompted Brian.

"I'd like you to make everyone else leave, please," he said firmly.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," the waitress informed him.

Brian wordlessly removed a large wad of banknotes from his left pocket and held them out to her. Her eyes bulged.

"Right away, sir," she managed to mumble, grabbing the stack of money with chipped nails. She cupped her other hand around her mouth, took a deep breath into her large bosom, and shouted, "Everybody out!"

George and Ringo looked around the shop at the wooden-framed paintings of steamships that lined the walls. The two Beatles stared at the bowed pine floor and at the elaborate cash register, assiduously avoiding eye contact with any of the disgruntled patrons currently shuffling out of the shop.

Once the last local worker slammed the door behind him, leaving only the sound of the jangling bell, everyone in the back booth breathed a sigh of relief.

The waitress came back and dumped their fish and chips on the table. Neil, Mal, George, and Ringo tucked in, while Brian pulled out a notebook and jotted something down. The meal continued in silence.

Just as Ringo and Neil were nibbling on their last chips, Brian abruptly stood up and gathered his coat.

"Are we going already?" wondered Ringo around a mouthful of potato.

"I've just remembered, I haven't canceled the Leeds concert tonight," rushed Brian in one breath. "I've got to go find a pay phone and place that call, won't be a moment."

He whisked away from the table and out the door. The bell over the door belatedly signaled his departure.

"I'd better go get the car, then," commented Neil. He slid out of the booth after Brian. "I'll be back in a minute."

He followed the manager out the door. The bell tinkled into silence.

"I think I'll use the loo before we go," Mal informed the Beatles. "Can you let me out, Ringo?"

Ringo obligingly hopped out of the booth, letting Mal squeeze out past him and stroll down the hallway in search of a restroom.

George glanced from the front door to the back hall, an amazed grin slowly spreading across his face. Ringo didn't even bother settling back into the booth.

"Ready?" asked George.

Ringo nodded. "Whenever you are!"

And with that, the rest of the world's most famous pop combo deserted their hard-earned position at the toppermost of the poppermost, racing down the back hall and bursting out the back door into the grey Glasgow streets.

A/N:  Count Selling:  How did it make you feel, when they said you don't own the Beatles?

          Doctor Lennon 007:  Angry.  And . . . unloved.  How did it feel when your mother gave you a name like "Count Selling?"

          Count Selling:  Powerful.  I felt like the perfect meld of . . . capitalist and Dracula.

          Doctor Lennon 007:  How on earth are you a qualified court psychiatrist?

          Count Selling (frowning):  Bribery.  And threats.  Oh, and there was that incident with the frying pan and the water buffalo . . . .