Free Give Death A Chance by Alan Goldsher Page B

lyric?” John asked.
    “What? I’m supposed to say, dear sir or madam, could you read my book? That doesn’t make sense.”
    “Maybe not,” John responded, “but you could say, imagine all the people dying for today .”
    “That’s not a Beatle song, y’know,” Paul said. “That’s a Johnny song. I’d rather go into battle with a Stones song than one of your solo recordings. That’s not fair. You’d get all the royalties. Besides, saying something like, look out for the band on the run makes much more sense.”
    George said, “Band on the run? Please. You know what would make sense? Blow away, blow away, blow away , that’s what.”
    I said, “Guys, enough! How about something like, help me if you can, and please please me and come together right now, because nothing is real, and your bird can sing, so roll up for the mystery tour, because the English army is about to win the war ?”
    In unison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr said, “Fook yeah!” One minute later, the four of them were on stage, standing in front of the largest crowd they’d stood in front of as a full unit since their final concert in San Francisco on August 29, 1966. Lady Gaga—who was clad in some weird warrior garb that exposed her breasts; in a show of pseudo-modesty, she’d put electrical tape over her nipples—gawked at the lads, then brought her band to a halt in the middle of that insidious, ubiquitous fucking piece of pap, “Poker Face.”
    As Ringo charged her, swords a’flying, Gaga said, “Ah. The Beatles. What a surprise.” Thing is, she didn’t seem surprised. She turned to the crowd and calmly, quietly said, “Please turn up the house lights.” As the Garden lit up like a million Christmas trees, Gaga said, “Little Monsters, go !”

     
    And then, as one, the crowd let loose with a Monster roar that was as impressive as any unison Zombie moan I’d ever heard. (And after over a decade of researching the Beatles, I’d heard some impressive unison Zombie moans, believe you me.) As it went on, the roar became somehow unified; in other words, it started sounding less like 20,000-plus individual voices, and more like one single voice. And then, odder yet, the 20,000-plus individuals began looking less like 20,000 individuals, and more like a single entity. I assumed it was the trick of the light, so I rubbed my eyes, but when I looked at the crowd again, it had morphed into something horrible.
    It wasn’t a blob, exactly—it had more solidity than that—but it was a mostly amorphous creature; if you peered at it carefully, you could discern a head and a body. It didn’t have any arms, legs, or eyes, so it oozed blindly toward the front of the arena.
    As the Beatles backed away from the foot of the stage, Gaga laughed maniacally and said, “I knew this day would come.” More laughter, then, even louder, “I’ve been preparing.” More laughter, more volume. “I’m ready.” More laughter, more volume…and was she getting bigger? “Zombie musicians are relics, and they must be eradicated, and I’m the only person who can do it.” Yes, she was getting bigger, and her face was changing, becoming more defined, more experienced, more intelligent, and more angry. “It! Ends! Here!”
    Ringo said out of the side of his mouth, “Who does she think she is, Jagger?”
    And then, as she grew even more, the weirdo warrior outfit fell off, and the being was wearing only a small strip of fabric around her chest, and a smaller strip around her hoo-hah.
    John gawked at the now 10-foot-tall blonde, and asked her, “What the fook is going on here, Gaga?”
    “Oh, I’m not Lady Gaga, you undead douchebag.”
    Taking in the yoga-toned muscles and the angry tone of voice, I said, “That’s right, you’re not Lady Gaga. You’re Madonna .”
    “Hey, you! Up here. I have eyes,” she said, noticing that my pupils were glued to her astoundingly perky, astoundingly huge breasts.