John, Paul, Ringo, and George were as happy as they could be in the deep year of 1965. They had money, women, wine, and a whole lotta cock to go around. One day, the de facto leader of the group, Paul, stood up in the middle of Abbey Rd. studios with an exciting proposal.
"Boys," he rasped in a too-good-to-be-true whisper. "Remember that documentary we were watching last week? The one on the autistic pink river dolphins?"
The rest of the gang grubled their comprehension, with even an appreciative whistle from Ringo.
Paul took a deep breath. "Well, what if we dressed as autistic pink river dolphins? The Scotland Yard can't possibly arrest us if we're not human!" Paul finished his pitch with a solid wink.
The Beatles considered this with desire deep in their hearts. Then slowly, very slowly, as if a great jumbo jet was rearing up for a fight, the band exploded into organsmic chanting.
"Absolutely!" They consented.
One Week Later
The plans were all set. The lights were dimmed. And Abbey Rd. studios was about to be turned into a madhouse.
"Boys, hello?" Everyone look at me!" Paul regally proclaimed, fluffing his pink tousled topping hat.
"Wow, Paul, you look incredible!" John congratulated finally, unable to hold back his longing for much longer. Paul let his jaw slam into the floor before picking up the plans.
They trouped out of the house single file before the special press meeting they had called. Paul assumed control of the mike and tapped it twice.
"Yes yes, I'm sure you're all wondering why we've called everyone here today…" Paul began tantalizingly slow, catching excited glances from the other members, who were all adorned in a rough patch quilt of pink foam and googly eyes, giving the credible impression that they were, in fact, autistic pink river dolphins.
"We were all sitting at home, the boys and I, when we decided 'fuck it!' We're gonna have a press conference! And so here we are!" Paul ended his speech valiantly and strode down from his pedestal. All was silent. Except-
"Hold on a second," spoke one of the reporters, a small frown forming on his ruddy face. "Where did the others Beatles-"
His worries were cut harshly short when Paul leapt down from the podium, cock already juiced and ready to go, dolphin suit adorned. He sang a perfect b flat note as he aimed the head of his legendary mastiff right into the reporters invitingly wide open mouth.
He screwed himself in with a satisfying seal, watching the reporter's eyes slowly lose light. He struggled and moaned but it was no use. Paul McCartney had a lust that only rape could satisfy.
The esteemed singer looked around the general area, only realizing now how loud everyone else's screams were. To his left, George was tying three reporters at once to a lifesize statue of the Buddha using only sitar strings. He stood back, admiring his handiwork, before tightening the strings ever so slowly. Blood began to form around their throats, which George captured reverently in a cracked glass vial, ready to offer in sacrifice to his Sweet Lord. He smiled widely, his savagely long and serpent-like tongue swaying in the wind, cackling like a mongolian invader high on codeine.
Straight ahead was John who had selected exclusively female reporters. He beat them without showing any signs of stopping, simple as that. When one became too tired to fight back, a simple thrust was all what was needed to finish the job.
And to his right was Ringo Starr, and by far the most creative of the bunch. Each of his prey he had managed to envelop upside-down in a cocoon of sickly yellow material. Holding their smartphones with Facetime connected, the victims could only sit and struggle with horror as Ringo connected their children on the other line. He set the cameras up facing his group and masturbated furiously into the mouths of each participant, spewing more of the yellow material almost instantaneously. The children's screams of panic and trauma on the other end of the call were what really motivated the sick fuck. Finally, it was ready. It was time.
Ringo reared back and opened his mouth up wide, unsheathing a pair of wicked looking pincers sitting snugly inside his unassuming cheeks. He slumped down hard on one of the sobbing reporter's heads, sucking precious nutrients out slowly through the mandibles. His prey screamt out in terror, their last image of life being the inside of Ringo Starr's monster mouth. Their struggle was quick and brutal. With a satisfied smack of the lips Ringo let the drained husks of what were once 'humans' fall to the floor with finality.