Paul was sitting in one of the hotel's somewhat comfortable couches, his back hunched, and his gaze focused on his hands. The band had just finished their Memphis concerts, and they were all pretty shaken up. Some psycho had decided to throw a cherry bomb at the stage in the middle of the performance. To them, it had sounded like a gunshot.
Ringo, Paul, and George had immediately looked towards John in fear, just to find the same expression reflected in his face as he looked towards them.
It was not an insane thought, that someone would want to shoot them. For the entirety of the tour the boys had been receiving death threats and hateful messages. The records were burnt, their name cursed, and though the boys put on a brave front for the press they were actually afraid. And today's events had only made it worst. Everyone's mood was down and tempers were high, especially George's.
"You just had to open your mouth, didn't you, Lennon?" He spat at the rhythm guitarist, who was laying in one of the larger couches with his right arm across his eyes and with his left leg folded over his right one in a ridiculous angle.
George was pacing, but he had stopped to glare angrily at his bandmate.
John groaned, "Oh, for Christ's sake, George!" He spoke, "I thought we'd gotten over this." He was right, the boys had talked with each other at the beginning on the tour and agreed that Americans were just crazy and overreacting. John had been very grateful for their support, though he never told them that.
"Well," George answered him, "Clearly those people didn't!" The 'people' being the hecklers at every concert and at every hotel. "What if it had been a gun?" He asked, "A real gun?"
John still didn't move his arm, "It wasn't." He said, flatly.
"But if it had been?" George persisted, he stepped closer to the couch so he could look down at the older man.
"It wasn't." John repeated, a touch of irritation in his voice.
"But-"
"Oh, just shut it already, won't you?" John finally removed his arm and stood up to face his bandmate. His voice was angry, and his fists were clenched.
But George didn't care, "Oh, look who's talking," he continued. "Telling me to shut up."
Ringo spoke up from his own seat on the floor, "He's right, John. I was frightened for me life!"
Paul rolled his eyes, "We all were, Ringo." Thought truly, they had been frightened for John's life more than theirs.
George turned to face the bassist, "Oh, don't you try to defend him!" He snarled, his youthful face painted in a hideous expression.
Paul raised his hands in a placating gesture, "I'm not." He said, not noticing the wounded look sent his way by John. "But, George, we're all tired and we gain nothing by fighting one another."
Ringo looked down in acceptance, but George wasn't finished.
"We gain nothing from him!" He cried and pointed a cruel finger directly at John.
Everyone was silent, waiting for the penny to drop. Even George seemed shocked at his words, but made no move to apologize. A look of hurt briefly took over the man's face, but was quickly replaced by a look of indifference. The mask was on.
"Well," He finally spoke. "If that's how you feel." John walked towards where his coat laid and grabbed his beloved hat from its perch in one of the kitchenette chairs.
Paul moved towards him, "Now, Johnny-"
"Save it, Paul." John said as he opened the door. Then, in a sad whisper, "He's right anyway."
"Where are you going?" Ringo asked him.
John sneered at him, "Out!" He told them, and banged the door closed.
John noticed the security posted near the elevators. Guess he's have to take the stairs. He didn't really fancy walking down 12 flights of stairs but he's take anything over being in that room. Of course the band gained nothing from him. Shitty voice, shitty guitar playing, not even good at piano, and god knows Paul could write infinitely better than him. Those were insecurities he carried with him everyday, but to hear his friend admit it? George, who used to follow him around in Liverpool because he truly believed that motherless brat John Lennon was a role model, someone worthy of admiration. That George, for him to shove his insecurities right in his face, it hurt. Probably more than a bullet wound would have.
He found the door labeled 'Stairs' and lit up a cigarette as he began his descent, grumbling all the way about ungrateful guitar players and stupid mobs.
He'd barely gone down two flights when he bumped into a man. John had been looking down and hadn't heard anyone approaching. He wasn't wearing his glasses but he could see that the man was dressed in a hotel uniform, and that he was big. About three inches taller than John and well equipped with what could be either muscle or fat.
John stepped to the side, "Sorry." He murmured, only half paying attention, still concerned with what had happened earlier.
But the man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "No no," he said with a thick southern accent, the kind that was really starting to grate on John's nerves. "It was my fault, anyway." His eyes narrowed on John's figured, "You're one of them, aren't you?"
John sighed, "No."
But the man was persistent, "No, you are! That one from the newspaper the one that says your band is better than Jesus." His tone had changed from casually friendly to hostile.
John was tense as he spoke, "That's not what I said." He started to move past the man, "Now if you'll excuse me-"
The man grabbed his left arm in a tight grip, making John wince.
John glared at him, "Oi! Let go, you-" He struggled.
The man punched him in the face, making his head bang against the wall behind him. John's vision blacked out for a moment and he was left disoriented. His hat fell to the floor.
The man started to drag him down the stairs, and John recovered his senses just in time to cry, "Hel-mhmm!"
The man put his large hand over his mouth and nose and started to squeeze. John struggled but his smaller and tired body was no match for his opponent. Soon he felt himself grow fainter and eventually he knew no more.