Fixing a Hole
By Hoshi Nagaiki
Rated T for mild language, mild sexual references, and slight horror.
A/N: So, I've been at an anime convention for the past three days, and I just had so much fun! I'm not really into anime anymore, but I got to hang out with my friends and remember all the anime goodness! ("I hate Near!" "I hate your face!") Well, anyway, one of the panels I went to was about fan fiction, and the speaker was this completely awesome person called DugFinn. (If you like Resident Evil and gratuitous yaoi citrus, check her out. Personally, I don't, but she's really cool.) She really inspired me to write more than I usually do! So, I've finally decided to rewrite this idea that had been swimming around in my head for a while. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Beatles or Paul McCartney, John Lennon, Ringo Starr, George Harrison, or any other real person used in this story. I am simply writing this because this idea wouldn't leave me alone!
Chapter One
And the Band Began to Play. . . .
Perhaps, it was age. Perhaps, it was the fact that he'd be seeing his old friend again soon. Or, perhaps, it was the amount of food he had eaten while on the airplane to John F. Kennedy Airport. Whatever the cause, it didn't matter because now, Sir Paul McCartney was asleep and dreaming one of the oddest dreams he had ever dreamt.
It wasn't unusual for Paul to dream of Beatlemania or his former band-mates, but to dream of them in such a manner—now that was unusual.
In his dream, Paul had let Stella, his fashion-designing daughter, create the outfit for his surprise performance at New York City's Radio City Music Hall for Ringo's seventieth birthday, but he wasn't quite sure why. She had taken forever! In fact, she had taken so long to design the ensemble that he hadn't seen it until that night.
Minutes before he was supposed to be on stage, Stella appeared backstage. In her hand, she held a package that looked like it had just come from the dry cleaners. She handed it to him and vanished.
At the moment, Paul thought nothing of her random appearance and disappearance. Instead, he threw off the clothes he was wearing and changed into the fashionable suit his daughter had designed for him. It was either navy or black; Paul couldn't tell in the dimly lit backstage.
Speaking of backstage, there seemed to be a distinct lack of one. The whole place could barely be seen, even if squinting, and remained silent the whole time. No footsteps rushed about. None of the shadows moved. For a second, the thought crossed his mind that maybe he had somehow ended up in outer space, but he wouldn't be able to breathe then, would he?
Just then, he saw a light glimmering from across the . . . hallway—yes, he had to be in a dark hallway of sorts. He dashed down it at a speed that he noted was incredible for someone of his age.
As he approached the bright light, he heard a distorted voice, similar to when the voices in the pictures slowed down and slurred like when the main character was fainting or maybe, falling into a different time period. . . . He heard, only briefly, a few words, "—a very special birthday surprise for our dearest drummer—" The voice sounded uncannily familiar with tones of playfulness, sarcasm, and wit, but it couldn't be. . . .
Another familiar voice spoke, this time at normal pace, in response to the first, "He's our only drummer." This voice, though familiar, seemed a tad off, almost feminine.
Paul continued to race towards the light. It seemed to fade away with every passing second, and if those voices belonged to whom he thought they belonged, well, Paul simply didn't want them to fade.
"Shhh, George, Ringo's not supposed to know that!" fake-whispered the first voice as Paul finally burst into the light. An eruption of laughs spewed from both an eclectic audience below and the two men that stood on the stage with the speaker and Paul.
The owner of the first voice glanced at Paul and gave him that signature Lennon smirk. He turned to the crowd and said, "Ah, look, Rings, you're birthday present's arrived. 'Bout time too."
Ringo, along with the two men beside him, appeared to be Sgt. Pepper-era. They all wore the brightly colored uniforms and the moustaches. Paul didn't have to look in the mirror to realize he was the same.
When Ringo glanced at his birthday present, his face fell comically. "Aw, I wanted a pony!"
The crowd burst into another round of laughter and George said, "Paul is a pony. Paul the Pony."
"Paul the Magical Pony: walks on two feet, looks like Paul, and shits gold bars," John added off-handedly, all the while grinning at Paul, who had a bemused look on his face.
"That must hurt," George commented.
"'Course it bloody hurts, George!" John yelled with a fake anger, "There's a price to wealth!"
"What's the price? Million pounds?" asked George.
Before John could retort, Ringo interrupted, "I wanted a pony I could ride around on."
George chuckled and muttered, "Oh you can ride Paul, but I don't think you'd want to."
"Now, remember, his arse is permanently damaged from shitting gold bars," John stated. He sent an encouraging look to Paul, who had been surprisingly silent during the whole encounter. Like the crowd, he had just watched in amazement and amusement at the antics of his old friends.
However, at John's face, Paul cleared his throat and stepped closer to his three best mates and spoke, "Let's not talk about my arse, which I have to say is pristine and undamaged in all ways. But, no one wants to hear about that—don't you dare say a word, John—" John closed his mouth and pretended to pout while Paul yelled; "I think that the audience came to hear some music!"
The crowd screamed at the top of their lungs. Paul noticed that, though the audience was comprised of all ages, the majority consisted of the elderly. Usually, teenagers were the primary attendees.
The four grabbed their instruments, and the band began to play. . . .
To perform with the Beatles again had to be one of the most wonderful experiences. They played "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band/With a Little Help from My Friends", "Twist and Shout", "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", "A Hard Day's Night", "I Am the Walrus", "All My Loving", "Hello Goodbye", "I'm a Loser", and many more. "Ringo, surely, had to be having a 'fab' birthday," Paul thought as Ringo sung "Octopus' Garden" to the screaming crowd, who probably should have been hoarse by now.
Suddenly, the dream knocked Paul square on the head; he began to detect all the faults. They'd never performed live during the Sgt. Pepper era, and some of the songs they were playing were much later than Sgt. Pepper. On top of that, none of them were in their twenties anymore. John and George were dead, for crying out loud!
As soon as the reality dawned, the music faded and the audience disappeared. All that remained was a decrepit stage with ill lighting and the four band-mates. The happy-go-lucky Sgt. Pepper costumes had been replaced with one of the most grotesque sights Paul had ever witnessed.
"Congratulations, McCartney! You win!" screamed John sardonically. Except he was the John, Paul had never wanted to see. His skin was pale and gaunt and blood seeped through six gunshot wounds. John didn't seem to notice, though. He continued to yell with every ounce of sarcasm he contained, "Because of you, we get to go back to our wonderful realities!"
George coughed, loudly and incessantly. He lay in a hospital bed on the stage. Once again, he had been weakened to his deathbed. Paul felt guilty. Was this really his fault?
He glanced at Ringo who still sat by his drums. His head faced downward towards the drum set, waiting for the arguments to be over. He was seventy again, just like Paul was sixty-eight again. They both could feel that horrible weakness in their bones, in their souls.
The ghastly, zombie-looking John Lennon approached Paul, and George's coughs continued to grow louder and louder. A train of blood followed John's every footstep and the rasping, desperate coughs augmented to an unbearable decibel. Ringo remained quiet; he refused to watch the horrible sight. Paul found he couldn't look away from his old best mate, John. His eyes stung him. George coughed violently.
When John stood a mere foot away from Paul, the coughs ended. A huge sniffle sounded from the drums, and the blockades holding back the water in Paul's eyes failed. He still watched John, though. His mouth opened and Paul felt afraid of what John might say. He didn't want to be the cause of this destruction, this disintegration of their beloved band.
However, only two words came from John Lennon's mouth: "Helter Skelter."
A/N: So, what did you think? Please tell me in a review! Thanks for reading! ^.^