Paul raced around the corner of his block on his quest to pick up his friend for school. Not missing a step in his timing, Paul looked down at his wrist-watch. 7:24, it read.

"Damn," Paul said, though with the pace he was running at it sounded more like a pant. Across the block he flew. Down the street, up the curb, past old Mrs. Fletcher's place, and through the garden of her neighbor's.

A light sweat Paul had broken into, what with running all those blocks he had to run before he reached John's house. His best friend ever since they were just lads. And every day since Paul's mother and John's aunt allowed them, they two would walk to school every blasted day together, and today wasn't going to be any different, Paul thought to himself.

Finally, after a good twenty minutes of running-no, SPRINTING-Paul had made it to Lennon's place. He went up to the door of the cute little white house and walked in. He saw no use of the doorbell, seeing that he and John were so close that Paul just felt like part of the family: John's home was his home, and vice-versa.

Paul walked into the kitchen, still breathing heavily, to find somebody (a rather famliar somebody) sitting in a chair with their nose stuck in the morning paper. Paul tried to catch his breathe before greeting the figure.

"*gasp* Good mo-"

"Ya late, lad," John stated, still not looking up from his paper, in a monotone that wreaked of condesendence.

"Well-*gasp*-sorry mate, me-*gasp*-bloody mutha was ridin' me all-*gasp*-mornin'!"

John put down the paper to reveal himself. His dark brown eyes looked up at him with a question. His left eyebrow arched as he stood up to examine his sweaty friend. He noticed that his friend's breathing was heavy and he had one hand on the counter supporting himself.

"What'id ya do, Paul, run a bloody marathon?!" John scolded, helping his friend over to a chair at the table.

"Sit 'ere and try to take in some Oxygen, eh somethin'," he added, getting Paul a glass of water. John handed Paul a handkerchief to wipe off some of the sweat with, and placed down the water on the table and watched his friend gulp it down like nobody's business. Then after finishing that glass, Paul ran up to the sink to refill it with more, and was now leaning on the sink gussling down water and gasping for air every minute or so, before pouring more, that is.

"Christ, McCartney, save some feh the fish!"

"*gulp**gulp*-Sorry," Paul said with a hiccup.

"Pa-haul," John laughed, "What'm I gonna do with you?"

Paul shrugged with a cocky smile and looked down at his watch again.

"Oh, fah heaven's sake, it's a quahtah t'eight!" Paul cried.

"Well, then we've gotta get goin', then," John said, flinging his backpack over his shoulder, "We've still got Geo to pick up yet."

"Oh- 'ave you any leftovehs?"

"Now what kinda bloody question is that, McCartney?"

"A kinda question ye'd ask when yah fugot t'eat breaky," Paul replied looking down at his feet.

"Oh, brothuh! Well, we've only chicken-will that do?" John shrugged, then quickly noticing that Paul was not in the original spot he was standing in about 5 seconds ago, and was now raiding his fridge of a small chicken.

"Sounds fab t' me," Paul said, scurrying out the door with the chicken leg held tightly in his teeth.

John just stared for a moment, then looked away, shrugged, and ran out of the kitchen and past John's aunt who was dusting.

"Thank you kindly, fa th' chicken, m'am, " Paul cried as he ran out the door. John followed suit, and stopped to peck his auntie a 'goodbye' kiss on the cheek, then followed his friend out the front door and down the block to the Harrison residence.