Disclaimer: If I owned the Beatles, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction about them, now would I?

It was after dinner when Ringo next thought about the letter. In fact, that's when he dialed the number. After some pushing from George and John and some vague interest from Paul, he pulled the letter out and dialed 1-800-746-4678:

-Hello?

-Hello, uh, this is Ringo Starr, I got your letter.

-Oh, yes, Ringo. I'm glad you've called. Have you decided whether you want to take part in this?

[pause]

-Yes. I want to.

-Good, good. Now, it will be very easy on your part. All you have to do is come to 200 West Drumlin Avenue and sign a few papers for me. Oh, and your friend Paul will have to come and sign as well. In fact, you might as well bring the whole four of you.

-Okay. Sure.

-Now, how soon can you come?

-Um...West Drumlin? That's in London, aye? Probably the soonest possible would be about seven hours from now, if we took the fastest flight.

-Good, you do that. I'm assuming you can afford that?

-Oh, yes, shouldn't be a problem.

-Good. Then come as quickly as possible, all four of you. I'll see you soon.

[line dies]

Ringo turns around and faces his mates.

"Alright, then, we're taking the fastest flight from here to London, all four of us, so get ready and be quick. We shouldn't stay there too long, Brian'll want us back for concerts and such."

"Excuse me," John said, slightly irritated. "But since when do you get to decide where we're goin' and when we'll be goin' there? I thought I was the leader?"

"You are, but we got to do this if we want to go through with this. And after all, you said it'd be gear to try it."

"I still think it's a good idea," George said pointedly.

Paul stayed silent, secretly a bit jealous of all the special attention Ringo was getting.

On the plane...

They had ordered a private jet for the 7-hour flight to London. They were kind of in the middle of the plane, but same row for each pair. John was sitting in the window seat, looking out the window. Paul sat next to him filing his nails quietly on a little emery board. George was on the other side, isle seat, pointedly looking away from all windows and into his lap. Ringo was reading the newspaper in the window seat next to George. All was quiet except the scritch scritch of Paul's nail file scraping on his nails.

Scritch scritch

scritch scritch

scritch scritch

scritch scritch

"Paul, do you mind?" John snapped, whipping around to face Paul. He (Paul) had a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly.

It was now silent. Ringo rustled a page in his newspaper. John breathed. Paul's nostril started whistling.

"Actually, Paul, do you think you could keep doin' that? It's sorta calmin', you know?" George looked up towards Paul. John sighed, "Fine."

Paul looked at his nails, which were about as short as they could get without hurting.

"Heh, actually, Georgie, me nails are pretty well done by now, son. Sorry."

George looked a little disappointed.

Ringo looked at George.

"Hey, George, you could listen to me radio. It's under me seat if you want it."

(A/N: Yeah, I know that radios don't work like this, just deal with it.)

Ringo lifted his legs up as George reached for the radio. He flipped it on, tuned it, and listened:

"Good evening listeners! You are listening to New Yorks finest radio station, WMCA. Up next we have 'The Ventures' with 'Walk, Don't Run'."

The song came on and George started head-bobbing along.

John groaned internally. This was going to be a long trip.

They had landed in the airport and were now driving in a taxi to 200 West Drumlin Ave. None of them were feeling very excited about this because of the look the cab-driver had given them when they told him the address. It was about a half-hour drive from the airport to their destination. As the car pulled up the long and winding drive, it looked like a scene out of some old horror movie, like Psycho or maybe North by Northwest. Getting out of the car, the four Beatles looked around. Their footsteps crunched the gravel below them, and the wind could be heard whistling through the trees above. A cloud moved away and the moonlight shone down upon the large mansion. Suddenly, it started to rain cats and dogs, drenching the Beatles immediately. A lightning strike lit up the place with a CRACK!

The door creaked open. An old man stood in the doorway holding a candelabra. He looked about 103 years old. John shivered as he stepped forward.

"Uh, hello, yes. Um, we're the Beatles, and we're here with Richard Starkey, or, uh, Ringo."

The man peered over his little granny-glasses.

"Come in..."

Dun, dun, dun! Cliffhanger! Sorry that this took two parts to write, I might combine them sometime. Yup. Anyway, review, please!

~ Mo