The holographic billboard is dying. Its lights flicker, interrupting the image and lighting up the lonely interstate. The face of a long dead actress smiles upon me. Marilyn, I think was her name, stares into oblivion, her warped voice sending goosebumps slithering up my skin.
"It's the latest trend: Cloning!" Her voice is too sticky, too sweet. "Raise the person you've always wanted!"
The company's contact info tries to scroll across her face, but it's too much for the old board to handle. She glitches, staring, still staring. I think her eyes are following me, but she's frozen. She can't be. The screen goes completely blue. One last flick- and it shuts down.
It's dark, and I'm alone again. I try to focus on the road once more, following the headlights, but my mind is wandering somewhere else. I grew up with ads like that for as long as I can remember. I never gave them a second thought.
I never had to…
BEATLESQUE!
The neon sign screams.
You know, out of all places to start a Beatles themed strip club- excuse me, sorry- out of all places to start a Beatles themed burlesque club, why the middle of Texas? Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. This is the closest and easiest way for me to find some Beatle clones. But the music's over a hundred years old. It seems a little high brow for the area-
Someone in line gives me a shove from behind. I shuffle up to the bouncer. He's a large, intimidating sort of guy, definitely the type you'd see outside one of these things. I try not to pay too much attention to him. I can't even look him right in the eyes. At first, I assume he's just some random hire, but his voice hits me in the gut.
"ID and cash, son," he demands. His accent is local with weird flecks of Scouse sprinkled in. I guess he's trying to learn that Liverpool dialect, but it's his tone that catches me off guard.
I look up, and suddenly, I'm face-to-face with a mop topped John Lennon.
I'm tongue tied. "I, uh…" I stammer, handing him my cards. He snatches them, giving both a look over and hand scan for authenticity. His smooth movements only pause once, when he compares me to the photo ID. Something flicks in his eyes- recognition? I hope not- or maybe I do? I don't know what I'm feeling, but my stomach's flipped around.
"Under twenty-one," he says.
"Yes."
"It wasn't a question."
He pulls out a black wristband. I recognize the design! It has the faces from With the Beatles on it, and an age marker, too, it seems. No drinks for me.
The John takes my arm and gently slings on the bracelet. I realize then his hands are massive, too. This guy is huskier than any picture I've ever seen of the Original John.
"There you go, string-bean. Head on in."
"Oh. Thanks."
I can't bring myself to talk to him.
The inside doesn't help my mood much, either. I pass through the skimpy lobby; only a few people are lounging around. The main floor is underground, at the end of a narrow staircase. On my way down the dark tunnel, I can faintly hear applause from a decently sized crowd. I'm met with a wall of people, swallowed by purple light and clustered so tight I wonder how anybody can move.
I'm not very "tall", per se, and have to worm my way through the masses so that I can see. The first- and only- thing I can notice is the stage. Even then, the room is so dimly lit the stage lights seem weak. From what I can tell, though, it's a replica. The short platform is completely modeled after the old Cavern Club's, except for the brass rail at center stage.
The lights change, shifting to warmer, brighter colors now. I can hear his heavy boots before I ever see him. The audience knows him personally, but I only recognize his face. He's their star- their money maker- their Paul McCartney.
His hair flows Let it Be style- long, smooth, and beardy. God, he even takes me off guard for a second. He's not wearing any Beatles inspired outfit, though, unless you count that stetson. They wore those hats in one interview, didn't they? I can't remember.
However, I know for a fact that they never wore skimpy, stereotypical cowboy costumes. There he was, though: cowhide, leather, and spurs. All of it is at least two sizes two small.
The crowd loves him. He struts, actually struts, onstage, and everybody is yelling for him before he says a word or lifts a finger. Still, his movements are slow. Deliberate. The Paul delicately grasps the rail and uses it to swing himself out towards the audience. Another person cheers. With a deep breath, he then uses a knuckle to tilt the hat out of his eyes and gives a silent nod to an unseen stagehand. The music starts- and so does his act.
"Now somewhere in the Black Mountain Hills of Dakota, there lived a young boy named… Rocky Raccoon…"
My skin prickles instantly. I recognize the tune, of course, but this- I expected them to perform it exactly like the studio recording. This isn't the White Album's normal "Rocky Raccoon". It's slower, smokier, and I honestly don't know how I feel about it.
He's stronger than you'd expect, and limber, too. Paul's able to pick himself up and slink around the rail like that snake on the paramedic symbol. His breathing isn't labored at all. He sings as well as clear and well as somebody standing.
Off with the hat. He casts it into the audience, and it disappears into the void. I half wonder how many of those they go through. He doesn't give us enough time to look away, though. He's like a snake charmer- only reversed.
"Rocky Raccoon…" He's crawled halfway up the rail now. "Checked into his room…" Paul releases his hold with his arms, stripping off the outer layer on his torso. The only thing keeping him in midair is the crushing grip he has with his legs. "Only to find… Gideon's Bible…"
I could've sworn he's hanging there, topless, when he makes direct eye contact with me. He gets the same look in his eyes that John had, but then, something curdles. His face turns dark and bitter.
I've got mixed emotions about this bizarre performance. I'm sickened. I'm scared. I'm- I still don't know. In that moment, though, looking right into eyes that could kill, the only thing I can think is:
"Where the hell am I?"
"-Listen, you little piece of shit. You wanna go?! You wanna fucking go?!"
I'm standing on the main floor, long after the last performance. I want to find one of the Beatle boys to talk to, but I can't muster up enough courage. If I don't do something soon, the club will close-
K
I hear the fist, and the next thing I know, I'm on the ground. What?! I panic, touching my face. Wait. No. I wasn't the one who was hit. It's- John. A different John this time. This one's slimmer, groomed more like a teddy boy. He bumped into me. We're both on the ground.
"You, son of a-!" New John curses, cupping his jaw.
"HEY!" Ringo? He runs to us, that iconic collarless jacket slung over his shoulder.
"Okay, alright, break it up. What's going on?"
"Ringo, the guy's just some drunk croney looking for a fight. He mouthed off and started laying into me." New John stands up and tries to get into the drunk's face. Drunk steps forward, trying to square up again, but Ringo pushes them both back.
"Hey. Teddy, come on. Calm down. We don't need this trouble tonight. It's almost time to close up anyways. Get Soul down here to, ah, sort this out, and then the two of you can go home."
Teddy John huffs. He glances between Ringo and the drunk, looking like he's debating. In the end, though, he storms off, stomping upstairs.
"You're giving me my money back, right? I want a refund. Your employee was rude to me," Drunk slurs.
"I said we'll sort this out."
"That's not good enough, man. I'm a customer. The customer's always right, and I wanna refund."
"Please be patient, I'm trying to-"
"You idiot! Did you hear what I just said?! I want a refund." He stands over Ringo, acting like he's trying to dominate. Ringo looks so calm. Cool. Seasoned, probably. "I want a refund for all of it. God, have they copied and pasted you guys so many times, they've scrambled your brains? Do you have a normal person I can talk to? You got somebody normal running this gig?"
"I'm the manager and the owner. You got a problem, you talk to me."
Drunk crackles. "Well, no wonder this place is a rotting dumpster fire. They've got clones running this place when clones aren't good for anything other than what they're bred for-"
One of those massive hands clamp down onto Drunk's shoulder. "Soul", I'm assuming. The John bouncer. I'll have to remember that.
"This man bothering you, Richie?" Soul 'innocently' asks. However, he's lost his weak Scouse accent. His normal voice is actually really deep, and I'm guessing that question can lead to one of two things-
"This fine gentleman's had a bit too much drink," Ringo cooly answers. "Escort him out and call a drone cab to make sure he gets home safe."
Jerk tears away from the bouncer. He's lost his will to intimidate Ringo, since it's clear that Soul is way bigger than he is- and could probably take him down with a finger.
"Don't touch me," Jerk hisses, but he's lost that edge.
"Then leave," commands Ringo.
The drunk hesitates. Maybe he's never been treated like this before. His look of surprise easily turned back to anger, though.
"Keep your money. Keep your drone cab. I don't want any charity from a clone," Drunk weakly informs. "I'll walk and take my business somewhere else. You can go fuck yourself!"
The smaller John, Teddy, was watching from a distance. I didn't see him come in until he saucily strolls up behind Soul, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and straddles his hip.
"Oh, with pleasure," Teddy purrs. Soul joins in on the obvious shenanigan, pulling Teddy in close and coming in for a heavy kiss. Drunk gasps in offense and quickly tries to get away. I can hear him stumbling and complaining the whole way out.
Teddy pulls them apart with a shake of his head, but Soul is still holding onto his waist.
"You okay, Sweetie?" Soul asks. He brushes a hand against Teddy's jawline.
Teddy is smiling. "Don't worry so much, Baby. The guy's harmless. Just another Anti-Clone Hypocrite looking to get wasted. You should really be asking Ringo-"
"I'm fine," Ringo sharply informs. He smooths back his hair with shaking hands. "Guys like that don't scare me anymore. We used to get a lot more of them, actually. I'm fine. I promise."
"You sure? You look a little shaken up-" Soul starts.
"I'm good! Just focus on-" Ringo's eyes land on me, and my heart starts hammering again. I can't look him in the eyes, either, but he sticks his hand out, right before my face. "Here. You get swept into that, too, kid? You alright?"
I take his hand and pull myself up, only to realize that all of them are taller than me. It throws me off even more.
"I'm fine," I answer, half out of breath. When I finally look up at them, Ringo give a start. He takes a couple steps back, staring, wide eyed. He looks like he's seen a ghost, or he's confused- but it's me. I want to curl up, squirm away, do anything to get away from the look he's giving me- the look they're all giving me.
"Oh my god," Ringo mumbles. "It's a Stuart Sutcliffe."