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Paperback Writer

My humble attempt at Fan Fiction

 

"Brushing my teeth, pretty clean teeth, brushing my teeth, pretty clean teeth," Paul sang gleefully.

Showing off his smile in the mirror, he said,

"There, pretty and clean just like me!"

John walked by, straightening his tie.

"Who are you talking to Paul, luv?"

"No one"

"Well, you better get going, eh, weve got to meet with the executives soon."

"Right, of course," Paul said clearing his throat to sound more executive-like.

"Hup-hup," John said.

"Hup-hup," Paul answered.

"I won again Ringo, I may be younger, but I know how to play a good game of Go Fish," George Said as he started shuffling the cards again.

"No time for another game, boys", John said, "weve got to get going."

"Wheres Paul, there John?" asked Ringo.

"Oh, brushing his pretty clean teeth".

The three mimiced Paul for he performed this tooth-brushing song ritual twice, sometimes thrice a day.

"You boys arent singing it right", Paul said

"Lets see those teeth, Paulie boy", said George.

Paul smiled.

"Well, theyre clean" Ringo said.

"And PRETTY!" Paul exclaimed sternly.

"I dont know about that."

"Dont encourage him, Ringo", George said

And so they were off. Into their Beatle mobile they go. Quickly now. Today was Ringos turn to drive the motor car. So Ringo went into the left hand side of the car because, of course, that is where the steering wheel is and Ringos left handed. Him and Paul share their own left handed car and John and George have their right handed car. The four head off.

"Turn on the radio, there Ringo", said Paul who is sitting directly behind him on the left side. Ringo turns the dials until a station comes in tune. For it is the 60s and this type of thing isnt automatic yet.

"Whats this?" asks John

"Sounds familiar," says Paul

"Its catchy," George says bobbing his head.

Ringo starts singing along to the chorus. Those poor boys never did figure out what was there on the radio but Ill tell you. Why, it was their very own song, "If I Fell".

Finally they were there at the executives office.

"What floor, Georgie boy?" John asked.

"Lets see," he said turning the paper every which way, until Paul finally took it from him and said,

"Twelve".

And up, up, up they went. Up to floor twelve to see the top-notch executives, which were, in case it hasnt sunk in, on floor twelve.

The Door Opens

Nothing special just wanted a dramatic affect. They walked up to the desk.

"The executives," Ringo said to the woman at the desk.

"Room six," she says.

"Room six," Ringo tells John.

"Room six," John tells George.

"Room six," George tells Paul.

"Room s," Paul caught himself. He wasnt about to make a fool out of himself at the executives office.

Paul went to catch up with his other chums who were just about to walk into the room.

"Come in boys," said one executive.

(There were three executives in the room. Lets call them executive one, executive two and executive three.)

"Right, right," they said.

After what seemed like days of listening to the executives talk, executive three said,

"Well, this has been a great meeting, boys."

"Yes, it sure has," Ringo said in reply.

"Were sure you have better things to do today, so go on back home and write us something thatll go to the top," said executive two.

"Ok, goodbye executives," waved Paul.

"Well miss you!" John added.

"Goodbye desk lady," George waved.

They walked until they arrived at the elevator.

"What floor, George boy?" asked John.

"Number nine".

"Ooook"

John pushed the button and the doors closed. The doors opened again, for they were on floor nine. They stepped out and looked around. Paul leaned down to whisper to Ringo,

"This doesnt look quite like all the other floors"

All the furniture was a shiny silver and quite geometric. And in a word- - modern. They decided to walk around a bit and check out this spiffy clean floor. An executive looking man with terribly short hair walked by. The boys all said hello, but he just kept walking. This was quite disheartening to them, and to me, but they pushed on through that strange floor nine. Brave lads. They do have their pluck. Ringo asked somebody what day it was.

"Tuesday".

Wrong question

"What is the date, please, sir?"

"Its July 22nd, all day".

"Whats the year though?"

"You dont even know that? Its 2003."

"Thank you, sir".

He took a second look at the strangely dressed foursome and walked on.

"Whats this now?" John was puzzled.

"Flying cars, would you think?" Ringo questioned.

"We could probably hook a flying thingy to our car, Ringo," George said.

"2003", Paul whispered.

They walked along until finally, something familiar. A diner straight out of the 50s. Ok, so it was a re-creation, but they couldnt tell the difference. They sat in a booth, Paul and Ringo on the left side. John and George on the right. Things just worked out like that. They played with the little jukebox that was attached to the wall.

"They dont have any of our stuff", George observed.

"They dont have anything after Elvis", John also observed.

"Hmm" Ringo thought thoughtfully.

The waitress arrived at their booth.

"What can I get you girls."

They looked at each other.

"Were not girls," Paul said.

"I know."

People were weird in the future. They looked at the menu. All there was were burgers, cola, malts and apple pies.

"Burger"

"Burger"

"Burger", said Paul, Ringo and John in that order.

"I shall have a chocolate milkshake." George said

"Three burgers and a milkshake, coming up," said the waitress.

"Coming up," Paul sang a little tune.

"Houses on the moon," Ringo said.

"Shouldnt there be someone up there to check it out first?" John questioned.

Ringo shrugged. The waitress came back.

"Heres your milkshake."

"Thank you," George said a little unenthusiastically.

The waitress started to walk away, but John called her back.

"Excuse me, miss, we were just looking at the jukebox here and we were wondering have you ever heard of The Beatles?"

"Or the Rolling Stones," Ringo added. (Perhaps her taste was different.)

"Are they a music group?"

"Most people think so."

"There hasnt been much music since Elvis went out to fight in the war."

The boys looked at each other, astonished. George counted on his fingers.

"But wasnt that forty years ago?" he quasi-concluded since he phrased it as a question.

"Has it been that long? Id better get your burgers."

There had been no progression. It was 2003 without a man on the moon, personal computers. There was still segregation. The USSR was still the USSR, but the song hadnt been written, so that didnt matter. No Watergate, no Reagan, no Woodstock, no AIDS epidemic. The Berlin wall was still up, heck, John was still alive (or did he never exist? A paradox). No Bush, no Clinton, no Bush. No Hendrix, no Janis, no Saturday Night Live, no Monty Python, no Simpsons. No James Taylor, no Carpenters. No remote control or color television. No Zepplin, no Aerosmith, no Punk, no Michael Jackson, no Nirvana. No Beatles. The Vietnam War was still going on. The only progression made was in architecture and design.

The four sat eating their burgers, wanting to see the rest of the 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s.

"I want to see the rest of the 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s," Paul said. (Is there an echo in here?)

The waitress came back to check on them when John noticed the stage and instruments. (You know, like on the Monkees (which also never existed) how it all just happened to be set up.)

"Can we play something?" John asked.

"What?" the waitress asked back.

"Some music."

"You know how?"

"Wed like to think so, yes."

"Sure, go ahead, good luck," she stopped, "boys."

They picked up their instruments.

"1-2-3"

"Its been a Hard Days Night"

And there they were, back in their house. Motorcar outside. (I always wonder about that sort of thing, you know, didnt they leave the car there?) The Beatles were back home, safe and sound.

 

Paul woke up. John, George and Ringo asleep in their beds. He looked out the window. Motorcar parked. He decided to go get ready for the day.

"Brushing my teeth, pretty clean teeth," he sang.

The other three walked by and started to sing along with him,

"Brushing my teeth pretty clean teeth, Brushing my teeth, pretty clean teeth."

"There, pretty and clean, just like me," Paul said, "you sang it right this time," he told the three.

"Weve been singing it right for years," John said.

"Oh, right, right, I had a dream you were singing it wrong."

"Thats what you dreamt, eh?" George asked, "you sure have wacky dreams."

"Yes."

And so ends this delectable tale.

So lies my humble attempt at Fan Fiction.



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