The Beatles Attack

HI EVERYONE! HERE'S ANOTHER SAMPLE FROM EIGHT ARMS TO HOLD YOU. THIS IS FROM "PAUL IS DEAD". IT IS THE ONLY STORY THAT'S TOTAL LIE. ALL THE OTHERS ARE BASED ON ACTUAL EVENTS, OR ACTUAL NON-EVENTS FORM THE BEATLES LIVES. NOT THIS ONE, IT'S PURE FANTASY. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT.





Forty-eight hours later, the four men were crouched down behind several rusty drums of petroleum inside a make shift military camp deep within the Philippine jungle. Night had fallen and the camp was still and quiet. John Lennon was peering through a pair of enhanced vision binoculars, surveying the scene for the fifth time in three minutes.

“Time?” he asked in a whisper.

“Ten minutes til zero.” Said Paul.

‘Right. That’s our cue. Let’s go Ringo.” George hissed, as he and Ringo slid out of the cover, moving as silently as cats in the tropical night.

Minutes ticked by. Paul was silent. John was watchful. Without looking at him, John asked Paul, “So, you ready then?”

“Ready as steady, good to go, good to feel.”

“A bit jaunty, aren’t we?”

“Happy to be back, happy to be working. Worried?”

“A bit.” Said John, being honest.

“Didn’t I check out all right on all the fitness tests?”

“A-number-one you did. But still, some rusty old lab is no substitute for real action.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“That’s the truth. All right. Almost time.” John lowered his head and muttered softly to himself.

“You and your prayers.”, said Paul smiling. “You should have been a Priest.”

After a moment, John answered. “Amen. And you should be less of a heathen with all the dying you do. Now shut the hell up and let’s blow this joint. To the toppermost. . .

“. . . with the poppermost.” Paul finished, pulling a small black box with a red button out of his shirt. “Time for a fiendish thingie.” Paul said and pressed the button. Instantly, the camp and the surrounding jungle resounded with explosions. The night was tossed aside for the daylike intensity of the firey blasts that had erupted from several places all around the camp. Shouts of alarm could be heard, and some small arms fire.

“All right Paul, let’s go give God some business! Lock and load!!”

The two men leapt from their cover, their Thompson sub machine guns spewing fiery death as they went. The enemy soldiers were running and stumbling around, clearly in shock from the sudden and seemingly massive attack. John and Paul picked them off as they went, blasting apart the Philippine guerillas limb by limb, organ by organ. It looked like no one was organizing any kind of defense, which was the hope behind the explosions. Fires were burning and the smoke began to fill the camp, making it hard to see. The Beatles’ suits, however were covered with a special radium coating which allowed them to see each other in any kind of murky situation, thanks to special contact lenses. John looked behind him to see Paul throwing special hand grenades into several tents as he sprinted through the camp. John was busy picking off various targets, as they scrambled about, looking for someone to save them.

“Not today, you bastards. Not bloody today.” He pulled his trigger, and another man went down, spurting blood.

On the other side of the camp, Ringo and George were committing acts of equal barbarity in their own particular style. George was a fan of head shots while Ringo enjoyed the close up knife death. John began to come across soldiers with Ringo’s unmistakable work upon their necks and bellies. John had tossed aside his Thompson and was working with a couple of specially balanced Werther pistols, finishing off a number of writhing wounded and sending off a couple of soldiers who weren’t wounded at all. Soon, John was having trouble finding anything to kill. His radio ear piece buzzed with Ringo’s smooth drawl.

“Stars to Walrus. Quarry apprehended.”

John pressed his tie pin which controlled the miniature walkie-talkie inside his suit. “Copy that. Bring quarry to point Charlie. Rendezvous there. Walrus out.” John ran doubled over until he spotted Paul’s glow. “Hey there! They got him. Let’s burn and run!”

‘Right-o.”, responded Paul cheerfully. From his back pack he fished out four innocent looking canisters and placed them around the camp, setting the timers as he went. John followed, watching Paul’s back in case anybody had been inadvertently left alive. After the last fuse was set, Paul turned to John and said, “That’s it. Let’s make with the Beatlemania, shall we?” The two men turned and ran at top speed from the smoking ruins of the camp. Thirty seconds later, a near wall of flame shot up from behind them, sending a fireball of greasy smoke almost fifty feet into the air.

“A bit much, don’t you think?” asked the still running John.

“Almost.” Answered Paul, who then snapped his fingers, triggering an earth shattering ‘Kaboom’ from the direction of the ex-camp.

“Now, that’s a bit much.” Paul smiled. John did as well. Ringo and George loped into view, pulling along a handcuffed fat person in fatigues with a dirty sack on his head. George tossed the bagged man to the ground at John Lennon’s feet and looked at the flames in the sky.

“A bit much there, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do.”, said Paul.

“As long as we’re all in agreement.”

“That the bastard?”, asked John, nudging the bagged man with his foot.

“Yep. Found him in a tent filled with filthy lucre and whores.”

“Ah, the people’s General, eh? Well back to HQ for tea and whatnot, what?”

“Right!”

“Right!”

“Right!”

Three hours, one hike, two jeep rides and one fast helicopter trip later, the Beatles were in their Asian Headquarters deep under the Budokhan. Though less opulent, the HQ was fully equipped, along with an interrogation room, in which the Beatles’ current guest was ensconced. Ringo was currently in a debriefing session with the Gentleman who had a name, though none of the Beatles gave a crap what it was. The others were typing up their reports of the injection action when Ringo emerged, wiping his hands off of a cloth towel, talking in a silly workman voice.

“Well now, the transmission’s shot, but I think we can save the gear box for a few quid more, Miss.”

“Oh thank you, Mr. Mechanic, sir.” Said George in a falsetto voice.

“Get serious.” Said John. “Anything?”,he asked Ringo.

“Yeah. Got three other locations of guerilla camps, already radioed to MI5 and a large lump of feces that I scared out of the bloke will be delivered to the Marcos’ by a very special air mail.”

“That’ll show the bugger not to mess with the Beatles.”

“It bloody well better have.”

“I’m not having that treatment again like we had at that airport.”

“Too bloody right.”

The anger of the Beatles faded away as the situation alarm flashed red. John ran for the televisorphonicon and flipped on the screen. Slowly fading into view was the large head of Brian Epstein, control executive of the Beatles.

“Good Evening, Lads.”

“ ‘ello Brian.” They all chorused.

“Good show in the jungle. That should keep Mr. and Mrs. Marcos in line for a while.”

“Let’s hope so.” Said John.