Title: THE BEATLES AND PRACTICING MY WRITING ABILITY, or BORN FROM BOREDOM
Author: Fujiko/Lennonhead/whatever you feel like calling me
Starring: The Beatles, many cameos from others along the way
Rating: T, for odd situations and brutally murdered metaphors.
Disclaimer: Nothing is real. I do not own The Beatles, they are real people, and that is called slavery, my friends, which is illegal where I'm from. As well, I mean no slander by my depictions of my heroes.
Plot:It was an average day for John, Paul, George, and Ringo, until they discovered that their studio had transformed into a black abyss! This turns into a quest through the worlds of their dreams. Will they be able to find eachother, then find their way out? Yeah, probably. I mean, they went off to make more records eventually, right? Somewhat cracky adventures.
Art by myself.
Chapter Summary: The strange abilities of the studio have caused Paul to dream that he is a typical 1940's Private Eye. Marvel at his amazing use of cliches! Listen in awe as he mangles metaphors and strangles smilies! John, as "Cynthia", has a case for Paul, and he hardboiledly attempts to solve it.
Chapter 1: Paul McCartney, Private Eye (or, The Case of Ono Mansion)
It was a cold, rainy night in San Francisco. The rain was slamming down like I slam down drinks. Shadows from the Venetian blinds in my cramped office danced over the bare walls like a burlesque show, and the smoke from my cigar clouded the light shining through. I searched through my desk for beer money. I drink a lot. when you've seen the sort of stuff I've seen, you'd want to drink too.
I'm Paul McCartney, Private Investigator.
There was a knock on the door. "Come in," I said. In walked a tall glass of trouble. A dame with wavy brunette hair and legs for miles. Her dress was black as the sky outside, with a slit at the side. I caught a peek at her garters. I could tell her line of work with one look. She was going to be a tough case, I could see.
"Detective?" The dame purred. Well, maybe not purred. She was a sight for sore eyes, but her voice wasn't very easy on the ears. "Why am I always the girl?"
"Never mind that," I admonished, "what the hell are you doing here?"
"Can't a fine young doll get legal assistance around here? My name is... Cynthia. And my incredibly wealthy husband has been murdered!" Cynthia said, with a melodramatic flair.
"Is that so?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered, and smiled like a shark looking at a stray SCUBA diver. "God, I can't believe it! I was washing up for bed, and when I walked into our bedroom, there he was, bullet holes in his suit! There was blood everywhere!" She made fainting motions. "I'm so scared! Help me, detective! Tell me who killed my husband!"
I took out a notebook. "Don't you worry, madam, I can solve this case. First, who is your husband?"
"His name was... Erm... Masamune. Masamune Ono."
I raised an eyebrow, and a very raised eyebrow it was. "Okay, first off, that's the best name you can come up with? Highly conspicuous! And... This is the 40's. An interracial marriage seems highly unlikely."
"I don't care, Paul," Cynthia crossed her arms, "I'm sticking by it."
"Well, alright," I said, and I wrote down the name. "Now, what is Mr. Ono besides being obnoxiously rich?"
"Not much," Cynthia said.
There was a long pause, like the pause when changing reels at a particularly long Mafia flick.
"Okay, well," the dame continued, "He owned a large monopoly on... Pie. Yes, he owned many pie factories. Mince pies, fruit pies, cow pies, you name it. Every pie in this city came from one of his factories. Even homemade pies."
I picked up a box left over from one of the 50 apple pies I had for lunch today. Sure enough, it had "ONO CORPS." written on the side like advertisements for various skin products on the side of a bus. I started to get an idea of how this world worked. I mean, how this case was going to turn out. Yeah.
I scribbled furiously in my notebook. "Now, madam, when did the murder take place?"
"In the middle of the night. We just finished having dinner, and were about to g-"
"That's great," I interrupted. "Who has dinner so late?"
"We do," Cynthia huffed.
"Alright then," I said, "Are there any suspects I can interview?"
"Well, I don't want to accuse anybody..."
"Spit it out."
She put her hands on her hips. "Well, there may be a few. George... O'Hara, for one. He works a desk job high in the company. He has the strange ability to become invisible. Yeah, that's it. It's speculated that he may be of supernatural origin, or simply a ninja."
I wrote the details down. "May... Be... A... Ninja... Okay, anybody else?"
"Richard St- erm, Steinheinblaugher."
"What a name."
"He's German."
"Ah, that explains everything," I said. "Any information?"
"Yes. The information," Cynthia mumbled, and thought for a while. "He has always been a good friend of my husband, because in his language Mr.Steinheinblaugher's name means 'I like to watch 6 year old girls run through daisies in skimpy swimsuits', and it entertained him thoroughly. Also, my husband was happy at having found a man shorter than he was."
"I see," I said, and took more notes.
"What are you writing down anyways, detective?" Cynthia said, and strode over like a water strider on water.
"Information, madam," I said, and put my notebook away in my desk. I was writing down information, if playing tic-tac-toe with yourself counts as information.
"Any other subjects? Or suspects, either works," I said.
"Ermm, no, no more suspects," Cynthia said.
"Any more information on George and the rest?"
"No."
"Work with me, madam."
"How much is the pay?"
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
Eventually, we got things sorted out, and Cynthia left. I started to get to work. I called up my best pal, my partner in detecting, Dennis Lain.
"It's Denny Laine," he said.
"Whatever, Penny Lane," I said, "I need you to collect background information on our two main subjects, I mean suspects, George O'Hara and Richard Steinwhatever."
"I'll be right on it," Lenny said. "Hey, when's my paycheck, by the way?"
I hung up.
The next thing I knew, I was down at my local bar ordering a large glass of half scotch, half vodka. Scotchka. The man at the piano was playing that song from Casablanca, or at least trying to. The sour, drunken notes stabbed me in the face like a guy stabbing me in the face. He was so bad, it was causing actual physical pain. I was about to go over there and attempt to arrest him for assault and battery when he finally collapsed onto the floor. Good riddance. Now I can finally wallow in self pity without interruption.
As I was doing so, the bartender, Mick, came up to me.
"Hello there, Mr. McCartney," he said.
"Go away!" I shouted, "Can't you see I'm busy drowning my sorrows?"
"I heard you finally got a case," Mick ignored me. "You know, I've got a cousin in Chicago that's a detective. He gets cases all the time!"
"That's because he actually works for the Mafia," I said.
"Well, everybody has to work for something."
I raised one eyebrow. Mortals cower at the sight of that particular facial expression, but Mick had a hard spirit, hard like the liquor he serves.
The next day, I investigated the scene of the crime. Of course, there were cops crawling all over the place, like swarming insects over that fried chicken you forgot to clean up when you had lunch by the pool yesterday. I mean that metaphor almost literally. There were some making their way up the curtains, others lounging around on the bed. One was even starting to climb up my leg somehow. I was about to book it out of there when I heard someone running through the hallway.
"Detective!"
"Cynthia!" I shouted as she bolted through the doorway.
"Detective, are you all right?" She asked. "Not that I really care about you."
"Yes, I'm fine," I answered, "but I need to clear the area to make room for a proper investigator to, ermm, investigate. We may have to use lethal force."
"Here, Detective," Cynthia said, and passed me a can of Raid, "I thought you might need this!"
We sprayed the area until every last copper had disappeared. It was a long and grueling ordeal, but with Cynthia's help the whole scene was cleared.
Afterwards, I searched for anything that might be of use. I found a large bundle of ridiculously expensive guitars- I mean, cigars, sorry, and smuggled them in my trenchcoat.
"Okay," I declared, "I've not found any evidence. Thanks for your help, madam." I turned to Cynthia.
"It was nothing," she said, flashing her crooked, yellow teeth. "I knew you couldn't handle all that on your own!"
"That's right," I said. "Wait, what?"
"You should get going, Detective!" The dame said with a wink, "I think you should check George's place. He lives... somewhere. Ermm, 19875 Dreary Street. It's got a butcher's shop, a funeral home, and a strip club near, you can't miss it." She looked down at my jacket. "Excuse me, Detective, what did you stick down your coat?"
"Nothing," I skillfully lied, like a skillful liar who lies skillfully, "I'm pregnant."
After I left the mansion, I beat up an old woman and stole her car, and made my way to O'Hara's abode. The doll was right: you couldn't miss the street. A row of moss-covered, tall, dilapidated buildings, like there was a nuclear meltdown in the area, everything was abandoned, and many years later I drove in on the ruins of a civilization. The problem was locating the right house, or apartment, or bungalow, whatever. The address I was given didn't seem to exist. I decided to go to the butcher for some information.
I opened the door to one of the buildings, the one with a sign in the front that said "butcher's shop".
The first thing I noticed was that somebody was playing a pipe organ. The next thing I noticed was that it was very dark. The last thing I noticed was the incredible stench, and then I became so ill I wasn't in the mood to notice things anymore.
"Excuse me?" I yelled out, as much as I could while choking on the rancid odor that filled the place like water fills a cup. Look, it's hard to come up with good metaphors sometimes, okay?! That was a simile anyways.
Anyways, there was no answer besides the ominous sounds of the organ, and the squelch of myself perhaps stepping on an organ.
I started to hear singing. It was nasal and crazed, and to be honest, I was getting kind of scared. A manly kind of scared, though, and not scared because my boots were getting ruined wading through this muck.
"Hey!" I shouted, "Answer me! Show yourself!"
The music stopped, and I heard footsteps coming towards me. Soon, a scrawny man with glasses and a white coat came out of the shadows.
"We're closed," he said.
"That's nice," I said, "but I have to ask you some questions."
"You're from those health guys, right?!" He screamed frantically, "Trying to throw me in the loony bin, eh?! I CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT!" He drew a knife from his coat pockets.
"Calm down! I am not a health inspector or whatever! I'm a detective, and I just want information about one of my subjects- I mean, suspects!" I closed my eyes, ready for the worst.
"Oh, really? You aren't going to arrest me or something?" came the butcher's voice.
"Y-yeah, I'm not," I said, and opened my eyes.
"Well then, forget that the last minute or two happened!" He said, cheerily. "I'm Chris White, the butcher around here. What have you come to ask?" He smiled, and his youthful face lit up like Independence Day fireworks.
"I need to know there whereabouts of George O'Hara, if you know him," I said.
"Oh, yes," said Chris, "He lives right across the street."
I booked it out of there.
When I made it onto the street, I heard my James Bond -ish videophone watch ring. It was my partner, Diego Pain.
"Mr. McCartney, I've located George O'Hara," he said.
"So have I, Aladdin Sane," I answered, and hung up. I then walked across the street to the house that I was pretty sure wasn't there when I first got here.