Escape of the Nerk Twins

Chapter X

If any of you believe that I own the Beatles, you'd better correct that assumption quickly. If you don't, I've been told that the Secret International Police (SIP) will apprehend you and subject you to the worst torture known to mankind: locked in an elevator with Barry Manilow playing in the background nonstop.

A/N: Finally, I'm back! Thanks so much to my reviewers - FanFiction: Macca's Little Teddy Bear and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad: Macca40, cityofstarlight, and MasterofFire; Archive of Our Own: McLennonLuv and Trying to Think of a Funny Name! Also, thanks to those of you who read and/or reviewed my silly WattPad exclusive "Old Habits Die Hard" :0)

It was far from bright when Brian woke up George and Ringo earlier that morning. In fact, the bedroom was pitch-black.

"Time to get up, boys," muttered Brian, shaking George's shoulder roughly.

George groaned, "Why?"

Brian moved on to Ringo. "Rise and shine. We've got an emergency press conference in the hotel lobby in ten minutes, and you have to get dressed before then!"

Ringo sat up, his mop top sticking up in the back. "Wha?"

"Hurry!" urged Brian. He leaned over to the bedside table between George and Ringo and turned on the light.

Both Beatles moaned in protest. George hid under the covers and Ringo's hands flew up in front of his eyes.

"Put out that light!" grumbled George.

Brian yanked off the guitarist's blanket. "And I'll do that to the sheet, too, if you don't get up."

George and Ringo reluctantly hauled themselves out of their beds, their eyes still gummed half-closed with sleep.

"What're we doing again?" inquired Ringo, pulling a sock onto his right hand.

"A press conference," replied Brian. "And that goes on your foot, Ringo. George! Don't put that in your hair!"

The manager raced over to George and yanked a toothbrush out of the confused guitarist's hand.

"Oh . . . yeah, right," replied George. "It's just early, I guess."

"Too early," agreed Ringo, fumbling with the back of the shirt he'd put on wrong-way-round. "Where are the buttons?" he asked no one in particular.

"What do we say to the press again?" wondered George, rubbing his eyes with one hand while trying to scrub his teeth with a comb in the other.

"Paul is ill in the hospital, and John is taking care of him there until he gets better," coached Brian slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Ringo frowned as he finally figured out what was wrong with his backwards shirt. "Oh!"

"Wait, what're we supposed to tell them?" asked George, picking up his pants and staring at them confusedly.

Brian sighed. "Paul is ill and John's with him."

Ringo blinked. "We're ill, and Paul and John are gits," he attempted.

"No no no!" moaned Brian. "Paul's ill, and John's with him in the hospital. We don't have anything to do with it."

George looked utterly flummoxed. "Are they going to accuse us of making ourselves ill so Paul and John can go on vacation to farm carrots?" he asked. "Why would we make ourselves ill so that Paul and John can have all the financial gain?"

The guitarist tapped the side of his nose intelligently and snapped his cufflinks authoritatively onto his collar.

"No!" exclaimed Brian loudly. "Paul made John ill so they could go to the hospital!"