Yeah. This is deliberately ridiculous.

I work on this on my iPod Touch when I have nothing else to do, such as when waiting to go on when playing hockey in Gym class.

This is pretty much only for my entertainment, but I hope you enjoy! I have the first two chapters done.

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THE BEATLES AND PRACTICING MY WRITING ABILITY, or BORN FROM BOREDOM


Chapter 0: The Beginning (or, Did You Expect A Better Chapter Title?)

It was an average morning at a hotel, and like usual, Paul McCartney was at a table about to drink his tea.

Paul's tea wasn't anything like an average human's tea. It was made from virgin's blood and the souls of orphaned children, with some salted licorice extract for that zap to wake you up in the morning. It had to be made with the ingredients in exactly equal parts, and served in a portion of exactly one measured cup. All that work just had to be done. Nobody questioned it. Plenty of famous people requested strange things, such as always having fresh corn on the cob in their dressing room.

Nobody wanted to make Paul angry, of course.

But that day, Paul took a sip of his tea only to find someone had gotten it completely wrong. It had all the appetizing qualities of gym socks, with a slight taste of honey.

Paul spat it out.

"Alright," he yelled out, "Who is responsible for this outrage?!"

A familiar nasal voice came from behind the kitchen wall.

"How do you like your tea, Paul?" It said, and started laughing manically.

"John!" Paul screamed, "I'm going to kill you!"

George said, "Would you calm down? I can't hear myself think."

The first-class Beatles stared at him in sudden silence. George sat down on a chair nearby, lit a cigarette, and opened a newspaper. He slowly turned his head to face the others.

"What?" He asked.

"You were there?"

"Yes, always."

There were a few more minutes of confusion.

Soon the time came to go off to the studio and record. The Fab, er, Three sped down to the hotel parking lot, where John's Rolls Royce was waiting.

"I'm going to drive," said Paul, "I'll get us to Abbey Road precisely!"

"No way, man," said John, "You'll wait for traffic lights. You'll just slow us all down!"

Just then, the engine of the car revved up.

"Get in already," said George from the front seat.

After a short time driving, in which John stole the wheel and ran over an old lady, a small building, and a platypus, the three made it to Abbey Road Studios.

"Where did Ringo go off to?" George asked.

"Who?" Paul answered, and unlocked the door to Studio Two.

"Ey up, guys..." came a weak voice from the darkness inside the room, "I'm glad you remembered me... After a week..."

"Ringo!" George yelled, and ran into the room. It seemed infinite in its darkness. He soon became unseen as he traveled, with only the sound of his boots hitting the floor to indicate that he was still there. Soon that disappeared too.

Silence.

"We can deal without a lead guitarist, right?" asked John.

"I'm not going to be doing anything without George," said Paul.

"So what you're saying is that you're going to run in there and risk your life for that guy? I forget he exists half the time!"

"Don't be silly," said Paul, "I'll turn on a light." He reached into the blackness and flicked the light switch. A bulb lit up close to the door, but whatever light it gave was quickly swallowed up.

"Well, that's not gone right," said John, beginning to show signs of nervousness. The two stared into the black hole that Studio Two had somehow become.

"Well, I'm going in," said Paul.

"Tell Mum I love her, when you see her!" John snapped. Paul took a few steps into the darkness. John wilted and said, "Hey! Please, Paul, don't leave me. You're facing certain death."

"If you care so much about me, come in with me," said Paul, and he continued forward.

"I don't care about you," John pouted and crossed his arms.

"Goodbye, J-"

"Wait!" John ran after Paul, "I'm going with you! Don't leave me all alone!"

The two walked through the inky depths of Studio Two, staying close together so they didn't lose each other. There was no sign of George or Ringo, no sign of anything for that matter, just the never-ending darkness. John and Paul called out a few times, but there was never any answer but an echo.

"Maybe this is magic," said John.

"Don't be stupid," said Paul. "Magic doesn't exist."

"How have we walked so long without hitting a wall?" asked John. "How have George and Ringo disappeared? How does this darkness just swallow things up? Why is there such a distant echo when we call if this was a small studio? Paul, if it isn't magic, then what is it?"

"You ask too many questions," said Paul. I'm getting tired, let's take a break."

The two sat down on the floor. It seemed to be made of some kind of stone. Paul took his boots off and lied down. He tried to look at John, but there was no way of piercing the blackness of Studio Two.

"I almost miss seeing your face, John," said Paul.

"As for you... I don't," John replied.

John started to think about the nature of this room. What happened to it? It had to be from supernatural means. Or maybe this is all just a bad dream. Eventually, he lied down and fell asleep.

When they awoke, everything was different.

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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.

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Lucy in the sky with diamonds...

Since this is obviously not an extremely serious work, I'm thinking there's little need to offer hyper-detailed critique on it (unless you really want advice on the specific stuff), even though the Grammar Sheriff didn't find any typos to moan about. The story is amusing enough anyway, especially to someone who likes strange literature of this type, and if all else fails, I could probably use a passage from this in my Revenge of the Walrus drug trip level...

Thank you! Yes, I'm trying my best to make it ridiculous, but while still keeping a bit of sense.

I'd also like to see you end up finishing it...