Give Death A Chance Read Online Free

bandmates.
    “So Scribe,” he said. “You seem to know a lot about all this hippety-hop and Lady Gaga shite. Have any ideas about how we can change our sound to appeal to the kids?”
    I said, “Wait—you’re asking me musical advice?”
    “Yes, I’m asking you musical advice. Who the fook else am I going to ask?”
    “John,” I said. “I’m a pissant bassist who toured with a handful of obscure bands. You’re a goddamn Beatle. If it weren’t for you , there’d be no me .”
    He said, “That doesn’t matter right now. If we’re going to accomplish our mission—if we’re going to the Toppermost of the Poppermost—we have to have as many fans in our corner as we can, and it strikes me that the people who buy music don’t want to hear about how all you need is love, or letting it be, or polythene fookin’ Pam. We need to dumb it down, mate. And who better to help us dumb it down than you?”
    “Thanks, John.”
    “My pleasure. So. Give me your sage advice, Scribe. How can the Beatles reach the masses?”
    “Well, the first thing you ought to do is make your songs available on iTunes.”
    “What the fook is iTunes?” John asked.
    “It’s an online music retailer.”
    “What the fook is online?”
    I said, “Forget it. I guess my two pieces of advice would be to stop killing your fans, because those are the people who buy your records.”
    He nodded. “Good point. Never thought of that. When I get hungry, I get sloppy. Done. Next piece of advice.”
    “Get advice from the people who’ve reached today’s masses. Chat with the stars. You’re the Beatles, and I suspect they’ll talk to you.”
    He mussed my hair and kissed the side of my cheek (yuck), then said, “Brilliant idea, Scribe. Fookin’ brilliant. I shall let you live another day.”

JUNE 26, 2009
    It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re parked in the lot of the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater just outside of St. Louis. They lads are putting on their disguises, because they want to see the show without being harassed either by families of their victims or a slumming USZG. Their costumes make them look ridiculous—imagine the Fab Four clad in truck stop baseball hats, aviator shades, fake noses, and hipster t-shirts with ironic bastardizations of candy bar logos—but it was a start.
    John reached into his pocket and pulled out a pimp roll, then peeled off a hefty pile of twenties and threw them at my chest. “Go scalp us some tickets, Scribe. And get some good seats. But don’t spend too much. Jew them down like Ringo would.”
    “Piss off, you anti-Semitic cunt,” Ringo sneered.
    Paul said, “Yeah, shut it with that. Rings isn’t Jewish, and Alan is, y’know.”
    John said, “For fook’s sake, don’t any of you twats have a sense of humor? Besides, Yoko is 1/32nd Jewish.” He turned to me and said, “Don’t try wandering off. I’m watching.” Considering I’d tried to escape an average of once a day, it was a fair warning.
    It took me 30 minutes to land five tickets for the low, low price of $200 each—face value was $50, but the show had apparently been sold out for months, and that was the best I could do—then went back into the van. George opened the door, and in the light, even wearing his goofy outfit, you could tell it was the Quiet Zombie Beatle. I said, “George, the second you set foot out of this van, you’ll be recognized.”
    “And that would be mania,” he said.
    “Yes, George, that would be mania.” Everything with that dude was mania.
    “So what’re you going to do about it?”
    I pointed at my chest. “Me?”
    John pulled some more money from his wad and chucked it at my head. “Go get some makeup, Scribe. And make it fast.”
    “John,” I said, “we’re nowhere near anything?”
    He repeated, “ Go get some makeup, Scribe . And make it fast .”
    When John Lennon put italics in his voice, you followed his command.

    *****
    Do you know how hard it is to keep a stinking, rotting Zombie from