Give Death A Chance Read Online Free Page A

being recognized as a stinking, rotting Zombie? Do you know the best way to cover up undead stank? Do you know what kind of make-up best hides oozing facial craters? Do you know what Zombie breath smells like from two inches away? Of course you don’t. Because you’ve never had to disguise three undead dudes. Why, I’d venture to say you’ve never even had to disguise one undead dude. But—color me lucky—I have, thus I know the answers to those unanswerable questions…. which, by the way, are: Very, Febreze Pet Odor Eliminator, Chanel Pro Lumiere Correcteur Professional Finish Concealer, and toe jam.
    As I applied the finishing touches to Paul’s facial, I asked, “Why’re we starting with Justin Timberlake?”
    John said, “We’ve heard things about him.”
    I asked, “Like what?”
    Paul said, “Erm, things.”
    I repeated, “Like what?”
    John said, “Fookin’ things. Let her drop.”
    I said, “All you guys do is play gigs and kill people at truck stops. When and how the fook did you hear things ?” I thought, Wait a sec, did I just say “fook”? Christ, I’m turning into one of them. Stockholm syndrome. Marvelous.
    John said, “Come on, Scribe, you wrote a book about us. You know that when we want to hear things, we hear things.”
    Paul said, “Zombies are resourceful, y’know, ‘specially those of us from the home of the Liverpool Reds. You should know better than anybody.”
    I said, “If you’re so goddamn resourceful, then do your own goddamn makeup!” Actually, I didn’t say that. If I had, one of them would’ve ripped off my ear and shoved it up my nose.
    John said, “C’mon, you’re the genius journo. Why don’t you tell me how we hear things ?”
    I brushed some stray blusher from Paul’s shirt and said, “I don’t know, maybe your magical Zombie radars picked up some sort of vibration coming from California that told you Justin Timberlake is a supergenius supervillain who thinks he can stop you from taking over the United States, and he telepathically summoned you to the show in hopes that he can battle you to the death, or the undeath, or whatever the hell kind of climax it is that Zombies and supergenius supervillains battle to.”
    John blinked. “Goodness, Scribe, that’s exactly fookin’ right.” He cupped his hand in front of his mouth, blew out a rancid puff of air, took a deep breath, winced, then smiled and said, “Right, then. Let’s roll.”
    So we rolled.
    We went around the back of the Amphitheater; it was the first time the Beatles had let me out in a crowd since the kidnapping, and if George hadn’t have had a death grip on my wrist, I’d have tried to make a break for it. After weaving our way through throngs of teenage girls who were so intent on worming their way into Justin’s heart and pants that they didn’t even notice the Zombified Fab Four were in their midst, Ringo went all Ninja on Justin’s 12-man security crew—one minute they were standing there, looking all bodyguardy, then the next, they were all unconscious, without a mark on them—and the five of us marched onto Timberlake’s bus. (Actually, the four of them marched. I was dragged.)
    Here’s the thing: Justin Timberlake has a big head. Like big as in beach ball big. Like big as in boulder big. Like big as in monster-truck-tire big.
    Justin squinted at me, and I felt an intense wave of dizziness that almost knocked me on my hindquarters. “Ah,” he said, “Alan Goldsher, author of Paul Is Undead , an oral history of the Zombie Beatles that will be published to great acclaim in…” Here he chewed his thumbnail. “Forty-seven days.”
    “How the hell did you know that?” Nobody knows who I am.
    Justin tapped his enormous melon with his index finger. “I know all, Mr. Goldsher. For instance, I know that your captors have come to battle me for reasons that are, well, I’ll just go ahead and say it: Lame.”
    I told Justin, “They’re just here to get some