Give Death A Chance Read Online Free Page B

advice.”
    John said, “No, we're not.”
    Paul asked Justin, “What d’you mean, lame, y’know?”
    Justin stood up, pointed at Paul, and yelled, “SILENCE, LIVERPUDLIAN ZOMBIE!” He squinted again, and Paul flew backwards across the bus, where he crashed face-first into the front windshield and fell into a heap. I still can’t figure out how his head didn’t detach.
    John gawked at Justin and said, “Fookin’ hell, mate. Give a bloke some warning, why don’t you?”
    Justin said, “My pleasure, Zombie Lennon. If it’s a warning you seek, a warning you shall have. So. Hmm. Okay. I’m warning you that I’m going to make your pants disappear.” And then he squinted, and John’s trousers were gone, and his undead Johnson was flapping in the breeze for the world to see.
    Ringo winced and said, “Great. It’s Two Virgins all over again.”
    While John stared at his unsheathed unit, Justin said, “Mr. Lennon, sir, I understand that you and your little band have designs on ruling the United States. Now I can certainly get behind that—sometimes I, too, would like to run this country the way I feel it should be run—but I’m afraid I can’t permit it, because it’s my country, and if some paranormal entity is taking it over, it’s going to be an American, and that American will be me. So I must end you. I must stop the madness. You see, Mr. Lennon, I am a patriot.” And then he started singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” which was lovely until he took it to the bridge and brought sexy back. I’ll spare you the details.
    Paul—who had recovered remarkably quickly—mercifully interrupted Justin’s filthy take of the anthem. “You don’t have a choice, y’know. You’re an obstacle, y’know. We’ll take you out, y’know. And we’re doing it today, y’know.”
    George whispered into my ear, “Scribe, if you can get Macca to stop saying ‘y’know,’ I promise that when I eat your cortex, I’ll leave enough in your head so you can still type.”
    I whispered back, “Sweet. I’ll see what I can do.” Like I was going to try and correct a Zombie’s lifelong (or undeathlong) vocal tic.
    Justin told Paul, “I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. McCartney. When I smell a battle, I want to taste it immediately.” He checked his watch. “But I have a show to do. Can we pick this up later?” He tapped his left ear four times, and his head shrunk back to its normal size. In all my years of tracking Zombies and Zombie hunters, I’d seen some weird shit, but nothing that weird. It actually gave me vertigo.
    “Consider your gig canceled, Timberlake,” John said, “The battle begins now. You’re going from N’Sync to n’dead.”
    Justin smirked. “That’s actually pretty sharp, Mr. Lennon. But not as sharp as this.” He then circled his pinky in the air, and John grabbed his gut and moaned. “Sharp enough for you?” Justin asked.
    John fell to his knees, then, through gritted teeth, said, “No clue what you’re talking about, mate. I don’t feel a fookin’ thing.”
    “Is that right?” Justin asked, after which he snapped his fingers, after which John grabbed his neck and made a harsh gurgling noise, after which Justin chuckled like, well, like a supergenius supervillain. “How about now?”
    Gagging, John said, “Just a slight tickle in me throat. Nothing a hot cup of coffee couldn’t remedy.”
    Paul, George, and Ringo advanced on Timberlake, but before they were within arm’s reach, he said, “Bye bye bye bye byyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeee,” and they came to a stop, frozen in their tracks. And when I say frozen, I mean literally frozen. I couldn’t help but be impressed that all it took for Justin to make icicles appear on their noses was a lousy song lyric.
    I asked Justin, “Dude, how’d you do that?”
    He smiled, then said, “Tell you what, Mr. Goldsher: After I do away with these interlopers, you can join Team Timberlake. You write a book about me, and I’ll