Talk about Magical Mysteries

Magical Mysteries

Were they out partying last night? What were they even doing?

It was like a sledge-hammer smashed into his head and he was laying on the bed, left to die, staining the cotton white sheets of the mattress and the pillow crimson with his life dripping down. Maybe a fan had finally decided he needed to be put into his place, bury him along with his name forever. Surely, one such as himself couldn't be alone if he were to die, kick the bucket and leave the horrible yet beautiful world.. he was a name too big for that. Almost everyone knew him, and certainly wouldn't leave him alone, they couldn't even hide him no matter how much they wanted to because someone will find him in some way he couldn't.

Except there was no blood slipping onto the bed, there was no actual wound on his head. He was just very nauseous and felt like he's gained a thousand pounds, or someone dropped a boulder of that weight on him. His mind drifted here and there, and he couldn't focus without these stupid black dots going round and round his vision.

What happened to him?

Before he could ask anything, the door creaked loudly. It was so loud in his ears that he wanted those sorry parts of his body to just eff off. It was so damned loud!

"Paul, you alright in there?" a deep voice called, and the boy in the bed grumbled. It was sweet ol' Richie, always called Ringo because of the rings on almost every finger. Now Ringo was someone who Paul could never think of showing a grumpy face to, it just felt like a crime to do, unless he was really, really stressed out. Even then it was wrong because Ringo always understood why he would lash out if he, or the others did.

"Rings.. did someone kill me and bury me, then unbury me and force air into me? I feel like utter..." Gosh, was it a chore to talk? He muttered a swear. Still, he had a small smile, forcing himself to shift so that he could gaze into bright blue eyes that were large with concern.

"Hopefully not." Ringo shuddered at the thought, approaching the bed. "It's not like you to be loafing around after John yells around the house for you."

Paul kept a smile, but it appeared that he wasn't really giving a proper one, seeing as Ringo's concerned look didn't change, in fact, he furrowed his brow.

"Gosh, you're really not looking well..." Ah, there it was.

"Yeah.." as much as he loved cats, it felt like he swallowed one, and it was trying to claw its way out of his throat. It felt so scratchy, it hurt to bother with it.

"It's a good thing we're not up for a live performance this week." Ringo smiled in consolation, and Paul slowly nodded, finding a reason to relax a bit. "Let me take your temperature."

Ringo left the room to the restroom, and Paul made no action of moving from his spot. Okay no, he heaved a sigh before calling out to Ringo to forget about it, wanting to just have a nice cup of tea instead. With a lot of difficulty, he got off the bed and nearly flopped on the floor had he not hold the night-table for support. No sickness was going to claim Paul McCartney, songwriter partner of the John Lennon.

What was taking Ringo so long with that thermometer though?

He smelled something odd coming from the kitchen and decided, it was probably not a good time to go in, so he allowed his body to fall back to bed, almost passing out instantly then struggled to laugh when he heard voices screaming.

"LENNON, I AM GOING TO BEAT YOUR A--."

"BRING IT ON, HARRISON. YOUR TWIGGY SELF WON'T SAVE YOU FROM A LENNON BEATDOWN."

"KEEP TALKING. I'M GOING TO AVENGE SANDY."

"WHO IN THE LIVING HELL IS SANDY?"

"RESPECT THE DEAD. THEY CAN'T SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES."