Press

21 September 1967

This chapter takes place in the Magical Mystery tour universe, an AU if you will. Not that the Magical Mystery tour universe holds any consistency.

You could also interpret this as screwing around on set. The date correlates to when the scene was filmed.

~~~~~

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

McCartney was a real hack. You could hardly believe he'd made it to his rank of Major at all. He was beyond incompetent, completely flippant with every little thing he did. If his battalion ever did win, it was completely by accident, or maybe just the resourcefulness of his men.

Right now even, he looked to be in a world of his own, a spacey look as he sat at his desk. He slowly, very slowly, lifted his gaze from his papers, looking at you with a smile and wide eyes.

"Hmm?" he said.

"McCartney...your negligence and incompetence has caused the death of forty-six people!"

Paul only smiled as his eyes drifted.

"Oh?" He said dreamily. "...things happen."

McCartney was beginning to get on your last nerve. You slammed both your hands on the table.

"Don't fucking give me that! What the hell are you going to do about it?"

Paul threw up his hands lazily, apologetic smile on his face.

You seethed. You took your hands off the table, then began pacing angrily.

"There must be some way to make you learn." You muttered at him contemptfully.

Paul smiled as his hazy eyes followed you. An idea popped into your head.

"On the table. Now."

Paul's lips parted. His eyes opened a slight amount more, but his eyebrows didn't move.

"Corporal punishment...?" He said.

"Oh, no." You said. "That didn't seem to do anything to you. Might've just scrambled your brains."

McCartney nodded happily. You scowled at him.

"Table." you repeated

Paul's expression seemed a touch confused, but he complied, bending over the edge of his desk. You realized he just smudged his ink...he'd just been writing...

Paul raised his head, looking at you questioningly.

"What now?" He asked. Head in the clouds.

You circled the desk, walking around to be behind McCartney. His head turned, gaze following you. You placed a hand on that perky rear of his, running your palm over the curve.

"Got quite the ass on you, don't you Major?"

"Huh...?" Paul said. He still had no idea what was going on at any given moment.

You suddenly brought your hand down on it, and McCartney squeaked.

"Ey!" He said.

Now got something to say about it, did he?

"Oh, come off it, McCartney. It's nothing compared to all those men you led to their death. You've been quite the naughty naughty Englishman."

"Ah, but-"

"That's enough out of you, Major. Don't you know how to address your superior when being reprimanded?"