Escape of the Nerk Twins

Chapter XX

Argh, the President just asked me for the Beatles! He said a source told him that I owned them! To settle this for once and for all: I DO NOT OWN THE BEATLES. But he said he had an inside informer . . . come now, who was it?

A/N: Things I learned today: I cannot write action scenes. Oh well, I think it's still pretty enjoyable :0) Thanks to cityofstarlight for the disclaimer idea! Mucho gracias to my reviewers: WattPad - InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, MaccasWeirdFriend, ThisBirdHasFlown, Marvel_is_best, IcedFireFrenzy, cityofstarlight, NJ2001, and PurlyandGirly; FanFiction - Georgehorse64 (I hope you kept reading on another site!); Archive of Our Own - Swimmer girl 17

Signs of urbanity had begun to leak into the landscape: signposts, cars, houses, smoke on the horizon. The wind, no longer lonely, carried with it tatters of laughter and music, the scraps of discarded moments.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney's silvery-blue Ford Anglia had become just another vehicle trudging into Glasgow.

"Is that a police car?" asked John curiously, glancing in his side mirror to see a blue and white car a few yards behind them.

Paul looked up in the rear view mirror and squinted to read the sign at the top of the vehicle behind them.

"Yeah, it is," replied the bassist. He guided the Ford Anglia past the crumbling foundations of a row of bombed-out buildings.

"He's gaining on us," commented John, popping a stick of gum into his mouth. "I'm starving," he added.

Paul glanced back up into his mirror.

"He's right on our tail!" grumbled Paul. "Don't police know better?"

With an off-key wail, the police car's siren screeched to a crescendo of painful warbling.

Paul jumped and jammed down the accelerator, screeching around a corner onto a cobbled city street.

"What're you doing?" inquired John, glancing over at Paul, equal parts confusion and amusement.

"What were we thinking?!" yelped Paul, turning away from the road to stare in panic at his passenger. "Just buying some car from a gas station owner? We've gone mad! She might've sold us an escaped convict's car or something! I knew we would get into trouble! Now the police are going to arrest us!"

The old Ford Anglia barreled around another curve, whistling past a row of dustbins, the police car hot on its tail.

"I didn't know a car could go that far on just two wheels!" exclaimed John gleefully as their car raced around another corner. "This is great!"

Paul clenched the steering wheel furiously, his fingers white from the strain. He bit his lip, anxiously glancing in the rear view mirror to see not one, but two police cars on their tail.

"You've really switched into full James Bond mode, haven't you?" commented John. The Ford Anglia swung onto a wider, paved road, leaving black tire burns on the asphalt behind it.

"The driver appears to be the supposedly ill Paul McCartney, one of two missing members of the Beatles," announced the newscaster, flipping his head around to watch a flock of police cars barrel down the Glasgow street behind him. The news show cut to an aerial view of the car chase, the lone, battered Ford Anglia racing ahead of the police cars.

In the Beatles' hotel room, everyone unconsciously scooted forward to the edges of their seats.

Brian moaned, sinking his face into his palms.

"Come on, guys!" yelled Ringo. "You can do it!"

"Go John and Paul!" shouted Neil.

"Beat 'em!" yelled George gleefully.

"Come on!" bellowed Mal, leaping to his feet like a frenzied football fan. "Just a little farther!"

They watched anxiously as the Ford Anglia raced down the street. Just a little further, and then they could turn off the wide road . . . .

Two police cars screeched out of the upcoming intersection, cutting off John and Paul. There was nowhere for them to turn off. The Ford Anglia reared up as its driver jammed on the break, and then fell back to the ground in defeat.

George, Ringo, Mal, and Neil groaned. Mal sank back into his seat as the occupants of the hotel room watched John and Paul clamber out of the smoking car, their hands on their heads.

The news show flashed to a close up of John and Paul's faces. Paul let his eyes swing shut, misery written on his visage from his sagging eyebrows to his downturned mouth. John, however, had a Cheshire cat grin spread from ear to ear.

A/N: Wow. Just the epilogue left, and then we're done . . . barring complications, I should have the epilogue to this story and the first chapter of Murder Most Discreet up Friday.

A/N again: If you do not leave a review, Peter O'Toole will be sad.