Escape of the Nerk Twins

Chapter IX

I . . . dunot . . . owne . . . ze Beatles! Ying tong yiddle I po! *pauses for audience applause*

A/N: This chapter is when John and Paul's adventures really start to get quirky and fun :0) This one's another of my favourites! Lots of gratitude to my wonderful reviewers - FanFiction: Macca's Little Teddy Bear, leah9712, and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad: Macca40, cityofstarlight, and ilovethe60sand70s; Archive of Our Own (so happy to put this one in!): Peyton and McLennonLuv. Thanks y'all ;0)

Beams of bright morning sunlight pierced through the frost on the windows of the shimmering blue Ford Anglia. It collapsed into the car through the glass and fell onto John Lennon's face. The guitarist started awake, his glasses flying down to the farthest extremity of his nose and his comic book fluttering to the floor. The flashlight on his chest rolled off onto the seat with a muffled thump.

John bent forward to pick up the comic book, squinting against the bright light and rubbing the crick in his neck.

"Mmmggfffump," groaned Paul in the backseat.

"Welcome to the land of the living," intoned John, tossing his comic book carelessly over his shoulder. It landed on Paul's knees.

"My head . . . ." moaned Paul, clutching the offending part of his anatomy with both hands.

"Oh look, I've burnt out my flashlight," observed John, picking it up and examining it.

"How can you tell with all this light everywhere?" complained Paul. "And stop talking so loudly!"

John tossed the flashlight over his shoulder. It landed on the floor next to Paul's head. Paul yelped at the sudden noise.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"You feel up to driving, or should I take us the next leg of the journey?" inquired John innocently.

"NO!" exclaimed Paul vehemently. "I'll drive! Just . . . let's keep our eyes peeled for a place where I can get a cuppa, okay?"

"Does that look like a rest stop?" asked John. The Ford Anglia continued to whisk through the brown and green Highlands, leaving the cold breeze in tatters in its wake.

Paul took a second to look away from the wheel to where John was pointing. They zoomed past the small, stone building.

Paul wheeled the silver-blue car around and drove back. "Could be."

He slowed down the Ford Anglia as it pulled off the road, onto the otherwise deserted, white gravel parking lot in front of the grey stone building. A wooden sign, carved with a weather-beaten, painted picture of plaid bagpipes, creaked above the door. The structure's few windows were small and high-set, just beneath the edges of the thatched roof.

Paul and John leapt out of the Ford Anglia and strode across the parking lot to the wooden door. The wind had subsided somewhat since the previous day, but it still plucked tenaciously at their clothes and hair. Their Beatle boots crunched down the gravel beneath them.

John yanked open the door and held it open for Paul. Paul hurried over the worn, stone threshold into the dark, warm cavern beyond.

Paul blinked, trying to adjust to the lack of light, as John followed him. The darkness reluctantly billowed back into the corners of the single room, revealing it to be a tiny museum of sorts. Bagpipes of all shapes and sizes sat in glass and wood cases throughout the room, on display for whatever visitor should chance upon the place. Yet more of the Scottish instruments rested on wooden stands mixed in with the glass cases. A little old man in a kilt sat behind the desk to Paul's left, snoring softly and unobtrusively.

"Well, definitely not a café," observed Paul quietly.

"It's a bagpipe museum!" exclaimed John. "George and Ringo are never gonna believe us."

"Shh!" Paul complained. "You don't have to shout!"

"Terribly sorry!" yelled John at the top of his lungs. Paul clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. The old man behind the desk continued to sleep peacefully.

John stuck out his tongue at Paul before wandering off to examine the bagpipes. Seeing nothing better to do, Paul followed him, stopping in front of the first case to read the brass placard beneath the large instrument.

"That's interesting," he mused. He raised his voice, calling out to John, "This maker made military instruments before he started making bagpipes. I wonder if there were ever military bagpipes!"

John turned from examining the framed, sepia photographs of bagpipes that were nailed up along one of the stone walls. "Mm," he replied.

Paul slowly strolled over to the next exhibit. "Did you know that bagpipes were banned for a while when the English took over Scotland? They were deemed 'instruments of war.' So I guess there were military bagpipes!" he informed John.

John poked one of the bagpipes exposed on a wooden stand. "It's all clothy," he answered Paul.

Paul wandered over to the next case. "So there are four parts to a bagpipe: the air supply, the bag, the chanter, and a drone," he read off the placard. "Though the drone's not technically necessary," he added.

"You're droning an awful lot," commented John snidely, wiggling the blow pipe of another exposed instrument.

Paul ignored him, instead continuing to read from the latest placard, "Did you know that the Romans actually brought bagpipes to the British Isles?"

"This thing's all knobby," replied John, running his palm down the drones of a particularly large bagpipe in the back corner.

"Huh, that's interesting," muttered Paul. He raised his voice again. "Hey John, guess what?"

"Pig butt," replied John, rapping on the glass of one of the glass cases. "Anybody home?" he inquired of the bagpipe inside in a falsetto.

"Bagpipes aren't just in Britain, they're all over Europe and the Middle East," Paul summarized the placard. "And some of them are really weird. Look at this one from Bulgaria!"

"If I do this, what do you think will happen?" John asked Paul, miming thrusting the blow pipe of the nearest bagpipe harshly into its bag.

"Time to go," muttered Paul, grabbing John's wrist and dragging him away from the bagpipes. John wrenched his arm out of Paul's grasp and skipped to the door, flinging it open to reveal the startlingly bright sunlight outside.

Paul paused by the desk, where the old man remained in his slumber. Paul cleared his throat, but the old man continued to snore.

"Er . . . thanks," said Paul tentatively. The old man's head rolled from one shoulder to the other.

Paul delved into his pocket and pulled out a creased blue £5 note. He folded it once down the middle and carefully set it on the old man's dark, wooden desk. Then, Paul followed John out into the bright sunlight.

A/N: Walking along the road with a copy of the Financial Times, you are startled to see an article, the title of which begins, "In Desperate Need Of." You eat some of your chips to see the rest of the title, which is revealed to be "In Desperate Need Of Reviews." You eat a bit of the fish to see the article, but it's too grease stained for you to make out. Ah well, I think you get the gist!