Escape of the Nerk Twins

Chapter XII

The last time I said I owned the Beatles, they made me go to court-mandated counselling.  Whether I own the Beatles or not, I'm not going through THAT again, so, let it be known that I do not own the Beatles!

A/N:  Bit of a filler chapter, but it could be worse ;0)  Thanks so much for your reviews!  FanFiction:  Macca's Little Teddy Bear, leah9712, and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad:  cityofstarlight, Macca40, MasterofFire, and InmylifeIloveLennon.

George, Ringo, Brian, Neil, and Mal all dove out of the BBC's regional broadcasting centre. Coats flapping in a brisk gust of wind, they raced across the pavement and leapt into the limousine waiting for them at the door. Mal slammed the door in the faces of panting fans and reporters alike.

"I'm hungry," complained George as the car rolled into motion. "Can we stop to get some fish 'n' chips or something?"

Brian sighed, staring out the window at the passing bombed-out cathedral. "I'm sorry, we're much too busy, George."

"It's twelve thirty!" moaned Ringo. "We've been up since the sun wasn't."

"Come on, Brian, we're starving!" added George. Mal found himself nodding in agreement and jerked his head to an abrupt stop.

Brian tore his gaze away from the window and glanced at Neil.

Neil shrugged. "It would be nice to have a break and a bit of food."

Brian leaned back in defeat. "If you insist."

Mal twisted around to tell the driver where to pull over. Soon, the two Beatles and their attendant road crew leapt out of the car, their shoes slapping the rough pavement. The five young men bolted into the somewhat grimy fish 'n' chips shop across the road.

Several workingmen looked up from their baskets of chips to stare at the well-dressed newcomers. Conversation slowly sank into nothingness as even the old man behind the counter looked up from the old-fashioned, wrought iron cash register to eye the successful Liverpudlians suspiciously. A family of tourists sitting near the window goggled at the celebrities.

Brian cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the walls of silence.

"Should we seat ourselves?" the manager asked.

The shopkeeper straightened his flat cap contemplatively. "Go ahead."

"Ta!" called Ringo over his shoulder as the Beatles' entourage seated themselves in the booth nearest the back.

The workers hunched over their food, continuing to glare at the interlopers on their communal lunch break. The interlopers themselves shuffled into their booth and wriggled out of their coats. Outside, a car drove past, fragmenting the light on the textured, white plaster ceiling. The teenage daughter of the tourist family leaned over to her mother excitedly and whispered something into the older woman's ear.

"Where's Derek?" Neil broke the silence.

"Wrapping something up back at the BBC," replied Brian. Ringo glanced around the room to see everyone else hanging on their every word.

A waitress ambled down the hall from the kitchen and stopped at the Beatles' table.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

As she took Neil and Mal's orders, George followed Ringo's gaze to see the teenage girl standing up awkwardly from her family's table, being encouraged by her mother. The two Beatles watched the older woman's bright red lipstick shimmer in the low lighting as she laughed, revealing rather crooked white teeth. Her son, still in short pants, blew a raspberry at his sister.