*1*

Ringo slowly opened his eyes to find himself staring at a glittering white ceiling that he didn’t recognize. He seemed to be lying in a foreign bed as well, but had absolutely no recollection as to how he’d gotten there. He squinted, attempting to piece together the events from the night before, but then the hammering suddenly started. A vise closed around his skull and he groaned and rolled onto his side, burying his face beneath the covers.

There was a pair of feet lying next to him.

He glanced down at the far end of the bed to find that the feet belonged to Paul, who was lying on his stomach with his arms dangling limply to the floor.

The distinct sounds of retching reached their ears and Paul winced and blindly reached for a pillow with which to cover his head. Ringo groaned anew and curled into the foetal position inside his blanket cocoon.

A toilet flushed and Ringo peeked out through a hole in the covers to see John stagger into the room, pale and sweating and clad only in a pair of rumpled boxer shorts. He pulled a chair out from the small table piled high with empty liquor bottles and discarded takeout containers and sat down heavily in it.

“I’m never drinkin’ again,” he said hoarsely.

Ringo lowered the blankets to blearily regard him. “You always say that,” he said.

“Yeah, but this time I mean it.”

“You always say that too.”

John glared at him for a moment then lowered his forehead onto the table with a groan.

“I think I boaked up a piece of me liver back there,” he said absently. “A piece of me liver’s gone down the bog and is on its way to the ocean as we speak.”

“Stop talking about your liver,” Paul snapped from under his pillow. “Yer givin’ me the lurgy.”

“It’s the alcohol’s done that son,” John said.

Ringo slowly sat up and immediately regretted it when the room began to spin. He squinted at the table, swallowing hard.

“Jesus, did we do all that?” he asked, indicating the piles of empty bottles littering it.

“Guilty,” John said flatly. “Although, I seem to recall we had some help. Weren’t there some birds here earlier?”

“Aren’t there always?” Paul said.

John tilted his head to regard him, and then suddenly glanced at the floor with a puzzled frown. Ringo followed his gaze to find a pair of skinny legs protruding from under the bed.

“Izzat George?” Ringo cried in surprise.

“Either ‘im, or the Wicked Witch of the West,” John cracked.

Paul discarded the pillow, blinking rapidly in the sudden light and peeked out over the edge of the bed.

“What’re yer doin’ under there George?” he called out curiously.

“It seems to me,” George’s bemused voice floated up to them. “that bird I was with bet me we couldn’t fit under here.”

“We?”

“Me and ‘er, the both of us.”

“And did yer?” John asked, finally lifting his head from the table in curiosity.

“Yeah,” George said.

He was silent for a moment. “Actually, you’d be surprised at the amount of wiggle room under here.”

“Wiggle room,” John smirked. “Did yer have ‘er off under there then?”

There was silence for a moment. Finally, George just sighed and said, “Yeah.”

Paul looked impressed. “Congratulations George,” he said with a grin. “I didn’t think anyone would ever top John and the steamer trunk, but you’ve managed it.”

George’s legs withdrew back under the bed and after a few moments were replaced by his shaggy head as he hauled himself out into the room amid the other’s spontaneous applause.

“Bugger off,” he grumbled with a lopsided grin.

He attempted to sit up, but after a few false starts finally gave up and lay down on the carpet with a soft “Ugh.”

“My sentiments exactly,” John agreed. “What the hell were we drinkin’ last night?”

“Tequila,” Ringo said flatly, and smacked his lips together in distaste. It seemed as if something had crawled inside his mouth and died.

“Yeah, don’t yer remember that Mexican bird and ‘er friend brought along a case, like,” Paul said weakly.

“To kill yer,” George said.

“What’s that?” Paul asked.

“That’s what it means in Spanish, Tequila,” George said. “To kill yer”

“If only,” John said. He folded his arms on the table and laid his head down on top of them. “Has anyone seen me glasses, by the way?” he asked.

“I ‘ave” George said, rolling over to grope under the bed for a moment before emerging with John’s glasses in hand. “There yer are.”

“What the fuck were they doin’ under there?” John asked.

George stared at his hand. “I have this vaguely uneasy feeling that they may ‘ave ‘ad somthin’ to do with the bet,” he said absently, “but I’ll be buggered if I can remember what.”

Ringo and Paul promptly fell over themselves laughing, while John just sort of stared at him horrified.

“They’ve sex toys made specifically for that sort of thing, George,” Paul said between giggles.

John abruptly stood up. “I’m goin’ back to bed,” he said sourly. “You comin’, Don Juan?”

“Yep,” George said. He managed to roll over onto his hands and knees, then slowly rose to his feet and shuffled out of the room after John.

Ringo watched them go and glanced at Paul, who seemed to have every intention of staying exactly where he was. With a sigh, Ringo climbed into the other bed and pulled the covers up over his head.

“You must be joking!” John’s voice carried through the open door from the other room. “I’m not havin’ those back till you’ve boiled ‘em. Bloody pervert.”

Paul began to giggle softly and Ringo joined him until it became too much for his aching head. He heard Paul groan softly and roll over, then he closed his eyes and promptly went back to sleep.

*2*

When Ringo next opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a wall covered with the sort of nondescript beige wallpaper used in hotel rooms the world over. He didn’t really feel like getting up, but his bladder had other ideas. With a resigned sigh, he tossed the covers aside and felt his way to the loo. His head weighed a ton and his mouth was filled with cotton and it felt as if someone was doing the mambo inside his stomach.  Other than that, though, he reckoned he felt okay.

Paul was showing no signs of life by the time Ringo returned. The door to the adjoining room was still open, and Ringo peered in to see George lying in the far bed tangled up in the sheets like a moth in a cocoon. John’s bed was empty, odd, that, since John was always the last one up.

He decided to venture out to the connecting suite for coffee, or tea, or whatever was laying about that would help clear the cobwebs. The corridor was bright, after the relative darkness of the bedroom and Ringo grimaced and squinted until his eyes finally adjusted.

He was surprised to find John in the kitchen. Granted, he didn’t seem to be doing much besides staring off into space, but Ringo was surprised to find him semi-conscious nevertheless.

“You’re up early,” he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster through the hangover haze.

“Mm,” John said.

“Have you put the kettle on?” Ringo asked.

“Mm,” John said.

He didn’t seem to be displaying any ambition toward moving, so Ringo hunted down the teakettle in one of the cupboards under the sink and set it to boil.

John watched him in silence for a moment, then walked around the breakfast bar and pulled up a seat. He coughed and yawned, then lit a cigarette and Ringo slid an ashtray over to him.

“Mm, “ John said, tapping the burning end against it with a nod.

Ringo set out cups and saucers and found the tea and sugar, there was no milk though. John didn’t seem to notice. As soon as Ringo filled his cup, he lifted it to his lips and drank it down as if set on automatic.

It took two cups for him to find his tongue. “God, I feel like shit,” he said, raking his hands through his hair as if trying to confirm that his head was in fact still attached to his body.  “I feel like that cartoon rabbit who’s always havin’ anvils dropped on ‘is ‘ead. What’s ‘is name?”

“Bugs Bunny?”

“That’s the one.”

“Except, it‘s ‘im, does most of the droppin’ though,” Ringo said.

“Ey?”

“Bugs Bunny drops the anvils, he doesn’t ‘ave them dropped on ‘im.”

John squinted at him. “Who the fuck made you Walt Disney all of a sudden?”

“That’s Mickey Mouse.”

John made a face. “Stop talking,” he said flatly.

George appeared then, shuffling towards them from the corridor.

“Izzat tea?” he cried plaintively “Gimme.”

Ringo poured him a cup. “Sorry, there’s no milk”

“I don’t care,” George said. “I’ll just pour it over me bloody ‘ead.”

“Where’s Paul?” John asked.

“Here,” Paul said weakly, bringing up the rear behind George.

“Tea?”  Ringo offered.

“Ta, it feels as if someone’s using me brain for a bloody bongo drum.” He glanced around the suite. “Is it just us then?”

“Yeah,” John said, rubbing a bloodshot eye “Brian dragged Nell along to some meeting with a concert promoter, and Mal’s gone shopping.”

“Good,” Ringo said, “We could do with a few things, more tea and milk for one, and sugar.”

“Strychnine,” John said flatly.

“What time is it?” Paul asked in the midst of a huge yawn that left him teary eyed.

“Round 11:30,” Ringo said.

Paul pulled up a seat, regarding John curiously. “Didn’t think we’d see you up and about this early,” he said.

John just shrugged. “Didn’t sleep much,” he said.

George frowned. “Yeah, and yer kept me up all night as well.”

“It serves yer right,” John, said sharply. “Thanks to you I ‘ad to soak me bloody glasses in alcohol overnight, didn’t I?”

“Thanks to me?!” George cried indignantly. “You’re one to talk, yer meff, after I’ve personally seen yer drop your glasses down’t pub bog, and put ‘em right back on your face as if nothing even ‘appened.”

Paul’s head dropped to the table. “Save all that bog talk for later will yer?” he said wretchedly. “Some of us are ‘angin on by a thread ‘ere.”

John coughed and sipped his tea with a grimace. “God, me throat’s killin’ me,” he said. “Was I shoutin’ or something last night?”

Paul and George exchanged a meaningful glance. “You could say that, yeah,” Paul said shrewdly.

“What was ‘er name?” John asked, grinning.

Paul look startled. “You‘re joking!” he cried. “Don’t yer remember Rose, John?”

“The lovely Rose,” George said with a sigh.

“The lovely Spanish Rose,” Ringo added dreamily.

John gave them all a blank look. “She was good lookin‘ then?”

Paul’s eyes widened. “Was she good looking?!” he cried as if shocked. “She was fuckin’ gorgeous.”

“Bloody Goddess,” George agreed.

“She ‘ad Rita Hayworth’s face and Ann-Margret’s body,” Ringo said reverently.

“Yeah, and she went straight for you, yer jammy fuck,” Paul said enviously.

“You spent the entire night with ‘er” George said. “Don’t you remember?”

John squinted as if considering. “The whole night’s a blur,” he said finally. “I can’t remember a bloody thing.”

“Well,” Ringo said with a slight frown “Things did take a decided turn, after yer et the worm.”

“After I…wha--?”

“The worm at the bottom of the Tequila bottle,” George explained. “It’s supposed ter be dead hard to get out, but you managed it.”

“Rose was chuffed as nuts,” Paul continued. “It’s good luck or somthin’ like that.”

“Yer gulped it down whole,” Ringo said with a grimace, “like a bloody prawn, then you and ‘er…” He twisted his fist in the air as if turning an imaginary screw.

“Repeatedly,” George agreed with a brisk nod.

“Loudly and repeatedly,” Paul added.

John looked suddenly pale. “I et the what, from the bottom of the where, like a bloody which?!” he shrieked.

“The worm,” Ringo said mildly, “from the bottom of the bottle, just like a bloody prawn.”

George made a slurping sound for added effect.

John’s mouth suddenly snapped shut and he swallowed hard. His eyes closed and his head fell forward and a sort of strangled sound came from somewhere deep inside his throat. He shook his head a few times, as if trying to convince himself that it wasn’t true, then abruptly stood up and bolted for the loo.

George and Paul immediately fell to pieces, but Ringo felt a bit guilty.

“Poor John,” he said sympathetically.

Paul made a face. “There’s nothin’ poor about him,” he said. “Did he, or did he not spend the entire night with the lovely Spanish Rose?”

“Well yeah,” Ringo said “but ‘e doesn’t even remember it.”

Paul shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I do, and that’ll be enough for John.”

“Mark my words,” he continued dryly. “By this time tomorrow, John’ll be the king who spent the night shaggin’ a Goddess while the three of us’ll just be the sad bastards who ‘ad to make due with ‘er ugly step-sisters Medusa and the other Gorgons.”

“Heh,” George agreed grinning into his teacup. “You know it’s true, Ring, John is a pathological liar. Whatever he can’t remember, he’ll just make up anyroad.”

They heard the television pop on suddenly and knew that John had returned from his unscheduled bogtrot. Ringo topped off their cups and they made their way to the living room.

John was waiting for them, wearing his glasses and waving a spent bottle of Tequila accusingly.

“Look at this,” he snarled, shaking the bottle like a gavel.

“Look at what?” Paul asked.

John’s eyes grew wide. “This!” he hissed, pointing at the bottle in distaste. “There’s a bloody worm in ‘ere. A worm!!”

“’Course there is,” George said. “We told yer that didn’t we?”

That seemed to knock the wind out of John’s sails. “Well, yeah,” he said softly. “But I thought you lot were just takin’ the piss.”

He slumped in defeat and let the bottle slip from his fingers to the coffee table, then he turned and lay down on the sofa, muttering something about ‘daft Mexican birds and their bloody 100 proof worms.’

Poor John. Ringo really did feel badly for him, even if he did have a way of bringing these things on himself.

John drew up his knees so Ringo could sit down on the other end of the sofa, while Paul and George slumped opposite each other in the end chairs that formed a U around the coffee table.

“Me watch is missing.” John said absently, staring at the ceiling.

“Ey?” Paul said.

John’s eyes flickered to him. “I’ve searched everywhere and it’s gone.”

“Have yer checked George’s wang?” Ringo asked.

John and Paul collapsed into hysterics while George just glared at him.

“Yer bloody quilt, yer,” he said sourly.

“Still, it wasn’t always that way, was it George?” John asked wiping tears from his eyes. “Yer were a right innocent lamb once, weren’t yer?  I blame you yer know,” he said, shooting a look at Paul.

“Me?” Paul cried indignantly. “What did I do?”

“You’ve obviously ‘ad a corruptin’ influence on the lad.”

“I  ‘ave, and what about you? Yer pervy bastard?”

John shook his head. “I’m safe as houses, me. It’s you and your endless parade of girls that’s done it.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “As I recall, you’ve a permanent display in that parade,” he said. “Besides, George was never as innocent as you made ‘im out to be.”

 “Tell ‘im George,” he said, looking at George to back him up.

George rolled his eyes. “You’re both morons,” he said flatly. “Yer realize that.”

John grinned and Paul frowned.

“I think that Rose bird must’ve taken it, as a souvenir, like,” John said.

“Your watch, you mean?” Ringo asked.

“Yeah.”

“How many does that make now, John?” Paul asked with a grin. “Three or four?”

“Three.” he said flatly. “I think it must be because they’re shiny. Birds like shiny things don’t they?”

“Nah,” George said. “She wanted your glasses, but I talked ‘er inter takin’ your watch instead.”

John looked startled and Paul blinked. “Is that who you were under the bed with then?“ he asked. “Rose?”

“Well, John was pretty much one over the eight by then, so…” George shrugged.

“Jesus Christ,” Paul said. “Where the hell was I?” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “Did I miss anything else? You didn’t ‘ave ‘er, did yer Ring?”

Ringo looked suddenly guilty. “Actually…”

“Bloody ‘ell.”

John started coughing, but it was only because he was trying so hard to keep from laughing.

Paul glared at him. “Am I the only one who missed out then?” he asked.

George just shrugged and sipped his tea. Ringo felt a bit sorry for him and consequently found the telly suddenly fascinating. John grinned at him, like the cat who ate the canary, or more appropriately, like the canary who ate the worm.

Jennifer Darling has been a Beatles fan since the tender age of fourteen when she first saw A Hard Days Night, and a John Lennon fan since his scene in the bath. She has been writing stories for ages and has the notebooks full of drivel cluttering her basement to prove it. She grew up in New York, where she still lives with her bitter-half and two cats named Loki and Mars.

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