ANOTHER ELOQUENTLY WRITTEN STORY BY ME AND MY FRIEND RITAAAAAAA (GorgingGeorge ). This is a rewrite of a story that was in my deleted book. Maybe I'm just running out of ideas??? Just kidding.
Pizza & Love!
-Pretzel
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Clack clack click

"Divide by three, multiply the square root, carry the five..."

Clack clickety click clack

The door opens silently as Paul peeks into a room with a singular lamp. It shines over John who is hunched over a typewriter like a cat. His fingers are punching the buttons so hard that they momentarily stick before springing back into place. John doesn't notice Paul has come in.

"John?"

John looks up horrified, he gasps, and shoves everything including the typewriter onto the floor.

"John, why are you typing, it's 3 in the bloody morning."

"Typing? I wasn't typing. I was just crocheting really loudly." John adjusts his glasses.

Paul squints, "Really? Sounded like typing to me."

"Piss off, Paul!" John threw a lego piece at him, "Writing's for old people and orange juice drinkers."

"Orange juice drinkers? That's very specific."

"Well no one should be drinking that stuff! It takes all the vitamins out of the orange and leaves nothing but pure sugar in its wake! It's the demon drink disguised as something you'd think is healthy! Like Froot Loops, you think they would at least taste like fruit but it's nothing more than a sweetness bomb!"

"Hey! I happen to like Froot Loops! But now we're just getting off topic, who crochets with a typewriter?"

"It's... Umm.. Well I have found a new way to make lovely sweaters! You put a spool of thread where the paper goes and then voila!" He panicked, picking up some socks he had scattered around.

".... You're a horrible liar you know that right?"

"I've had enough of your questions. Leave and go enjoy your stupid Fruit Loops!"

Paul huffed, he had had enough, but he had to get the final word, "Oh yeah? Well you can't Monopoly so ha!" He slammed the door before John could make a half-ass remark about his ass.

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Click click clacky click clack

The Beatles minus John were sitting in the living room trying to retain their sanity as the typewriter clicked its way into their ears and eroded their sanity.
George, who had been particularly annoyed, had his head buried in a pillow to keep himself from screaming 1,000 screams of the damned. Ringo was on his 56th pack of cigs, if anything the smell made it worse. Paul was relaxed, but his hazel eyes were agonizingly screaming for relief. To put it bluntly, John's typing was the worst.

"THAT'S IT, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. I'M GOING TO DESTROY JOHN'S BETTY BOOP FIGURINE COLLECTION IF HE DOESN'T STOP!!!!

"He has a what now?! I thought the only thing he collected was DC comic books?"

"DC?! Wow he has REEEAAAAAAAAALLLY bad taste then! Everyone knows Spider-Man is the best comic around. But honestly, I ain't surprised he has one of those considering we found out how he loves pink things in real life."

"Ugh, I'll destroy everything in his entire room if he doesn't at least tell us why he's so persistent on typing 24/7!"

Meanwhile, up in his room, John was deep in thought on whatever he was typing about. You may think he was too immersed in his works to notice that he was disturbing the peace. But no, he was just wearing a pair of earplugs so he could type without giving himself migraines as well. So when his three mates burst into the room sending the door flying off its hinges and nearly hitting him, he hadn't heard them. He clicked away unaware of the beating he was about to get. Paul strode to him and yanked one of the earplugs out.

"Hey!"

"Hello 'Hey'! I'm Paul! Now tell me why youre typing or we're destroying Betty Boop!"

"NOT BETTY!!!!"

"YES BETTY!" George raised one of the figurines in the air intending to smash it into a million pieces then banish it to Asgard.

"OKAY OKAY, I'LL TELL YOU. JUST DON'T HURT MY ANGEL."

"I woke up and chose violence," George whispered, "but I will stall for now. Hare Krishna."

Lennon sighed, "I'm writing a book. A very important book. It will change the world," he looked up at his mates, "I'll give you a hint, it's about lead pencils and the effect it has on record companies."

Ringo put down the newspaper he was going to beat John with, "Well I guess that certainly is something. But why didn't you just tell us that? It's not like we're gonna leak it to the public before it's even released. Even Paul isn't that evil."

"Hey!"

"Well, it's true."

John just snickered, he forgot how much brighter he was than rest of his band mates often. But it was still loads of fun seeing a gang of idiots trying to act smart around such a genius and no, John didn't write this part, this is definitely still the main authors here.

"Aaaaaand done! It's finally complete!"

"Oh finally! I don't know what I would do if I had to put up with anymore typing!" George said exasperatedly, he plopped himself on the nearby chair and massaged his temples, "Now, what's your story called?"

"It's called......uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

Paul raised his perfect eyebrows, You don't even have a title?"

"STOP TALKING! I forgot it! You guys are pressuring me."

"No, we're not," Ringo stepped forward, "we're supporting you. Go ahead, what's the title?"

"UHHHHHHHHHhhHhHHhHHhhHHhhhhHHHHhHhHH you will see it once the cover is done." Lennon exclaimed although his devilish facial expression said otherwise.

"Oh neat, you're making your own cover too? When will it be do-"

"EVERYONE OUT! MY CREATIVITY CANNOT FLOW WHEN YOU ARE THE DAMS THAT ARE BLOCKING IT!"

"But..." Ringo started.

"OUT!" John shoved his friends out the room, he taped the door back into the frame, then locked it with a thousand locks for good measure. He could finally start his cover...

2,000 years later...

"Oh would you look at that, John's been officially pronounced dead." George pointed to the section in the newspaper.

Ringo leaned over, "Man, what a shame. He was a good man. Sucks that he didn't get to publish his story..."

"BLASPHEMERS!"

Ringo and George turned their heads, Paul was standing in the hallway, a wild look in his eye. His beard had grown down to the floor ever since he vowed to never shave again until John had shown up.

"Oh hi Paul."

"Don't 'hi Paul' me, you toothpick. I HEARD WHAT YOU SAID!!!"

"What? That John was dead?"

"THAT YOU CALLED HIM A GOOD MAN! Wait, he died? But how does the press know if he never left his room after twenty centuries of being locked in there?"

"Well, you know the paparazzi, they always somehow know the dankest things about us." George grumbled, trying to see out of his massive unibrow.

"WHO SAID I WAS DEAD? IT IS PAUL WHO IS DEAD!" A very familiar voiced boom from just outside the now dusted door.

Too scared to think straight, the Threetles slowly approached the door, nail files ready to pick all the one thousands locks John had put there for good measure. Don't ask how he somehow had a thousand locks at his disposal, he knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a locks salesman. He was just about to file for bankruptcy when John bought his entire stock and made him the lead man in a while franchise of locks. To their surprise, they all instantly burst into poof of smoke by a mere touch.

"Umm, John? Are you finished in there?"

"It's beautiful! A masterpiece!"

George reached for the doorknob with a shaky hand, he hadn't see his band mate in 2,000 years. As he stared at the rusted doorknob, he was just beginning to wonder whether he brushed his sitar that day. The door opened, creaking loudly due to 2,000 years lack of WD-40. And there was John. His desk light had gone out, the room smelled like old man and chicken. Even the curtains had started to decay and fade from the sun. John was sitting in the same crouched position, a thick sheet of dust had settled onto his shoulders and mop top.

"John?"

"It's done."

"John!"

"It's finally done."

"JOHN!!!" All four of the screamed at once.

"Oh wait, I'm John. Guys, I'm finished! The cover is done! I can finally publish my book!" John hadn't aged much like the other three. It must've been the lizard blood.

Paul, George, and Ringo all gathered around John's masterpiece. Lennon had the biggest grin on his face. George looked emotionless. Ringo was brought to tears.

"It's....It's...." Paul breathed heavily, "it's BLOODY TERRIBLE! THE BOTTOM LETTERS AREN'T EVEN STRAIGHT.  HALF THE WORLDS ARE MISSPELT! IT TOOK YOU 2,000 YEARS TO MAKE THAT?! I could have done better with ten seconds with crayons! Or MS paint now that we're in the year 3964!"

"People still use MS paint in the future?"

George, who was a professional MS painter now, piped in, "Who knows? We can make up whatever we want about the fu-OH WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT?! HOW DID IT TAKE YOU THAT LONG TO COME UP WITH THAT COVER?!"

"Come on, Geo. We all know making the cover is always the hardest part of making a book! Even harder than coming up with a title! You know, it took Rita a month to publish His Majesty!"

"Huh?"

"You know, her only finished story to date? It took her that long because she couldn't think of a good enough title for it! And i wasn't going to go the lazy route and just use a song title, I wanted it to be all me!" John puffed his chest out mockingly.

"All you huh? If you mean screams absolutely lazy and procrastination then yeah, I guess it really does scream Lennon." Paul grunted, outraged that he scarified his adorable baby face all for a completely underwhelming title page.

Ringo was sobbing the entire time, he was so utterly heartbroken that he didn't get to see his friend for 2,000 years and it wasn't even worth it.

"Now look what ye did, ya made Ringo cry!" George hugged the drummer while shooting daggers at the rhythm guitarist. If looks could kill, John would've been in an electric chair.

Paul was still fuming, "I'm making a cover for you. It will take me a minute, tops."

"No Paulie, we can't lose you too." George begged.

"Go ahead, Macca! Be my guest!" John quipped, he sneezed from the amount of dust that had settled on him.

"Oh, I will be your guest, and you better be serving a delicious meal." McCartney sneered, "oh, and for the record," Paul took the nearby scissors and cut his beard off, "beards only look good of dwarves. Maybe you should get one."

"Ohhhhhhhhh burn."

1 minute later

"There, complete."

What they had seen was the most wonderful title page that anyone had ever seen. Why? Because it was just the title page of this book, that's why!

"Wow Paul, that looks great! But not nearly as good as mine!" John smirked.

"Ugh, you and your big headedness. But no matter, I managed to create this in just a minute! While it took you two freaking thousand years to make whatever the hell that was! How could we have been living this long to see your disgraces of a book cover anyways?"

"Well, scientists don't know this, but it turns out the Musical Beatle species are in fact, immortal! When waiting for their band mates to come up with good ideas or waiting their turn to express song concepts, they can halt their aging process! The only problem is beards, hair, and nails will still continue to grow even after that don't age." George was also a anatomist in the future.

"Wait, really?"

"Nah! I'm just pulling your leg! It hasn't actually two thousand years. Ringo just wouldn't stop tearing up calendars while waiting for you and he went through a while two thousand of them!"

Ringo blushed, "It was a good way to relieve stress."

"Uhhh are you sure? Because we're currently in a dystopian future where everyone has to wear rainbow colors and shave their heads or else they're guillotined..." Paul pointed out the window.

"Maybe they will enjoy my book..."

The Beatles watched as people set buildings on fire and screamed for John Lennon to come and save them.
John Lennon published his book in the year of our lord 3964. It was a New York Times best seller (or so the cover said, New York didn't exist anymore at that time.)

John had ended up using his version of the cover.

The End