Okay Paul. You’ve got this mate. You’re gonna go in there, you’re gonna march right up to George, and Mr. John “the Lennon”, and the other guys who are in the band at this point and you’re gonna ask them politely to- no, no, too polite Paul. Too polite.

          Okay. Okay Paul. You’re gonna step in there, you’re gonna puff out your chest and stand on your tippy toes, you’re gonna march up to Mr. John, you’re gonna stare him down, stare him right in the eyes, you’re gonna back down, you are going to back so far down, you’re gonna make him tea and bake him some lovely tortes– no, no, wrong wrong wrong! Dammit Paul! Damn you!

          Think, Paul. Think. Okay. You’re gonna step in there, you’re gonna step right back out- fuck. Okay. This is okay. Just remember your training Paul. You haven’t taken a breath in minutes for Christ’s sake. Breathe. Breathe. There we are. You’re going into cardiac arrest Paul.

          Oy mate — you there. Can I bum a cig? Cheers. Trouble you for a light? Absolute cheers. Oops, that’s the wrong end. Let me just tear that pesky filter off- there we are. Light her up. Ah fuck — is this a cocaine cigarette? Cheeky mate. Veeeery cheeky. I’ll see you again in 15 minutes.

          Okay Paul. This is it. You’re gonna enter the pub, you’re gonna walk up to the band, you’re gonna say “hey lads, I came up with a new name for the band, I’m really proud of it, I think this is the one…” and so on, you’re gonna shake hands, and then you’re gonna go out there and play the set. Just like that. Like a normal person. You’re a normal person Paul. Alright, let’s go.

Paul enters the pub.

John Lennon: …and I was thinking “The Beatles”-

Paul sucker punches John in the temple. He grabs the nearest glass and whips it at George’s head, taking out the young guitarist’s nose. Paul grabs John, still stunned from the punch, and throws him toward Colin Hanton. Colin dodges John’s body, but Paul rushes him and slams his head through the snare drum. John Lowe tries to hide behind his piano, but Paul lunges from across the room and rips through the piano’s body, emerging from the cloud of splinters with Lowe’s neck in his hand. Paul grabs George and ties him and Lowe into a knot. Some other pub patrons notice the commotion and run at Paul. Paul dodges every punch, bottle, and knife in a blur of hair and smoke from his cigarette, at this point barely a stub. Paul takes the cigarette stump out of his mouth and flicks it at one of his attackers, fracturing the man’s C2, C3, C4, and C5 vertebrae. With a spinning whirlwind kick, Paul immobilizes all the pub patrons at once. The owner of the pub pulls a shotgun — an old Winchester, an antique — from its perch above the bar, loads it, takes aim at Paul. The pub owner asks Paul to surrender. His voice cracks. There are tears streaming from his eyes. Paul doesn’t move, his expression vacant. The pub owner pulls the trigger — Paul takes the shot in the chest. Paul rips off his bloody dress shirt and whips it at the shotgun, pulling it from the grasp of the pub owner. Paul throws the shotgun at the pub owner with all his might, sending him flying back into a wall and pinning him to it. John, somewhat recovered at this point, throws a feeble punch at Paul — too slow. Paul catches the punch and forces John to his knees.

Paul: No. No. Shut up. The band is going to be called the “Wittle Baby Buggies”. I came up with it as I was entering the pub. John. Mate. We’re going to be stars, mate.