(Like any PG-13, contains cursing and mild violence.)

It was a day like many another, and Mr and Mrs Samuel Brainsample were a perfectly ordinary couple leading perfectly ordinary lives—

*BASH* *BASH* *BOOM* *BANG* *PING*

Ah, sorry, my mind had a wander then. I just had to hit it a few times with this steel pan to get it right. *coughs* Rightio, here we go! 

This is the real first chapter.

Chapter I: Limousines n’ Tangerines.

Wednesday, May 8th, 10:00pm. The M6 motorway, England.

The Pythons were so far enjoying life on the road. People would drone in their thousands and pack into little theatres to catch a glimpse of this hilarious national tour, aptly named ‘The First Farewell Tour’. The guys felt like rock stars, touring the length and breath of the country in limos, signing autographs, performing to sell-out audiences – it felt quite surreal to them.

A few days ago, they did a gig at Birmingham, and it was there that little Michael Palin turned the big three-o. So, he was greeted to the sight of Mrs Idle, the spitting image of Mary Whitehouse, holding a big cake for him to stuff his great big gnashers into. For the sake of the audience, and a certain dental problem, he instead plunged some crymanthesums into it to be greeted by a hearty reception. So, everyone celebrated and got pissed and whatnot.

Soon these lovely bunch of guys and one girl sailed off back down to Bristol, then made their way to Cardiff, then they went up and up the left coast towards their next destination: Liverpool. (All right, calm down, calm down…)

Driving in one of the three allocated limousines were Mike and the two Terries. Ever since the tour got underway, the two Terries in particular had begun to get very bouncy and emotional, which could have been described as a mixture of overexcitement and restlessness with a dash of manic obsession. They would laugh and joke to each other about anything they could think of. Mike, situated to the front of the vehicle, was calmly enjoying the ride and would occasionally glance round to put in a few words of conversation, but he was happy enough sitting quietly reading a copy of the Daily Telegraph. So much to be said for the driver, named Bill, who had gotten very agitated by the constant squealing and bickering going on from behind.

“Stupid bloody clowns,” Bill groaned, glaring intensely at the road ahead, his eyes a fiery green.

Mike looked on at Bill. Obviously, Bill was unaware about how nutty his mates could be. He turned back to the two Terrys. Mike suddenly noticed an empty bottle of white rolling around the floor and swaying about as the car drove. He looked back up and saw Terry J pointing out the window and slurring his words as he spoke and Terry G clutching the neck of some champagne, bringing it up to his mouth and gulping it right down his throat. Mike sighed heavily and scowled at them for about a minute.

Yes Mike, the Terries had decided to get pissed and they left you out of it.

He swivelled back round and folded his arms in a huff. Bill took a quick look in Mike’s direction, and then went back to driving.

“What’s up with you, then?” Bill said.

Mike sighed heavily and rested his arm against the window. As he stared out onto the motorway, he told Bill the unflattering matter of the two piss-heads sat at the back. He knew the guys were born idiots, but he had no idea that they’d been drinking all this time. They’d been driving for the past two hours up the M5 without stopping, so the amount of alcohol Terries J and G had consumed must’ve been astronomical.

“Liverpool’s gonna be a riot,” Mike murmured sadly. “Everything’s gonna go wrong because everyone’s smashed out their heads and then they’ll be the typical arguments and fights and it’s all gonna be total chaos.”

Bill remained fixed on the road, but was all ears to Mike’s constant groans.

“Why would they do such a thing? I don’t want to go through it again. Cardiff was awful. John had to take over Graham’s role because he’d forgot to come on! Graham must’ve gotten really pissed and he did eventually come on really late whilst John was talking and afterwards he starts lashing out at not John but everyone else for taking over his part!”

Bill snorted. “Right, c’mon, what’ve you done with Mike?”

Mike raised an eyebrow with a hint of confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“This isn’t the Mike I know. The Mike I know is a positive thinker and always looks on the bright side of things, no matter how grave they may be.”

Mike sat up and turned his head towards Bill.

“I know you’re upset,” Bill said sternly, “but do me a favour and just snap out of it and let me drive!”

Mike shot Bill with a wounded face. He let out a sad sigh and turned back to the window. Bill heaved a sigh of regret.

“Sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to shout like that. It’s just I’ve been driving all morning and I’m really stressed. I’ve had to put up with the traffic, the sweltering spring heat and those two freaks at the back. It doesn’t help with you joining in and putting your entire burden on me. It’s weighing me down, lad, it’s weighing me down big time.”

Mike remained silent and went back to staring out the window and started drawing pictures on the glass. Bill gently went back to driving, and began muttering some inaudible words under his breath.

“Leo, gero, pardus, trux bestia, angelus, meretricis, rutilus bestia, serpent, diabolus…”

-------------------------------------

In front of Bill & Co. was another limo, accompanying the cheeky Mr Idle and the moody Mr Cleese, along with their driver named Sid. Sid was an OAP like Bill, except Sid seemed a lot more fragile and dim and looked rather straggly. He had gone through a recent hip replacement that didn’t go according to plan, and because of it, his mood had dropped from miserable to down right depressed. He seemed not the type to get into an argument with. Throughout the tour, the Pythons would scuffle around to avoid having to drive along inside Sid’s car. John and Eric had pulled the short straw on this occasion. Fortunately, they were aware of Sid’s current condition so they kept very low-key throughout the journey.

“So, it’s Liverpool then Manchester is it?” Sid posed the question to the two Pythons sat behind.

“Yup,” answered Eric.

“Oh great, I can’t wait,” grumbled Sid. “Good luck tryin’ ter make those bastards laugh.”

“What are you on about?” John asked, furrowing his brow.

“Miserable Northerners that’s what I’m on about, mate!”

“Huh?”

“They’ve got no sense of humour and they’re just boring little sods.”

“Don’t be silly,” Eric laughed. “Of course they’ve got a sense of humour. I’m a Northerner myself, and so is Mike!”

“Where a’ you an ‘im from then, sonny?”

“South Shields, and Mike’s from Yorkshire.”

“I’m not on about those Northerners,” Sid snapped with a sort of gritty, morbid tone. “I’m talkin’ about the North Western Northerners. Y’know, Blackpool, Preston, Burnley, etc.”

“What have you got against them?” asked Eric.

“They’re just dirty people. The places up there are just dirty, cold an’ ‘orrible, especially Burnley. Blackpool is too windy. Liverpool is a bloody waste of time and Manchester? Pffft, don’t even start wi’ them!”

“I don’t see anything wrong with Liverpool,” John retorted, “Besides, they’ve made pop history because they’re the home of the biggest band in the world!”

“Okay, so Liverpool has the Beatles, but what about Manchester? A bunch a’ big buildings, grotty council flats, two rubbish football teams, an’ that’s it! It’s full a’ rapists, druggies, yobs, tramps an’ murderers. It’s the Devil’s City, I tell ya, the Devil’s City!”

John and Eric scoffed at each other and exchanged amused looks.

-------------------------------------

Nestled quite a considerable distance behind Bill, Sid & Co. was a third limo accompanying a mysterious tall man with a pipe. This limo was different from the others, as it was longer, had black coloured suede-like material on the roof and floor and was a Range Rover, whilst the others were your average Daimlers.

“Would you require another ‘G and T,’ sir?” The driver enquired, with a cross between Italian and Spanish in his voice.

The man took hold of his pipe and nodded.

“That would be nice,” he said, chuckling to himself.

This man was none other than that loveable puff, Dr. Chapman.

The driver meanwhile was one of Graham’s foreign ‘friends’ and was originally from Ibiza. He was called Nicolas.

With his sparkling blue eyes and locks of soft light brown hair bouncing atop his shoulders, Gray seemed rather contempt, confident and relaxed throughout the journey. Maybe it was due to his constant requests for Gin and Tonics and the feeling he got when he felt the cocktail rush down his throat, leaving a cool sensation of utmost satisfaction lingering around his gullet. Another, more plausible reason might have been the fact that every so often he and Nicolas would stop by lay-bys to engage in the occasional fling, which we won’t go into detail for legal reasons that gave Gray a massive surge of superiority and he was convinced that he could and would do anything.

So he was a very happy chappy, as Nicolas once again pulled over to the hard shoulder to pour Gray his fourth G&T of the journey. Once Gray had that devoured, he got out a large book, followed by a rather suggestive contraption from behind his seat. Nicolas grinned naughtily at him.

“What shall we do this time?” purred Graham. “Will it be the ‘Wheel Barrow’, ‘Fritz the Cat’ or ‘Chinese Shag Swing’?”

-------------------------------------

Soon enough, about an hour later, Sid and Bill’s cars had reached a turn-off junction onto the M62. Liverpool wasn’t far now. With all the cars (with the exception of Gray’s and Nicolas’) waiting by some traffic lights, inside Bill’s limo, Gil clumsily dropped his (3rd) bottle of cheap champagne and stared out the window. Something caught his eye.

“HhhHhHey, wassat?” he slurred, pointing out the window.

Jonesy turned to Gil and Mike turned round.

“Waswat?” Jonesy replied, equally hammered.

“There, in der winder,” Gil said, speaking like a 2 year old. “It look like a lion. A lion wi’ wings.”

He was pointing to a small cluster of dandelions right beneath one of the traffic lights.

“I don see no lion,” Jonesy told him, in-between scratching his head.

Next, whilst exiting the M62 and entering the A5080 to Liverpool, Gil once again went all hyper and shook with excitement.

“Lookey ‘ere!” Gil shouted, nearly giving Mike a heart attack.

When Mike and Jonesy looked back round at him, Gil raised his arm and pointed to a hospital in the distance.

“I see dead people, tooooo.”

Mike let out a load groan in protest, quickly turned back round and went back to sulking. Bill rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath.

“Yer must be bliiiiiind, Gilly,” Jonesy garbled. “Yer shud’ve gon ter Mister Opptichans”

“No, yer nee to see opptichans, coz I saw dem!” Gil protested, rather drunkenly. “Aaaand yer can go Weight watchers while yer at it!”

“Hey, yer callin’ me FAT!?”

“Hells yeah,” Gil sniggered, poking his fat finger into Jonesy’s stomach. “Yer a big fattay bummm-bummm!”

Jonesy’s face turned a lovely cherry colour and he violently pushed the American onto the ground and began a violent tussle. Mike buried his head into his hands - how ashamed he was. Both Terries clawed and bawled at each other in a bitter drunken battle, calling each other names like ‘Idiot American’, ‘Welsh Bastard’, ‘Fat Toad’ and ‘Gay Hippie Elf’. This was the moment that Bill exploded.

“THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD IT WITH YOU BASTARDS!” Bill screamed.

He violently swerved past oncoming traffic at an alarming speed, got dangerously close to Sid’s car and pulled over onto the pavement. Sid heard an awful scratching sound like nails down a chalkboard and suddenly realised that Bill had left a long scratch right along the length of his car. Sid grew wrathful and he threw a mad hissy fit in the car in full view of a bemused John and Eric. He too had pulled over onto the pavement. As Sid cursed and squealed like a madman, John and Eric saw Bill drag the two Terries out of his car. Both Terries continued to fight as Bill looked on. Eric could hardly contain his laughter, as he watched the Terries battle it out on the pavement floor. However, John looked very worried. Eric turned to John and his smile soon faded. John looked to Eric and told him not to look at the Terries, but to look at Bill. Eric did so, and soon his expression went the same as John’s. Bill looked strangely calm and his expression was very creepy. He was stood over the Terries; his eyes had turned red and he was holding an axe in one hand…

-------------------------------------------

(This part includes the once missing Neil Innes, since I forgot to put him in last time. He was supposed to be driving in Sid’s car along with John and Eric. Oh, and I’ve made Eric into a sour little creep (Sorry Idle fans :D).)

John and Eric widened their eyes in sheer terror as they watched Bill clench his teeth and eye the Terries with a murderous look. As soon as Neil’s eyes caught glimpse of Bill, he jumped out the limo and sped towards the group. Neil ground to a halt just as Bill was about to let the axe drop.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Neil yelled, very courageously.

Bill slowly lowered the weapon. He turned his head and focused on Neil intently with his red, bloodshot eyes.

“You see this axe?” Bill said with a deadly voice. “Yeah? You see it? Well, I’m gonna use this to bash their ‘eds in!”

Bill took the axe, but to Neil’s and everyone’s surprise he turned it around so that axe’s head was at the bottom, and used the end of the weapon to batter the Terries with.

“Stop fighting like a bunch a’ nincompoops!”

He roared like a mad lion at them, violently striking his axe over their heads. Neil could only watch in utter amazement. John and Eric tentatively exited their vehicle and approached the standing Mr. Innes, their eyes also fixed on the events unfolding. The Terries had paused their epic battle, attempting instead to shield themselves from the battering force of Bill’s axe.

“Ugh! … AHH!” yelled the English Terry. “Would you-- OH! ARRRRH! Bloody hell!”

“GRAH!” yelped the American Terry. “Godammit, that … NRGH! That HURTS!”

Bill ignored the Terries’ protests and said: “Serves … you … right,” in-between belting them with his weapon.

After a short while, Neil and the others finally decided to intervene. Neil grappled Bill’s arms and tried to move him away, whilst John and Eric helped the Terries up onto their feet. Jonesy and Gil groaned in agonising pain, both rubbing their heads and nursing their newly formed bruises. Except, as soon as they caught sight of each other, they were at it again, with the punching and the biting and the kicking etc. The others could only watch with astonishment. Gil managed a few good hits to Jonesy’s face, however Jonesy was about to deliver his pièce de résistance. His right leg rammed itself straight into Gil’s trouser snake, making Gil cringe and wither to the floor, letting out a painful howl as he went. Jonesy was seconds away from performing a vertical splash (it’s a wrestling move), when Eric reached out and (just) managed to restrain him from further harm.

“Seriously, you guys need to grow up,” John said, whilst lifting Gil back up again.

“He hits like a bloody woman!” Jonesy screeched, pointing straight at Gil.

“Says the one who likes dressing up in women’s underwear!” Gil snapped back.

Jonesy squealed and thrashed around under Eric’s grasp like a manic pig about to be taken to an abattoir.

“Would you cut it out already?” said Eric angrily to Jonesy.

When the Terries had calmed down a little, almost in unison, both Mike and Sid came out of their cars and approached the gaggle of men. Mike had a face like a slapped arse, and Sid’s face was a deep crimson from all the shouting after Bill had scratched his car.

“Hey you!” Sid called to Bill. “I’ve gotta bone ter pick wi’ yoooou.”

Oh God, Bill told himself, before showing Sid his confused face. “What’s your problem?” he said.

“Yer scratched mi car, yer fat bastard!”

And with that, Sid threw himself at Bill, knocking Neil over in the process, and began strangling him. John and Mike quickly came over and John pulled Sid off of Bill. Bill began to splutter and cough whilst rubbing his neck.

“Learn to control yourself, you deranged old man,” said an irritated John, as he pulled Sid right back and away from Bill.

Sid glanced up at John’s towering figure, pushed himself away from John’s grasp, and began muttering rude things under his breath.

“Hey, where’s Gray?” Eric asked, looking round.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” said Mike, whilst helping Neil to his feet. “He’ll catch up soon.”

And low and behold, a black Range Rover casually drove along and parked itself alongside the pavement behind Sid’s limo. Out the car came Graham and his fit, young companion Nicolas. Gray looked utterly exhausted, but still managed to let a small grin creep up on his lips.

“Hang about,” Mike spoke up. “Where’s Carol? Isn’t she supposed to be with you, Gray?”

Graham let out a low ‘mmmm’ noise, and finally said: “Did you say something, old chap?”

“Where’s Carol, Graham? Wasn’t she driving in your car?”

“Nope,” Gray replied. He took a deep drag from his pipe before adding, “I thought she was in Sid’s car.”

“Mine?” Sid questioned, acting a little cynical. “I thought she was in Bill’s car.”

Suddenly, Bill’s eyes widened. “Oh shit,” he muttered.

“What’s ‘oh shit’ supposed to mean?” Graham enquired.

“I think I-- erm, ‘we’ might’ve left her at Cardiff.”

“We did WHAT!?” Neil bellowed. “JESUS CHRIST!”

Then followed a couple of annoyed grunts and moans from the others.

“This is getting from bad to worse,” Eric sighed.

“Touché to that, Idle,” John scoffed.

“All right, don’t panic,” Mike said, trying to reassure everyone, as he does best. “We’ll just have to get one of us to play Carol’s role until she gets here.”

Eric and Gray exchanged slightly worried looks.

“So, which one of us is the prettiest in drag?”

Everyone looked round innocently as if this had nothing to do with them. They heard Gil begin to laugh slightly, but quickly he turned his giggles into an awkward cough.

All remained in an uncomfortable silence, until Bill finally said: “That’s a rather controversial question, isn’t it?”

Mike gave Bill a look.

“That … kinda came out wrong,” he admitted, blushing slightly.

“Yes, it did,” agreed John, smiling. “Didn’t you mean, ‘Who’s the most convincing in drag?’”

“Get Eric to do it,” Neil said, with a small snigger.

Eric widened his eyes and quickly shot Neil with a sour face. “ME!? Haven’t I got enough on my plate already?”

“Ach, stop whinging. You look pretty…” Neil stopped himself and quickly added, “P-pretty decent in drag,” so as to avoid any slight perversion.

“What about Mike?” Eric posed to John.

Mike gulped hard. “Ah, well, I, erm, ugh … uhrm, well, maybe--”

“No,” John said bluntly. “Mike’s got enough parts in the show as it is.”

“And so have I!” Eric grumbled.

“No you haven’t, lazy arse,” Gray snapped.

“All right guys, just shush a sec,” Neil cut in before the rows were about to start again. “I suggest we leave this for now. The gig’s tonight, and it’s like…” He paused briefly to glance at his watch, “2 o’ clock in the afternoon, so I firmly suggest we get moving and talk about it when we get there. Okay?”

They all looked at each other, and then nodded in agreement.

“Great, now let’s get this ball rollin’!”

Everyone went back to their allocated limos and got settled down ready to drive to the Hotel they were staying in. They would need to drive to the Theatre to begin a short dress rehearsal before the big performance. Tomorrow, they would have to perform again to a sell-out audience, then on the Friday, they shall travel East straight towards Manchester for another two gigs at the weekend…

10:42pm, Liverpool Empire Theatre.

After a very long discussion/argument, the guys finally got Eric to admit defeat and to take on Carol’s parts in the show. As Mike had predicted earlier that day, the show didn’t exactly go to plan, to put it lightly. The mikes were too quiet, the sets looked cheap, the lights were too bright, and to top it all half the cast were a drunken mess, coming in too early or too late and messing up their parts and causing chaos for the other Pythons.
After 2 hours of shambolic performances, the sober members of the team quickly made their way to the dressing room…

“Oh my GOD!” Eric shouted with relief, throwing his wig down onto the floor and sprawling onto the dressing room sofa. “I’m so glad it's over!”

“Me as well,” Mike added, sitting himself on another sofa opposite Eric.

“Here, here,” Neil agreed, following suit.

John came, or should I say stomped though the dressing room door, looking very agitated.

“Bloody hell,” he growled, slamming the door behind him. “That was worse than Cardiff and Birmingham put together! Jonesy was appalling, Gilliam was awful, and Graham was goddamn useless!!”

“You can say that again,” Eric said, staring at the ceiling.

“What the hell’s wrong with those guys? I mean, to come on late is one thing, but to start crawling across the stage during the middle of a sketch like some baby and start swearing and throwing things at the audience is just bloody preposterous!”

“I knew this would happen,” Mike muttered, as disappointed as everyone else.

“Hey, don’t worry,” came a gentle voice coming from Neil. “Tomorrow night will be better, I guarantee it.”

“Mikey?” John asked. “You knew this would happen?”

Mike looked up at John with a slightly pained expression and nodded his head.

“What, have those guys been doing drugs?” John said to him.

Mike sighed and shook his head in disagreement.

“Jonesy and Gilliam were drinking bottles upon bottles of champagne in the limo whilst we drove up,” he explained. “I was unaware of it at the time, until I turned round and saw the back of the car littered with wine glasses and bottles of Dom Pérignon 1971.”

John’s face began to crease up with anger.

“Those little shits,” he snarled.

The three Pythons and Neil enjoyed about a few minutes worth of deep conversation when they were rudely interrupted by a group of drunks consisting of Graham and the two Terries bursting majestically through the door.

“Woah, whadda NITE!” Graham declared.

Jonesy and Gil had their arms around each other and as Graham began to blabber on about nothing for a minute or two, they would burst out into uncontrollable fits of laughter. The others, most notably Eric, glared at them murderously - they had finally had enough. John opened his mouth about to scream out his disapproval, but Eric jumped in first.

“That’s it, no more wine or beer or anything for the rest of the TOUR!” he shouted, red-faced, to the drunken men.

That made everyone grow silent.

“Wahwas dat, Ewic?” Jonesy jeered. “Gellous of us havin’ a gud time, whilst yer jussat on yer misserabal arse complain’ bout ow badly yer act went? Getta life, yer wretched git!”

“Shut your gob, little plum,” John murmured angrily.

“I said,” Eric hissed through clenched teeth, “you’re not gettin’ any more wine or beer or cider or whatever crap you drink ANYMORE!”

“Hey, yer ain’t mi mam!” groaned Jonesy.

“Actually,” Eric suddenly perked up, with a cheeky look in his eye. “Yeah, I’m not your mum, because unlike her, I’m not fat, old or smelling of cow manure and I don’t look like I’ve been beaten with an ugly stick.”

Jonesy was outraged.

“WHY YER LITTLE … SH-SHIT-FACED TWAT!”

Eric’s cheeky attitude didn’t last long, for as soon as Jonesy called him a faeces-faced vagina, he went back to being a smarmy little bitch.

“I’m gonna beat you so hard, Welsh prat!” Eric exclaimed.

“H-how could you say that?” Mike told Eric, shock written all over his face. “His mum’s dead!”

“Don’t tell me you’re backing him up!” Eric carped angrily.

“Of course not,” came the defensive reply. “I’m not covering for what Terry’s done, but for you to say them things about his dead relative is going too far.”

“Yeah! Yer take dat bak, Ewic!” Gil bawled.

“Until Jonesy learns his lesson,” Eric replied, standing his ground, “then no, I won’t apologise!”

“Well, w-well if yer won’t tackit bak, den … die schwarz Witwe wirst beißen!”

Eric let out a short, startled laugh and said: “What in God’s name did you just say?”

“Die Witwe Kinder Wille brüten und verschmausen IHRER ANATOMIE UND SIE WERDEN GLEICHEN SIE!!!”

Gil had a burning wrath in his eyes as he jumped up and down in a fit of outrage, shouting and squealing in incoherent German.

“Oh noes! He’s turned into Hitler!” Eric laughed.

“Eric…” Mike uttered, rolling his eyes.

“Mein Führer, do not send me to the showers, please!”

“Eric, why don’t you just shut UP!?” John demanded.

Eric did indeed button it. He shot each of the drunken men with a deadly glare and decided to leave the room in a very huffy manner. As he opened the door, he turned his head, staring madly at Jonesy and shouted: “I won’t forget this Jones, you hear?!” and slammed the door behind him.

By the windowsill outside, a cat let out a low purr and quickly scuttled away…

Thursday, May 9th, 09:30am. Adelphi Hotel, Room 270.

It was the day after, and as expected, Gray, Jonesy and Gil were terribly hungover. It was 9:30 in the morning, and John and Mike were in Gilliam’s room, for a little chat (There has to be some reason why they’re in there, but I can’t think of one at the moment). Gil was sat on the edge of his bed, nervously twiddling his thumbs, whilst Mike lent his back against Gil’s wardrobe and John stood up next to the bathroom door with his arms folded. As they talked, they noticed that Gil’s voice sounded quite hoarse as he spoke - the alcohol had taken its toll.

“I’m sorry,” Gil’s husky voice murmured sheepishly, after a short while. “Sorry for, y’know, what happened last night.”

“So you should be,” John said firmly. “I’m just glad that you didn’t have many roles to play on stage, then that would have been much worse. You’re such a stupid wazzock.”

Mike took on a sudden sympathetic look towards Gil. He frowned slightly and peered at John.

“C’mon Johnny,” he told him, “at least he’s managed to apologise.”

John thought for a moment, before sighing heavily and turning his eyes down to the ground. Maybe Mr. Cleese wasn’t such an uncaring bastard as first thought.

“About what happened,” Mike began, glancing back round. “When did you learn to speak German?”

Gil furrowed his brow, confused but relived at the same time that Mike wasn’t about to attack him viciously for drinking so much like John or Eric.
He looked back up at Mike and said: “I’ve never took any German lessons in my life.”

John saw that Gil’s eyes looked very heavy and tired. Serves him right for drinking so much, he mused.

“So,” Mike said, “why where you speaking it in the dressing room?”

“I have no idea,” Gil replied, almost as oblivious to it as Mike was. “Probably a spur-of-the-moment thing. It was a load of gibberish anyway, like the fake German we used for the World’s Funniest Joke.”

“Sounded pretty authentic to me,” said a voice.

“Who said that?!”

Mike looked round and saw to his surprise a strange man around 60-70 years of age peering his head through a gap in the door and staring at them.

“Like hullo there, me names Ron. Ronald Faraday,” said the cheerful man, taking on a strange distorted accent.

“Hang on,” John muttered. “I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”

“HEY!” Gil yelped. “You can’t just barge in here without my permission! I could’ve been gettin’ changed, you stinkin’ pervert!”

“I haven’t barged in at all. Technically, I’m not even in your ruum. God, you’re a rude little git, aren’t you boy?”

Gil didn’t reply and simply frowned at him.

“But putting that aside a moment, I mast say, like, your Mergan’s very guud.”

“Mergan? You mean German?” Mike noted.

“All right,” Gil muttered. “Urm, thanks?”

“No, it’s Mergan,” Ron retorted.

“It’s German, I’m afraid,” John said dryly.

“Mergan.”

“German.”

“MERGAN.”

“Okay, we get it already!” Gil exclaimed impatiently.

“Although,” Ron said to Gil, “what you said last night … it all sounded a little too cryptic.”

“What do mean, ‘cryptic’?” Gil asked.

“Anyway!” Ron shouted, trying to evade the question. “I must dash like. In a bit, kidda.”

He swiftly pulled his head back and raced off.

“What the hell was that all about?” John asked himself.

Then, Gil gasped suddenly and backed away from Mike and John. John furrowed his brow, and Mike noticed that Gil was beginning to tremble with fear.

“Something wrong?” Mike enquired.

He saw Gil’s eyes gazing at a small orange object on the bedside table; to the left of it a vase, to the right of it a small lamp.

“That thing there,” Gil whispered. “It’s following me.”

“Don’t be such a div,” John frowned. “Of course it isn’t following you. It's just a tangerine.”

Yes, there was a tangerine, not a clementine or a satsuma, but a tangerine, sat nicely on the edge of his bedside table.

“It wasn’t there before,” Gil said; panic beginning to become evident in his voice. “I put it next to the vase earlier today, and now its somehow moved next to the lamp by itself. It’s coming after me!”

“Why do you have one of these in the first place?” Mike put in.

“Bill gave it me.”

“Bill?” Mike said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Bill, our chauffeur. That old chubby guy with the--”

“We know who you mean.”

Mike was very curious to work out why Bill would give Gil a tangerine. An apology present for whacking Gil on the head with the blunt end of an axe? But why a tangerine, a member of the mandarin family?

“Arh!” Gil jumped back, stricken with fear. “P-piss off! Curse you with your citrus taste and high vitamin C levels!”

Mike could only laugh to himself at the sheer madness of his dear friend Mr. Gilliam and his random fruit.

“TERRY!” John shouted impatiently. “Its just, a, fruit. It can’t randomly sprout legs and start following you around! Can’t you register that into your thick head!?”

“Take the damn thing away from me!”

“Terry,” Mike said softly. “It’s an ordinary fruit, not some homicidal alien orange from the planet Venus.”

“I don’t care! Just get it away from me!”

It was clear to both John and Mike that they were going to get nowhere fast at this rate, since Gil had convinced himself that there really was a tangerine out to get him. For what reason, nobody knew.

“Okay, fine, we’ll get rid of it for you,” John scoffed, then he added, “That Chardonnay must’ve really gone to your head, mate.”

As John picked up the fruit, Gil’s face lit up.

“Haha, take that you orange beast! You’ve got no chance of poisoning me now, have ya, eh?!”

“Are you allergic to oranges?” asked Mike.

“Nuh-huh.” Gil shook his head, and he pointed to the tangerine. “B-but I know that thing’s poisoned!!”

“How?” enquired John, looking very dubious.

“It just is, all right?” Gil insisted. “My instincts are tellin’ me so.”

John snorted and gazed at the fruit sitting in his hand. After a moment’s thought, he turned to Mike. “Here, you have it, Mikey. I’m not a fruit lover.”

John threw the fruit to his companion in a very professional way like he was playing a game of rounders. Mike raised his hand and easily caught it.

Gil sighed with relief and swivelled himself round about to jump off the bed. “Phew, thanks guys, you really saved my bacon--” He broke off suddenly and gazed straight at the window. Yet again, something had caught his attention. He raced up to the window and stared out onto the road below.

“LOOK!” Gil cried, pressing his face against the glass. “A bear, with ribs in its mouth!”

John turned to the window, but Mike didn’t, since he was already fully aware of Gil’s little white lies. You’d have thought that John would have more sense.

“And looook, more dead people…”

“*cough*Stupid git*cough**cough*”

John and Mike tried stifled their chuckles, thinking Gil had really lost his marbles.

“Well,” John said, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “we’ll just leave you to stare and converse with your imaginary friends, whilst we go for breakfast. Laters.”

Both men left the room chuckling, but Gil still continued to talk to himself.

“Dead corpses walking the streets. Where are they going? They’re heading for …” He paused and turned his line of sight towards a small road sign on the street. “‘Manchester’? They’re going there, but why? What awaits them there? Heh, it’ll be funny if they were at our Manchester gig--”

He stopped his excessive mumbling when he heard the sound of someone biting into a piece of fruit…