Martha You Dope, Part 2

 

 

John grumbled as he lunged over the top of the high, metal fence surrounding Paul's Cavendish house.  With a garbled curse, he fell ungracefully into the hedge on the inside of the fence.

The apple scruffs outside the gate squealed and reached their hands through the bars imploringly.

"C'mon, John, open the gate and let us in too!"

For half a second John considered doing it, just because he was so browned off with Paul.  But they would just get in the way and be a general nuisance while he was thrashing the bugger.

"Sorry, girls," he said, brushing off his pants.  "This is something that requires privacy."

Ignoring their continued pleas and propositions, he walked up to the front porch and pounded on the door.  "Come on, McCartney!  What's the fucking idea, keeping us all waiting?" he shouted.

He could hear the sound of dog claws clicking on the tile in the entry.  John peered into the narrow window on the side of the door, shading his eyes to see better into the rather dim interior of the house.

"WOOF!"  A large hairy face suddenly appeared in front of his.

"Christ!" John shouted and leaped backwards.  "Bloody stupid dog!"

His heart still beating wildly, John re-approached the glass.  "Where's Paul, ya thick-headed ball of fur?  Upstairs pounding away on some bird, hmm?"

Martha whined and tried to dig her way through the window.  John attempted the door knob, only to find it locked tight.  Paul had once shown him where the spare key was hidden, but, of course, details like that just didn't stick in his head.  He slammed his fist on the door a few more times, which just made Martha start barking louder.  Strange that he would go off and leave the damned mutt in the house alone, John thought with just a spark of concern surfacing in his mind.  He walked around the side of the house, but the ground floor windows were too high up to see into and the neglected garden in back revealed nothing.

"Ah, hell," John muttered.  "Forget it."  He decided to go back to the studio and tell George and Ringo to just go home.  He turned away and clambered back up and over the fence.

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Martha howled as she watched John climbing back over the fence.  She was thirsty and hungry.  Dropping down from the window, she walked past Paul's prone body to the main floor's bath where she proceeded to slurp out of the loo.

Paul winced even before his eyes opened.  Now there was a tender, sore area on the back of his head as well.  But that was nothing compared the fiery pain that pulsated from his leg.  "Oh hell," he croaked.  He was incredibly thirsty.  He lay still, listening to a rather peculiar sound coming from the bathroom.  Turning his head, hoping that Pam or whatever the hell her name was had just been downstairs sleeping this entire time, he saw Martha emerge, licking water droplets from the fur around her mouth.

"Nooo," Paul groaned.  Martha, worried by the sound her master was making, stood over him, dripping toilet water onto his face.  "Gerroff, go away," Paul gestured furiously, which made his head throb and sent spikes of pain through his leg.

Suddenly he let out a snort.  Then, with a bewildered Martha standing several feet away from him, Paul lay helplessly caught up in a hysterical laughing fit.  Tears ran from his eyes and he struggled to take a deep breath and calm down.  This was just un-fucking-believable, he thought.

Skeleton of famous Beatle found inside house, half-eaten by starving sheepdog.

The phone rang.  Paul's heart leapt into his throat.  He hoisted himself up on his elbows and stared at the phone.  He started dragging himself backwards toward it, but had to stop as stars swirled before his eyes again.  He'd never make it this way.  Paul looked at Martha, who was gazing at him expectantly. 

"Get the phone, girl.  C'mon, bring Daddy the phone!"  he encouraged.

Martha ruffed, eager to please, and bounded joyfully to the telephone stand.  Jumping up on her hind legs, she grabbed the entire phone in her mouth, yanked it off the table and brought it back to Paul, the disconnected line trailing behind her.

"Damn dog, damn dog, damn dog," Paul muttered between clenched teeth.  He was so infuriated that he temporarily forgot about his injuries and heaved himself up to swat at Martha.  She backed away and Paul fell on his face.  Still furious, he didn't even care about the pain radiating from his leg.  He took the phone in one hand and dragged himself across the floor with the other, alternately cursing and moaning.  However, after making headway of a few feet, he blacked out, his head once again thudding against the floor.  This time, at least, he had made it to the living room rug, which might've helped to cushion the blow...just a bit.

                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

George sighed and threw his greasy fish and chips wrapper towards the wastecan.  It fell short and landed on the floor.  Ringo got up, belched contentedly and picked up the paper, stuffing it in the trash along with his own.

"Not bad, that," he commented.

"Not if you like loads of lard," George replied, wiping his hands on his jeans with a frown.

"Wonder how John and Paul are doing," Ringo said, idling twirling his drumsticks between his fingers.

"Not well, apparently," George answered, seeing John stalking back through the studio door alone.

He strode into the room, glared at George and Ringo, and growled, "Couldn't find him.  Might as well forget it today."

Ringo's eyebrows bunched.  "That's not like our Paul.  He's as near to a workaholic as I know when it comes to recording."

"Well, the scruffs saw him go in last night with a chick, and they didn't see him leave this morning." John replied.

"Perhaps she did him in," George suggested.

They laughed at the idea of any bird overwhelming Paul in the sexual arts.  But John's smile died on his lips rather quickly.

"You have a point there, Ringo.  Paul is a maniac for being in the studio," he said.  "It bugs me that Martha was barking inside too.  He doesn't leave that dog there alone."

They looked at each other, and finally George shrugged.  "He didn't come to the door.  What're we supposed to do?  Break into the house just to find he's gone off somewhere?"

"Then he'd be all pissy with us for hurting his house," John added.  "Let's see what tomorrow brings.  I'm going home."

Ringo put his sticks down and got up.  "Give me a ring if either of you hear from him, will you?"

George nodded and John said "Yeah."

George turned the lights off on the way out.  It was nearly 8 pm--night was falling.