“John, wake up. John. John!” Paul grew impatient as his friend refused to wake. He began to shake him. Slowly, painstakingly, John opened his eyes and raised his head.

“Whadayawant?” John drawled sleepily. He started to roll back into sleep, but Paul stopped him.

“John! You said you’d go on a drive with me this morning to pick up me jacket from the dry cleaners before some birds rip it to shreads for ‘keepsakes’!” John happened to glance at the digital clock by his bed.

“Blimey! It’s quarter to five in the bloody morning!” he exclaimed, “Leave me be and let me sleep for once!”

“John,” Paul continued, “They said they’d open early so we won’t be followed by a crowd of screaming girls. Come on.”

“Bloody Hell, leave me alone!” John grumbled. “It’s a bloody jacket, you can buy yerself a new bloody one tomorrow. At a decent bloody hour!”

“But it’s the priciple of the thing!” Paul persisted. “You said you’d come, so you ought to!”

“It’s your jacket, get it yourself.” John rolled over and would not be woken again. After shaking him a bit, Paul gave up and left the hotel alone.

Rita Quigley, a meter maid, and lovely to behold, was standing by a parking meter, writing down the numbers in her little white book. Paul, driving by, couldn’t help but notice her. He took his eyes off the road to look at her, for only a moment, not thinking anything could happen. She was so beautiful. So beautiful that he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Unfortunately, at that very inconviniant moment, the traffic lights changed. By the time Paul noticed, it was too late. An oblivious driver smashed into him.

“Help!” he screamed, “Get me out! Get me out! Help me! Help!” Suddenly, the car burst into flames. People in houses woke from his screams and called ambulances and firemen. They stared at him as the fire consumed him. He had such horrible head injuries, his face was unidentifyable... but... could it be... the Beatle, Paul McCartney?!

The phone rang at the Beatles’ hotel.

“What do you mean ‘he’s dead’?” George shouted into the phone. “A car accident at five o’ clock? You can’t be serious!”

“Who’s dead?” John whispered to George.

“Paul! He was just in a car accident, at five o’ clock this morning!”

“My God! Little Pauly, dead! If only I had gone with him...” John muttered, beggining to feel dizzy, ill.

“What’s that, John?” George inquired.

“Nothing, George.” John murmered. George went back to the phone, speaking each word aloud as he heard it. It tortured John to hear him, but he couldn’t stop listening. He wondered at how George could stay so calm.

“‘He was checking out a meter maid, Rita Quigley. He didn’t notice the traffic lights changing. He had horrible head injuries, yet he would have survived, except - except the car caught fire!’” This was just too much. The thought of his best friend, Paul, in pain, dying, dead...

John fell back in his room. ‘This is always happening!’ he thought. ‘Always someone dying! Uncle George, Julia, Stu, and now Paul! This is all my fault! I should have been there with him! If only I had come, I could have been driving! I’d have seen the lights change and this never would have happened! He can’t be dead! Oh, I wish that I were dead instead!’

Fifteen years later, his wish came true. But much can happen in fifteen years.

“What can we do?” Ringo asked the others. It was now well past noon, and the fact of Paul’s death was now starting to sink in on the band. “We can’t just go on with our band with only three of us!”

“We don’t need to.” George replied. “I’ve thought it all out. We just need to get a replacement.”

“Replacement?! You must be out of your head!” Ringo was shocked at George’s crafty, cynical mind. John said nothing. Incapable of speech, he knew he would live with guilt the rest of his life, guilt and regret.

“Yes, a replacement.” George continuted, not missing a beat. “We’ll hold a Paul look-alike contest. The winner will merely need a bit of touching up, perhaps some slight plastic surgery, and -”

“I don’t like the way your mind works.” John scowled.

“You’re a real sick one, ya know, with your selfish little plan!” Ringo added.

“Do you have a better idea, Ringo? Do you, John?” John didn’t answer a moment, stared into space, then burst into tears and left the room.

“Poor John.” Ringo looked sympathetically in the direction that John had left.

“Whatever.” George sighed. “I guess he won’t be much help with this. Anyway, as I was saying...”

“You all look so much like him, it’s so hard to decide!” George was addressing a large crowd of nervous McCartney wannabes at the “Paul Look-Alike Contest”. There was something about everyone’s faces, the way they all depended on his decision, that filled him with a power he had grown to love.

This was a week after Paul’s death. It had taken that long to convince Ringo that they really might as well hold the contest. John, in his state of shock, had had no say in the matter. Now, sitting in a corner of the stage in a state of deep depression, he went unnoticed in the excitement of the contest.

“Look at William Campbell!” George was whispering to Ringo. “He looks just like him! He’s perfect!” Ringo nodded.

George walked up to the microphone.

“I’m sorry, but it’s too hard to choose. I’m afraid there’s no winner of the contest. But each one of you out there is a winner in your own way.” George smiled brightly at the crowd, feeding off the disapointed expressions amongst the crowd.

George walked toward the door as the contestants were leaving. He aproached one, William Campbell, caught him by the arm and dragged him away from the crowd of psuedo-Pauls.

“You’re the winner. Come with me.” he whispered. He walked back to the stage. “This is William Campbell.” he announce to Ringo and John. “No, let me correct myself: this was William Campbell. From now on, he shall be known as James Paul McCartney.”

“What is this? Why did you take me here?” William Campbell had just been driven to the Beatles’ apartment and led into the room.

“It’s your new home.” George replied. “It’s not a castle, but it’s a place to crash. You’ll get used to it.”

“But, Mr. Harrison -”

“Please, call me George.”

“George? Well, if you really want, all right then. George, what am I doing here? I’m just a regular guy, a banker -”

“Not anymore, you’re not. Now you’re Paul McCartney, and you’re a singer and song writer. Life’s a stage, so play your part.”

And so it went for years. William became Paul, going mostly by the script, but changing things where nessisary. George trained him well. He was rather pleased with him. Ringo eventually got used to it. John just had to deal.

“I never thought about a singing career before. It’s rather nice.” William rather enjoyed his singing career, with all the fame and money (or especially the money) that came with it. “And to think, I used to be a banker without a name.”

“Like yer new name, eh?” Ringo teased.

“McCartney does have a nice sound to it.” William smiled.

Meanwhile, as a cry for help, John put many clues about Paul’s death and replacement into his songs, and even on the covers of some records. It took little more than a sad, pathetic face to convince Ringo, George, and William to allow him to do so (and add some of their own).

“Let him have his fun.” George told the others. “It won’t do any harm. People will assume it’s only parlor tricks. A scam for publicity.”

“But what if they suspect something?” William had once asked worriedly.

“They’ll only buy more records to find the “clues”, if anything at all.” George had replied. George, of course, had been right. People began to suspect the truth, but, much to John’s dismay, they did nothing about it.

Years later, the Beatles went on a trip to India to find their true selves. They worked on thirty songs, to be put in an album called ‘The Beatles’, later to be known as ‘The White Album’. That was when the full force of the guilt hit Ringo.

“George, this just doesn’t feel right.” he said. “I keep thinking Paul is watching us, spying on us, from behind every corner. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but -”

“You’re right.” George interupted. “You’re just paranoid.”

“But George,” Ringo persisted, “If you died, would you want us to replace you? To go on without you?”

“If I died, I’d be dead.”

“But your reincarnation would be furious, I’m sure.” John mumbled.

“John, please.” George sighed.

“No, he’s right, George!” Ringo asserted. “And you can find yerself a new drummer too, because I just won’t put up with this!”

“Oh, don’t worry, we will.” George sneered.

“Ringo, you shouldn’t hate me.” William butted in. “You replaced Pete Best yourself.” Ringo stalked out the door without hesitation. He expected John to follow, but John made no move to leave.

With a last “Good-bye, John” and a slam of the door, Ringo was gone.

“One less Beatle to worry about.” George decided. “Now William, how are you at drums?”

One week later, Ringo decided to come back to the Beatles.

“I guess I need you guys more than I thought. John, I’m sorry for leaving you alone.”

“You’re lucky you have someone to apologize to.” John grumbled.

“Whatever do you mean by that, John?”

“I didn’t have anyone to apologize to.” And out came the story of how John should have been with Paul at the time of the accident.

“Oh, John. I never knew.” Ringo sympathized. “But he would have died anyway. The only difference is that you would be dead.”

“No, I could have stopped the accident.” John’s guilt could not be diminished. “Had I been driving, I would have watched the lights.”

“You’re a terrible driver, and you know it!” George sneered.

“George, please!” Ringo defended. “Don’t say that to John!”

“Oh, shut up yourself, Ringo!” George snapped. “We’ve had enough of you, and you would have made it better for all of us by not coming back at all!”

“My, my, my, we are a nasty bunch, aren’t we?” William butted in.

“This argument is for Beatles only, so you keep out of it!” John shouted.

“So you still don’t consider me a Beatle, do you John?” William asked innocently.

“Of course not, William. Stop trying to take the place of my best friend!”

“He’s dead, John.” George said in monotone.

“Have you seen his dead body with your own eyes, George?”

“So that’s how it is, eh John? Don’t believe it ‘till you see it.”

“I guess I wouldn’t be able to believe in your feelings, then, would I, George?”

“Stop fighting, you two, if you want me to stay a Beatle!” William shouted.

“You never were one, William!”

“Call me Paul! I am Paul!”

“You can call yourself Paul, James, or Jesus for all I care! To me you are nothing but William! William the banker and Paul look-alike, but never Paul!” John stormed out the building, as though never to return again.

“Paul, go catch John before he hurts himself.” George said, amused. He sat down calmly in a chair, wondering how long it would be until John stopped making such a fool of himself.

It was a cold December morning, December 8, 1980 to be exact. John was sitting in a graveyard, thinking morbid thoughts. A dark-haired man interrupted his thinking.

“Go away, William.” he said, depression rich in his world-weary voice.

“Who’s William?” the man asked. “John, what’s been going on anyway? Who was that man singing with you guys? For fifteen years-”

“You mean William. But - aren’t you him?”

“No! In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Paul! Well, James Paul, but that doesn’t matter! And you guys didn’t even visit the hospital! Did you even care?!”

“But we all thought you were dead! At least, George said - you took your eyes off the road, and a car crashed into you, and the car caught fire-”

“That never happened! To me, that is. I think there was another accident, across town like that. But in the one I was in, well, I lived, but I almost lost my arm, man! And why’d you guys replace me rather than end the band, or at the very least look for me?!”

“Oh, Pauly, I’m so glad you’re alive! I never could quite believe you were dead. I told George that, but only money and fame and “our image” were on his mind! ‘A replacement is all we need’ he said. Of course William never could replace you-”

“So it was George, that bloody bastard! And after all we’ve done for him! Well, he’ll be having his share of bad luck for a few weeks! I’ll make sure of it!” Paul started to walk away.

“Wait!” John called after him. “Who was the man in the other accident anyway?”

“Oh, some guy named Paul Chapman.” Paul called over his shoulder. “His body was identified by his brother, Mark David.”

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