“The time has come,” The Walrus said, “To talk of many things. Of shoes and ships and sealing wax; of cabbages and kings…”
Puzzled, The Walrus paused. “Like what?”
“What if,” The Carpenter mused, “We could get together some of the greatest rock stars ever and get them to put on a show! That would certainly keep the oysters in line, and be a mega super thing!”
The Walrus, ever skeptical, gave The Carpenter a long look. “How are you going to do that? You are but a humble artisan. What makes you think anyone will listen to you?”
The Carpenter winked, “I know a guy, who knows a guy…”
The Walrus was unimpressed. “Whatever, dude,” he muttered, as he waddled back along the beach.
“So, do you think they will do it?” The Carpenter fiddled nervously with his sleeves.
“I DON’T KNOW.” said His Father, “I’LL HAVE TO ASK. SOME OF THEM ARE PRETTY SURPRISED TO BE HERE. THEY THOUGHT THAT THEY WOULD END UP IN THE OTHER PLACE. IT TAKES A BIT OF GETTING USED TO.”
“The Other Place?” the Carpenter said incredulously, “Why? They weren’t Hitler or anything!”
“I KNOW,” said His Father, “BUT YOU KNOW HOW THEY ARE…SO OVER-DRAMATIC…A BIT OF DRUGS AND ALCOHOL. IT’S NOT SO BAD.” He started with His air guitar, “ALSO, I REALLY LIKE ROCK MUSIC…NAH,NAH,NAH…”
The Carpenter rolled his eyes. “I know; yada, yada, yada.”
“Well, bugger me with a drumstick! The Big Man just called!”
Freddie Mercury bounded into the lounge, knocking over a potted palm. The Others were sat around, watching ancient episodes of “Top of the Pops,” and eating huge bags of KP Crisps (prawn cocktail flavor).
“What’s up, Freddie?” Marc Bolan asked, as he chugged a huge can of Coke.
Freddie was jumping up and down with excitement: “The Big Man wants to know if we’ll put on a show?”
“What’s all the noise about, lads?” John Lennon looked up from his book of Chinese art. “Do we have a gig?”
Freddie was beside himself. “The Big Man wants us all to put on a show!” he exclaimed. “He thinks he has enough of us for an awesome, End-Of-Earth-type show!”
John and Marc looked around. “I think George is out,” John said, “He’s too busy meditating in the Garden.”
Just then the door opened, and a tall, thin, pale man stepped in.
“Am I in the right place?”
“Well, thank heavens for that!” said Lou Reed, putting aside his pipe, “I was wondering when he would show up! How the devil are you, old chap?”
David Bowie stood uncertainly at the door. “I’m still a bit disoriented,” he said quietly, “I wasn’t sure that I would get here.”
“Bollocks!” cried Freddie “We knew you would make it!”
“You’re still a little silhouette-o of a man,” David grinned, “Can you still do the fandango?”
“Only to get movie tickets,” Freddie replied.
After much back slapping and “hail-fellows-well-met”, Freddie told David about the gig.
“So who’s doing it?” David asked.
John, who had been fiddling with the piano, looked up. “Well, I think the usual suspects. Elvis is out again, doing community service at the Little Rock Waffle House; and George is off with the daisies. But I think Lemmy is in and Kirsty MacColl said she would drop by. I think she’s bringing Jimi.”
“Do you think Mick and Keith will get here anytime soon?” Freddie asked. David shook his head.
“I doubt it. And judging by how they look these days, I think they made a deal with the Other Guy.”
“Well they did have sympathy for him,” John pointed out. “How about Page and Plant?”
David shrugged and lit a cigarette.
“Well, we have Lou, and Jim Morrison said he might swing by; but don’t hold your breath,” Freddie said with a look, “he’s very unreliable since he started that Cordon Bleu cooking course.”
“I hear Kurt Cobain is a ‘classic artist’ now,” David said helpfully.
“Do the math, dickhead,” John shook his head. “We’re older than we look.”
“Speak for yourself, girlfriend!”
“Anyway!” said Freddie, taking charge, “Are we in or not?”
The Rock Gods looked at one another and grinned.
“Well, if the Big Man wants it; we’ll do it!” they agreed.
As they settled down to discuss the set, Marc suddenly asked: “Who would He have sent if we didn’t want to do it?”
Freddie looked around: “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” he whispered.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God!” Marc said, “I hear they suck!”