so paul runs to ringo's door and nearabout breaks down.
well hello you feckin cunt, you ruined a near perfect orgasm.
code red, mentions paul and it's off to the yellow submarine for a riveting and physics challenging drive through that golden heart of brittania, london.
i think that's why ol' stew quit, mentions ringo, still grumpy about the ruined foreplay.
no, says paul, they din't send me back from the dead for no reason, you know. it's what we do. it's important.
the wheels of the volkswagen van(given to flight and flotation at random time periods for reasons unknown) hum along the tarmac by beats electronic from a time not yet here.
the beat builds to a crescendo that explodes into the screech of the van outside george's house.
george awaiting the marks on his front porch walks upto the back and gets in.
thank god they called us in time, he says, it's an urgent case.
urgent? screeches paul.
he might die.
the van screeches outside the savile row studio.
john is there.
time machine ready john, asks paul.
vietnamese tantric techno-logy, he says, set your equipment up. i'll get the machine running.
what about you? asked paul.
don't worry, he says, i'll find a cowbell or something.
ringo, still grumpy, says, 'so, we're going through time again?
no, this delivers our song using a psycho-carmic-apple app to the patient.
through time? inquires ringo.
and space, mentions John.
Let's go says paul and they sing let it be in savile row.
sitting decades and thousands of miles away in imt ghaziabad, udayan receives the song.