John Lennon was driving like a maniac. In fact, he'd never driven before. All in all, he was pleased with his performance. His friends weren't.

The moment John pressed the accelerator down as far as it would go, Paul nearly screamed. This was definitely the scariest thing he'd ever done. Next time John was at the wheel, Paul definitely wouldn't be riding in the front passenger seat. He probably would be running away from the car. If there is a next time, Paul thought, grimacing. He turned green as John sailed around the first sharp corner at 120 miles per hour. As the Volkswagen Beetle skidded into the narrow, cobbled alley, one of the rear-view mirrors was knocked off by the corner of a large, green dumpster. Paul closed his eyes and plugged his ears so he couldn't hear the terrible skreechings the Beetle made every time John turned a corner or see the numerous times they nearly crashed.

George felt as though he were spinning on a merry-go-round which happened to be going 500 miles an hour, dangling from a blimp above the city. Every time they turned a corner into another narrow, bumpy street, George felt as though John had pushed the accelerator. That wasn't actually possible, George realized as he glanced at John's feet; the accelerator was as far down as it would go.

Ringo was wishing he'd told his mother he loved her before the last time he'd left her house. He hoped dying wouldn't be too painful. He stared at the floor of the car between his feet, trying not to focus on how much it was vibrating. He was biting his lip so hard that he drew blood, the metallic tang of it swirling around his taste buds.

Because Paul had closed his eyes and Ringo was staring at the floor, only George saw the red sign.

"It's a stop sign!" he cried, partly relieved and partly terrified. What if John didn't stop?

"Hit the brakes! HIT THE BRAKES!" screamed Ringo in terror, his teeth finally relinquishing their hold on his lip.

SKREECH! went the brakes. The yellow VW stopped so abruptly its four occupants were thrown forward. George and Ringo bounced into the backs of the front seats. John and Paul would have been thrown straight out the front windscreen if they hadn't been wearing seatbelts.

There was a pause, in which Paul, George and Ringo sorted out whether they were alive or not. Paul also opened his eyes and unplugged his ears.

Paul was the one who finally broke the silence.

"Thank God I was wearing a seatbelt," he said vehemently. Ringo smiled a little and leaned back against his headrest, blissfully happy to be alive and temporarily out of danger. George stared at the back of Paul's seat, looking rather shell-shocked.

"I'm a careful driver, I am," replied John reproachfully. The other three Beatles groaned in unison.

"I will not spend one more second in this car," said Paul suddenly. He threw open his door and leapt out of the now-considerably-worse-for-the-wear Volkswagen.

John looked mildly surprised at his friend's vehemence. "I'm not that bad," he said, turning to George and Ringo in the backseat. They weren't there anymore. George had joined Paul on the narrow sidewalk, and Ringo was busy throwing up in an alley around the corner.

A/N: Reviews brighten the dreary grey sky and dreary grey asphalt and all dreary grey things in between them. Ta!