Brian stared after John for a few seconds before entering the dressing room, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding snap.
Paul and Ringo looked up from the game of Hangman they were playing on John's notepad. George continued to practice his guitar in a corner in the back, paying no heed to the manager.
"Oh, hi, Brian," said Paul. "I see you got in alright, then."
Brian fumed silently for a second.
"John must've let you in," mused Ringo.
Brian decided to use his words. "George!"
George slowly raised his eyes from his beloved guitar. "How can I help you?"
"What did you do? Why are you locked away in here?" yelled Brian.
George raised an eyebrow. "Because we wanted to have some time to ourselves."
Brian broke. "I've had nothing but trouble from you four since John's driving escapade in Bournemouth! You have been irresponsible, in—"
"There are only three of us at the moment," pointed out George.
"I dunno, I thought the press conference yesterday went pretty well," said Paul. "To be completely fair, that is."
"What've I done?" asked Ringo. "I haven't started any of this!"
"You should go find John and blame him," suggested George.
"Will you listen to me for once?" yelled Brian.
"Actually, you know what? I'll go find him for you and give him a good telling-off," offered George. He stood up and handed his guitar to Brian. "Be careful with my guitar, and make sure I get it before we go onstage."
"DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE THIS ROOM!" yelled Brian. The three Beatles in the dressing room jumped.
"Or what?" replied George, recovering his cool composure.
"Or I'll drop your guitar," replied Brian with a psychotic grin.
George blanched. "That's my Fender Strat! You can't drop it!"
John chose this inopportune moment to return to the dressing room.
"Sorry, forgot my very important thingy," John announced breezily, strolling in with his hands in his pockets. "Don't mind me, just keep on doing whatever you were doing."
Brian growled menacingly.
John strolled over to Paul and Ringo and grabbed his pen from Ringo's trembling fingers.
"LENNON!" yelled Brian, brandishing George's Stratocaster threateningly, "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"
"What're you doing to do, ground me?" inquired John snidely.
Time seemed to slow down as Brian swung the guitar downward in an elegant curve. George lunged toward the crazed manager a second too late to save his guitar from banging into John's shin.
"Ow!" yelped John, clutching his leg.
"NO!" screamed George, lifting his precious guitar from the floor and cradling it in his arms. "It's dented! Look, right here!"
George pointed to a spot just below the pick guard. John, Paul, and Ringo dutifully leaned in to see.
"Relax, it's just a Fender-bender," replied John.