Pt. 17

"This is never going to work," Bo muttered, "even if he is here."  The young monk and Tom Jones were crouched within a bush in Central Park near The Pond, on the instruction of the not-dead Freddie Mercury to find the un-dead corpse of John Lennon.  "For one thing," Bo continued as he shifted his weight and adjusted his gold lame' tunic, "I thought John Lennon had been cremated.  For another, if he is in fact, un-dead, I don't relish the thought of being the one to kill him for a second time over a missing arm with a dirty guitar.  Frankly, I'd rather be fishing."

Tom chuckled, "I have had some pretty wild nights! I think the media keeps a very close eye on what people are up to these days. I was out with George Clooney a few nights ago and we had a great time."

The boy sighed.  "Tom Jones, that's not even a little true.  That night you're referring to was spent with me, playing gin rummy at an Applebee's and that wasn't George Clooney.  It was a hat stand you kept dealing into the game."

"He won, you know," Tom reminded him.  "I know," said Bo.

Tom was about to launch into another anecdote, when the sharp crack of a twig breaking rang out behind them.  They both leapt to their feet, startled.  Or rather, Tom leapt to his feet; Bo rose as quickly as his bulky frame would allow.  Standing before them in the darkness in all his peaceful, loving glory was none other than the reanimated, smiling corpse of John Lennon.  Upon seeing him, Tom Jones turned right back around, and pulled the back of his shirt over his head.

The boy lifted the axe² high over his head, intending to lop John Lennon's head off with it, without question or discussion - before he lost his nerve.  He'd been told to defeat him, and he'd taken that directive literally.

"Possession isn't nine-tenths of the law. It's nine-tenths of the problem," the un-living legend said.