“There are no brakes on the rape train!” exclaimed the black conductor crazily. He was a-sippin’ on the purp drank, and chewin on a delicious, succulent piece of fried chicken.

Ron Paul nodded. “That sounds legit. What do you think, Paul McCartney?”

“I don’t want to get raped, Ron. That’s Ringo’s thing,” said the bassist.

“Where’s Yoko when you need a rape buddy?” asked Lennon.

“What are we doing here, anyways?” Ringo inquired.

“We’re trying to escape the evil clutches of Mitt Romney and Barack Obama.” Ron Paul answered. “We have to find the Elements of Liberty and Small Government.”

“Wait, how are John and George alive again?” asked McCartney.

“Black magic.” the black conductor stated, waving an ebony wand in the air. “This is the rape train, after all.”

“What does that have to do with necromancy, oh wise and powerful black man?”

“Negromancy.” Ringo corrected.

“That’s racist,” chided John.

“Shut up, hippy,” snarled Romney.

“Oh shit nigga it’s Mitt Romney!” the black conductor exclaimed, shitting himself, staining his white trousers brown.

“That’s right, negroids. I’m baaack.” shouted Mitt.

“Don’t forget about me!” Barack Obama proclaimed as he jumped in through a window.

“Wow, you all really need to lighten up,” said a cheerful bubbly voice. A pink cartoon pony popped out from inside George’s guitar. “Hi, I’m Pinkie Pie!”

“Shit nigga! Dafuq is that?!” the black conductor exclaimed, once again releasing his bowels. His shit started leaking out on the floor.

“Can you stop shitting yourself? You’re getting your poor black man feces all over my good shoes.” Romney whined.

“I think it’s clear what needs to be done,” said Ron Paul, standing up. He leaned forward and a Light Cycle blinked into existence around him.

George gasped. “Tron Paul!”

The Light Cycle cut a swath through the bi-party presidential hopefuls, blowing the windows out of the train with the force. Obamney went flying.

Pinkie Pie appraised the situation with a critical eye. “Hmm. It’s almost a party, but something is still missing.”

“I know what’s missing.” Ringo said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a gallon jug of PCP.

“Where’d you get that gallon of PCP?” demanded John.

“From Yoko’s-”

He was interrupted by a squeal from the pink pony, who seized the PCP and began chugging. Various Beatles quickly tried to wrest it from her. There was no worse buzzkill than somepony who wouldn’t share.

“Aw shit nigga, we gettin’ fucked up to-NIGHT!” yelled the exuberant conductor.

“I like where this is going.” said Ron Paul, returning from his beatdown of the partisan devils who had threatened to steal the Elements of Liberty and Small Government.

“Wait, that’s why you went all computerpunk on them?” asked John. “I mean, I can understand acoustic, or even electric, but why waste something like that on politics? Can’t everyone learn to live together in peace and harmony?”

“You sound like a pussy,” observed the conductor.

“He is a pussy, conductor,” Ringo pointed out.

“Hey, where’s the PCP?” Ron asked, turning to see the pink pony chugging it once more.

“Hey, give me some of that!” the black conductor bellowed angrily.

“Sharing is caring, Pinkie,” Paul McCartney stated.

“But-but...party?” she whimpered. Pinkie turned with sudden resolve and tore open a portal in the very fabric of spacetime. It was fairly normal for her, however she normally didn’t let any observers see it happen. The hallucinogen was causing her to relax her vigilance a little. She hopped through the portal with the PCP.

“My drugs!” cried Ringo.

“AW SHIT NIGGA! That was the only pussy I’ve seen in years!” the conductor cried.

“She didn’t have a cat, you moron!” shouted McCartney. He paused. “Oh, wait.”

“After her!” commanded John.

“Don’t worry, drugs. Daddy’s coming!” Ringo yelled after his beloved PCP.

“I am the Walrus!” bellowed George. The others looked at him.

“Dude, you don’t usually talk,” said McCartney.

“I-I just wanted to fit in,” George pouted. “Everyone always called me the Quiet Beatle. Sometimes you just want to break stereotypes, y’know?”

“I most certainly agree,” commented the conductor, taking a fresh bite of his fried chicken.

“I, too, want to break stereotypes,” Ron Paul added, “as I am a politician who isn’t a complete idiot, like Romney and Obama over there.”

“At least I make more money than you!” Romney snarled as he and Obama walked forward, bruised and bloodied from their earlier beating.

“And we brought a little friend.” Obama said with a smug grin.

“What? Your penis?” Ringo asked, earning lighthearted chuckles from his mates.

Obama snarled and pulled out a stimulus package, which fired his bail-out projectiles at the group.

“Screw you, small business!” He roared. The projectile bail-outs zipped past them as they ducked for cover behind the chair seats.

“Oh my God, he’s got a huge package!” shouted McCartney, diving for cover.

“OH SHIT NIGGA!” the conductor exclaimed as he was hit by the bail-outs, sending blood and guts everywhere.

“I guess he was the red shirt.” Ringo commented.

“Why is the black man always the first to die?!” McCartney yelled into the heavens.

“Because God is a racist asshole.” John said.

“That’s what she said,” added George. Everyone stared at him.

“See, this is why you shouldn’t talk,” lectured Paul McCartney. “You’re always a few jokes behind.”

“Oh... I’ll just shut up now...” George muttered, trying to hide behind his hair.

“Guys, we have bigger problems than George’s social outcast-ness. Our drugs are still out there somewhere... cold and alone.” Ringo said, a solitary tear running down his cheek.

“I know the United States economy needs me to fix it, but I say we go through that portal and chase after that pink pony.” Ron Paul suggested.

“Yeah!” EveryBeatle and EveryRonPaul slapped hands in an epic five-way high-five would could perhaps be known as a high-twenty five. Mitt Romney and Obama stood there amazed at the group’s priorities.

“Yo Mitt, these niggas serious?” Obama asked increduously.

“Man... and I thought your priorities weren’t straight, Obama.” Romney commented.

“Fuck you, Romney. You don’t even lift.” Obama pointed out. The two opposing political opponents watched as the crowd of mop-tops and one Libertarian hopped through the portal after the pink pony.

“Hey Obama, that pink thing didn’t look like a creature I’ve seen. It was sapient too. You think it’s from another world?” Romney questioned.

Obama sat there smoking a phat blunt that he had taken from his pocket, for you see, every pocket aboard this crazy train contained drugs. “If it is, I think you know what we have to do.” He smiled at his opponent.

“Declare a hostile occupation and tax their populace into submission and virtual servitude?”

“Fuck-to-the-hell-yeah.”

Both politicians laughed maniacally before Mitt Romney looked at Obama’s blunt in envy.

“You gonna pass that shit?”

“No, fuck you.”

The portal opened up in a dark forest, depositing four rock musicians and one politician. on the dirt covering the ground they landed ungraciously upon.

“Did anyone see the TARDIS in there?” Ringo asked.

“No, you dimwit, that was a train. A rape train,” said McCartney.

“Are you sure? The Doctor was driving.”

“Which one?”

“The black one.”

“Are you British or not? The BBC certainly isn’t getting its advertising money out of you.”

“What money?” George asked. “I think I have some stashed. I’m a very tidy man, you see. I keep my socks in my sock drawer, and my stash in my stash box.”

“Hey, uh, just wondering; where would you happen to keep that stash box? Y’know, just in case.” John asked.

“It’s under my... no.” George caught on.

“What’s a ‘no’?” Ringo asked. His question was met with a loud roar somewhere deeper in the forest. A large lion-like creature launched out from the dense tree-cover. Before they had a chance to react, the creature swung one of it’s enormous claws down on Ringo.

Ringo reached up and grabbed the creature’s paw, stopping it from turning him into a pancake. Paul McCartney then ran up and bitch slapped the creature, sending it flying.

“That’s a bad ‘no’!” Ringo exclaimed. “I will not be slain by a ‘no’!”

“Guys, we shouldn’t resort to violence. Let’s slay the beast with the power of music.” said George.

The mop-tops nodded. Paul materialized a microphone out of thin air, John and George pulling out their guitars. Ringo was shit outta luck with no drums, but Pinkie managed to hook him up, using her Pinkie-being-Pinkie powers to materialize a drum set.

And they sang...

Joan was quizzical, studied pataphysical
Science in the home
Late nights all alone with her test tube
Oh, oh oh oh

Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine
Calls her on the phone
"Can I take you out to the pictures Joan, oa, oa, oan?"
But as she's getting ready to go
A knock comes on the door

Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Clang! Clang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead

Back in school again Maxwell plays the fool again
Teacher gets annoyed
Wishing to avoid an unpleasant scene

She tells Max to stay when the class has gone away
So he waits behind
riting fifty times, "I must not be so”
But when she turns her back on the boy
He creeps up from behind

Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead

P.C. Thirty One said, "We caught a dirty one"
Maxwell stands alone
Painting testimonial pictures
Oh, oh oh oh

Rose and Valerie screaming from the gallery
Say he must go free
The judge does not agree, and he tells them so
But as the words are leaving his lips
A noise comes from behind

Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon his head
Clang! Clang! Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that he was dead.

Silver hammer man!

The creature sat there, moving back and forth to the flow of the song. Suddenly, without warning, a giant silver hammer formed above the creature. It glanced up at it, unable to comprehend what it was. Before it could do anything, the hammer struck the creature twice in the head, causing it’s head to flatten like a pancake.

“I think he’s dead,” George said.

“That’s what you get for-” John’s glasses abruptly darkened “-rocking too hard.”

An echoing Yeaaaaaaahhhhh carried through the woods. All the Beatles looked around. “Who invited The Who?” demanded McCartney.

“Guys, we have bigger problems. There is still a gallon of PCP that is not in my mouth.” Ringo reminded them.

“How do we know we aren’t on a trip right now, though? I mean, a pink pony? A black man that can afford good clothing? You see where I’m going with this?” George asked.

“I see where you’re going, but we can’t possibly be having the same trip... unless you guys aren’t real. Man, PCP’s one hell of a drug.” McCartney mentioned.

“And you just agreed with me. This is obviously a trip.”

“Hm. Ron Paul, what do you think?”

“As a doctor, I can safely assume we are tripping some serious balls.” Ron Paul retorted.

“I didn’t know you were a medical doctor, Ron.” said Paul.

“I’ve only mentioned it a few hundred times in my campaign, so I can definitely see how you’d have missed that.”

“We are from the sixties, Mr. Paul. Remember?” Paul McCartney pointed out.

“Oh. I can’t remember that far back. In time, Mr McCartney, you’ll learn that age is a hell of a drug.”

The gang remained silent for a few short moments. Then Ringo spoke up. “You shot heroin, didn’t you, Mr. Paul?”

“By the barrel, Ringo. By the barrel.”