"Can I be John?" asked James.

"Sure."

With that James shook Axl's hand, thanked him, and twisting his right arm behind himself he fired five hollow-point bullets from a .38 special revolver, four of which hit him in the back.

He bled profusely onto the deep shag carpet.

"Cool. Can I be George?" whined Andy.

"OK, but no guns."

Andy shook his hand, thanked him, then inhaled a box of powdered snoose.

"Argh, I have lung cancer" he barked, then keeled over, dead.

"Ah, nothing like a bit of authenticity to perk up a reconstituted band" mused Axl; "now where is my DQ strawberry blizzard?"