AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather any stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will.

Martha You Dope

KA-WHAM!

Paul startled awake, his heart thumping. What the hell...?

He lay in bed, looking around his familiar bedroom on Cavendish Avenue. Then suddenly,

KA-BOOM! Another loud roll of thunder burst out of the sky, rattling the pictures against the wall. Lightning lit up the room, casting weird shadows off the furniture. That explained what had woken him up at least. His hand fell onto the pillow on the other side of the bed and he sat up, confused. Hadn't there been a bird there with him? He picked up the pillow. A faint floral perfume rose from it. Yep, Pat...Peg...Pam? What was her name? He'd pulled her quite easily at The Scotch that night.

From downstairs he heard Martha whining, scared by the thunder and lightening. Or maybe the girl was downstairs. Paul turned to flip on the lamp, but nothing happened when he flicked the switch.

Great, power's out, he thought as he got out of bed. As he was about to go out the room, he realised he was naked, his preferred attire for night. Better not scare the chick, he smiled, and grabbed a seldom-used pair of pajama pants off a hook in his rather large closet on the way out.

Out of habit, he tried flipping on the hallway light as well, reminded of the lack of electricity only when it failed to produce any light. Grousing slightly, he hop-walked down the hall to the stairway, pulling on the pants. Martha was barking now. "Quiet, girl!" Paul ordered. He didn't need the neighbors waking up and complaining, although he didn't know how anybody could sleep through this kind of storm, as another streak of lightening filled the dark house, followed by a crash of thunder. Now rain was pounding on the roof. A rather cozy sound, if one is cuddled up in bed with a cute blonde, Paul thought.

He stepped onto the stairs, holding onto the railing as he went. His foot came down on one of his old shoes, now one of Martha's chew-toys, lying half-on and half-off the fourth step. He slipped on it, teetering off-balance and windmilling his arms. He had time to blurt out, "Oh shit!" before tumbling down the steep stairway.

With the sickening realisation that he was falling completely out of control, Paul tried to protect his head from hitting the wooden steps. Instead, he felt a snap in his left leg and excruciating pain as his knee rebounded off a stair. Before he even had a chance to let out a yell, his head met one of the ornately carved large balusters with a resounding smack, and his body went limp as a ragdoll's, continuing its jarring journey down the stairs.

Paul spilled onto the tiled floor at the base of the stairway, landing facedown. Martha padded over to him, prodded his arm with a cold, wet nose, and sniffed at the fluid that was pooling around his head. Receiving no response, she whined, turned herself in a circle, and curled up next to her master.

Some hours later, Paul regained consciousness. He felt the cold tile under his cheek and something sticky binding his head to the floor. As he tried to lift it, he felt something warm and wet trickle down the side of his face. He tasted coppery saltiness. The room spun before his eyes, dim light was filtering in from the windows. Despite his dizzy spell, Paul was alert enough to figure it must be near dawn. A large shape loomed before him and snuffled. Squinting, Paul recognized Martha's comforting bulk. She snuffled at him again and whined.

Clearing his throat, Paul whispered to her, "Got to get outside, eh, luv?" His head pounded.

He started to roll over and stopped as a flash of fiery pain ignited through his left leg, causing him to nearly black out with its intensity. After waiting for his head to clear, he looked down to see his leg bent at an impossible right angle to the rest of his body. Gasping, he dropped his head and closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate on anything else other than his shattered leg.

After lying motionless for a while, Paul realised he might be in a bit of trouble. His housekeeper, Rose, had scheduled to be off for the rest of the week. As far as he knew, no one would be coming by the house. He looked over to the left where the telephone sat on its table. It seemed a rugby field away to him.

"Did you hear that thunder last night?" George asked Ringo as they whiled away the time waiting for John and Paul to arrive at the studio.

"Hear it? It woke up Zak. We had a terrible time trying to get him back to sleep," Ringo replied with a yawn.

George smiled a crooked, wistful smile. He hoped he and Patty would be having babies soon. Ringo and Maureen seemed so happy with theirs. "How is the family, Ring?" he asked.

Ringo smiled proudly as he lit a cigarette, "Gear, really great!"

John came in, looking grumpy and half-asleep. "All right, let's get this fucking record recorded so I can go back to bed."

"Paul's not here yet," George said, getting up off his stool and putting down the guitar he'd been playing around with.

"Bloody Macca," John grumbled. "He lives nearly next door, you'd think he'd be the first one here."

"He usually is," Ringo said.

They sat looking at each other for a bit. John glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already 5:30 in the afternoon, they had all agreed to 4:30. "That's it, I'm going after the bugger," he said angrily, heading toward the door.

"Uh, we'll just get a bite to eat," Ringo said. "Unless you want us to come along," he added reluctantly because of John's foul mood.

"No, I'll drag him back by the balls if I have to," John replied savagely as he left.

George and Ringo looked at each other. "Paul's in the shithouse this time," George said. "Hope he's got a good reason for not showing up."

Martha pulled on Paul's pant leg, trying to encourage him to open the door for her. Unfortunately, it was his left leg she was tugging on. He shouted at the dog as stars spun before his eyes. An hour might've passed before he came to, because meanwhile desperate Martha had gone into the corner of the vestibule to do her duty.

Paul let out a deep breath. He was going to have to reach the telephone to get help. Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, sending a fresh rivulet of blood down his cheek. Carefully, he reached up and felt the goose egg on his temple. It was slick with blood, and a flap of skin hung loose. Queasily, he looked at his twisted leg again. The slightest movement caused tremendous pain. Casting his eyes around the hallway, Paul could find nothing to use as a splint.

Martha approached him timidly because of her accident, and wondered why her master was on the floor if he didn't want to play. Paul had a sudden inspiration. "Come here, girl," he said to Martha. Hesitantly, she walked closer to him. He grabbed her thick fur and, grimacing, lugged her around so she was facing the living room. Pointing, he told her, "Go get the bottle for me, girl."

A half-empty bottle of wine stood on the coffee table from the night before. If he could get his hands on that, at least he might be able to deaden the pain while he crawled to the phone. If only he could get Martha to understand what to do. She wasn't the brightest dog. Should've enrolled her in doggie school. Paul tried again. Gesturing at the table, he said, "Fetch, girl! Come on, you can do it!"

She perked up and ran to the sofa where she grabbed Paul's jacket in her teeth and dragged it back to him. If not doggie school, he should've at least taught her how to fetch. "Shit," Paul muttered. "Good try, Martha." and sat patting her dejectedly. Then idly rifling through his pockets, he discovered his cigarettes. At least he could have a calming smoke. He decided to hitch himself on his rear to the stairway so he could lean against the stairs. Clenching his jaw, Paul inched backwards using his good leg. It was going ok until his injured leg actually had to straighten out. Groaning with the pain as he heard some clicking noises, Paul continued to pull himself along. But when it came to the point of having to fully drag the weight of his foot by his broken leg, it was just too much. He felt suddenly extremely sick and light-headed. Passing out, his head once again hit the floor with an unpleasant thunk.

John stomped along the sidewalk, ignoring the gasps of recognition coming from the ragged group of female scruffs that hung out in front of Paul's house. Reaching through the gate, he hit the intercom button with more force than necessary to make it buzz inside the house. Waiting impatiently, tapping his foot on the ground, John turned and looked at the groupies. Many of them he either knew by name or face. This group of girls camped out at the studio or Paul's house on a nearly continual rotational basis.

"Alice," he said to a plump girl with dark, stringy hair. "Have you seen Paul lately?"

Alice looked thrilled to be singled out by John. "Aye, we saw him come home last night with a painted-up tramp hanging on his arm," she reported with a hint of disgust.

John growled and pushed the button again, this time leaving his finger on it. Looking up at the front entry, he could see no sign of Paul coming to the door or any evidence of life stirring inside the silent house.

"Arsehole," he muttered. Looking up at the top of the fence, he calculated the odds and started climbing.