It was an unusual group that came walking into the restaurant (a nice restaurant, but not the same one the Beatles had taken their unfortunate first girlfriends to) a couple of hours later: the four girls, still smelling of blood and looking like they’d just won a fight; the four Beatles, rumpled and in need of a change of clothes and perhaps a shave, though still as gorgeous as ever; and one very large dog, who stuck close to Jenna but would periodically pad over to Ringo and lick his hand.
“We don’t allow chó in...” the waiter started to say, but then stopped when he saw the Beatles....
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