"I'm free!" Ringo exclaimed, stumbling across the beach.
In the last two days, the drummer had been subjected to virtually every type of BDSM that existed. First, he'd been hooked up to some mad scientist's machine, in the hopes of removing a cursed ring from his finger, only to have his pants leave instead. (This had pleased Paul, and mesmerized George.) Then there was the cage, and the car trunk...and things got hazy. The Beatles had been exponentially increasing the amount of weed they'd been smoking throughout their adventure, so the plot tended to escape Ringo's memory. He recalled finding himself strapped to a surgical bed on a boat, with one of those scientist gits threatening to amputate something "with a blunt scalpel." Ringo by then had been beyond too baked to remember what it was this guy was threatening to lop off, and could only react with silent bug-eyes. And then, of course, staked to the sand, like "Gilligan's Travels".... or whatever that book was called. Ringo couldn't remember; he was stoned.
But more importantly, he was free.
His arms and legs felt like noodles, after being restrained so much over the last few days. "I'm free!" he exclaimed happily, stumbling awkwardly through the sand. "I feel like...like a noodle. Or an octopus."
"Not again," George sighed. "I told ye Ringo, I'll help ye write that daft octopus song."
"Looks to me like Ring's about to get some oco-pussy!" John slurred merrily from behind his round sunglasses, smoking from a walrus-shaped bong in the sand.
Ringo made a face. "Octopuses don't have--OMFF!"
His face hit the sand, as he was yanked backwards, something thick and hard and wet wrapped tightly around his ankle.
"Aw fuckn' hell!" George yelled with exasperation, lunging to grab at his friend.
George and Paul each grabbed one of Ringo's hands, while John took a hold of each of their ankles, the band desperate not to lose the best drummer in Liverpool.
"Oy Ringo," John suggested, as he was slowly dragged through the sand where he stood. "You don't really need yer foot for drumming, do ye? I know there's a sword layin' around here..."
"I'm not even wearing the fecking ring anymore!" Ringo cried out, as a second tentacle slapped up onto the beach and curled around his thin waist.
With a hard yank, Ringo was ripped from his friends' grips, and pulled under. Two more tentacles slithered around his arms, and another covered his mouth like a gag. Suction cups made their way under his shirt, tugging at his skin. Ringo wasn't worried about the marks they'd leave; they'd blend right in with all the hickeys he regularly received as a Beatle. But it was still bloody uncomfortable, and he really didn't know what part of him the next tentacle was going to take a liking to.
The octopus was descending, taking Ringo deeper into the ocean. For what? Were octopuses carnivores? He missed the tiger now. Remembering how the cat had been pacified, Ringo played his last card, and began singing "Ode to Joy"--as well as he could with his mouth gagged by a massive tentacle, anyway.
It didn't work.
His bum hit sand, and he found himself at the bottom of the sea. He probably hadn't been breathing in quite some time, but luckily he was too baked to care about that. Still slathered in tentacles, his nose and eyes just managing to poke out of his mollusky prison, Ringo took in his surroundings. They were in the sand, near a cave. A circle of beer and soda bottles surrounded him and the octopus, arranged like a garden. Aquatic flowers and plants blossomed in neatly organized designs. Why, he was in an octopus's garden!
Suddenly the tentacles retracted, freeing him. But just before he could swim away, he was pushed back down into the sand, by a large conical seashell shoved onto his head, like some daft mer-wizard's hat. Or...
"Am I a bloody garden gnome?!" Ringo exclaimed.
"Not only that, but I'm bloody engaged!" John declared.
Ringo turned to see his friend seated at a large sand-dollar-table, having tea and weed with a massive walrus in a bridal veil.
"Mate what're you talking about?" Ringo demanded.
"The Walrus and me, we're as close as can be man." John threw his arm around the sea mammal. "And we're going to get married."
"You can't marry that walrus! It's a walrus!"
"Don't call me wife a walrus ye git!"
"Don't call me walrus a wife ye cunt!" Ringo fired back, too high to care what he was even saying.
"He's right Johnny," Paul said, "A walrus can't consent. T'would be animal cruelty for you to take advantage of the poor bloke. And that goes for you and your Octopus too, Ringo."
"Me? But....but she...came onto me!" Ringo protested, batting away at the octopus's tentacles, as it attempted to fasten a seaweed beard onto its new garden gnome.
"What an abhorible defense case!" George accused. "Blaming the victim Ringo, really?"
"I am the victim!" Ringo screamed, taking off his hat and throwing it into the sand. "Over the last two days I've been a science project, de-pantsed," (Both Paul and George smiled nostalgically) "...locked in a cage like a hamster, wrapped up like a burrito and stuffed in a trunk, made into an Operation! game board, and tied up all spread eagled like one of John's French girls! And now these fucking tentacles man! I've changed me mind, I do'nt wanna be in this octopus's garden any more. Take him!" Ringo pointed to John, addressing the Octopus. "He's got the thing for sea critters. You can all have a bloody sea orgy."
"Are you propositioning my walrus?" John exclaimed.
Ringo could only respond with a long squeak, as the tentacles returned; the Octopus, evidentially, had decided a gnome didn't suit its garden, and was now attempting to plant him among the ocean lilies.
"Ringo, stop playing around," George scolded. "We got work to do."
Once again gagged by tentacles, Ringo could only scream a muffled response.
"Fuck you!" John decided. "All of you! The Walrus and me're gettin' married on a hilltop, and none of you will be invited!"
"I've lost me shoes," Paul complained. "I think I might be dead."
"Ringo!" George screamed. "Snap out of it ye stoned octopus-luvin'-lummox!"
George slapped Ringo across the face, and suddenly the ocean, the walrus, John, Paul and the octopus were gone.
Ringo was halfway off the sofa, tangled in blankets, with the coffee table knocked over and his train set scattered around the floor. Thomas and Percy had fallen into a rather unfortunate position, and looked to be in the process of making little baby trains, with Percy as the doe and Thomas as the buck.
"What the fuck jus happened?" Ringo slurred.
"ye tripped some bad mushrooms and nightmared an octopus was seeking to bugger ye," George explained.
"Fuck... I dreamed John was gonna marry a walrus... and you lot were blamin' me for forcing meself on the octopus when it was quite definitely the other way around!"
"You sure you wanna keep writing this song?" George said.
"Fuck yes I'm sure!" Ringo declared. "I'm not gonna let me last notions of octopi be some fucked up tentacle porno. I wanna write a cute song about an octopus's garden, platonic friendship, anti-war subtext, no bondage or buggering."
"All right mate." George shrugged. "But I'm telling ye, a Beatle writing anything about an animal with tentacles, I mean, yer jus' settin' yerself up for some fucked up fan creations."
"Oh right, like a magazine or radio's gonna accept some disgoosting girlish fantasy about a rock star and tentacles. I'm gonna write this song George, and it's gonna go down in history being associated with innocent children and stoners. That's it."
George decided to let the subject drop. "Alright. Time to get back to work, inspiration and all that. Where's that ocopus shaped hookah of yours?"
"Right here," Ringo pulled the hookah out of the pile of toy trains he so often loved to play with and narrate the adventures of to whatever Beatles were stoned enough to listen (or too stoned to run away from being a captive audience). "Alright matey, let's smoke this shit!"