Look out – it’s a brand new Scream Street short story…

Eat the Meatles
By Tommy Donbavand

The ogre on duty at the stage door cracked his tattooed knuckles and ran a thick finger down the list of bands on his clipboard.  The collection of zombies on the other side of the barrier waited patiently.

“Nope,” he said, eventually.  “Your brain’s not down.  You’re not coming in!”

It was a big day at Trembly Stadium.  Thousands of werewolves, vampires, ghosts and more were crammed inside enjoying Dead Aid – the greatest concert the world of nightmares had ever seen.  Being head of security for such an event was a big responsibility; one which Spider intended to take seriously, even if his uniform was several sizes too small.

The tallest of the zombies stepped forward.  “But, we must be there!” he insisted, black eyeballs flashing.  “Look again.  We’re called Brain Drain…”

Cricking his neck from side to side, Spider took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.  Why was he the one getting all the idiots today?  He’d already had to turn away a shimmering phantom who’d tried to claim he was the spectral music promoter, Simon Howl.

“Look, I’ve told you – you’re not on the list!”

“There we are!” cried the band’s guitarist, pointing at a spot half-way down the sheet of paper.  “Brain Drain!”

Spider peered at the tiny writing.  “That says ‘Brian Drain,” he sniffed.  “Which one of you is Brian, then?”

“None of us!” snapped the tall zombie.  “I’m Vein – the singer.  This is Jazzpants our lead guitarist, Porridge is on bass, Tee plays harmonica and Twonk is the drummer.  We’re Brain Drain!”

“Says Brian Drain here…”

“That’s just a tie-pin!” said Twonk.

Spider’s brow furrowed.  “A what?”

“He means ‘typo,” Tee explained.  “It’s a misprint on the list – but it’s definitely us.  We’re due on stage straight after Lady Gargoyle.”

“And our instruments were delivered to our dressing room first thing this morning,” added Porridge.

“Alright,” said Spider reluctantly.  “I’ll let you in – but any trouble and you’ll be out of here faster than a turbo-charged goblin!”


“Ten…  Eleven…  Twelve…  Thirteen!” said Jazzpants.  “This is our dressing room.”

“Ooh, look!” exclaimed Twonk.  “We’re next door to Skelton John!”

Vein pulled open the door and the band stepped into the dressing room where they froze.  Lounging around the room were four huge, overweight trolls, each with a mop of jet-black hair flopping down over their eyes.  One of them was playing Porridge’s bass guitar, and another was cleaning between his toes with Twonk’s drumsticks.

“Er… I think you guys may be in the wrong room,” said Vein.

“Nah!” grunted one of the trolls, pushing a tiny pair of round glasses further up his massive nose.  “We’re havin’ this room.  Ours is too small.”

“I don’t care how small your room is,” Vein retorted.  “This is our dressing room!”

Porridge grabbed Vein’s arm and pulled him aside.  “Careful,” he hissed.  “They’re The Meatles!”


“The Flab Four!” continued Porridge.  “Chomp, Pork, Gorge and Bungo.”

Vein glanced back at the trolls, who were now picking nits from the hair on each other’s backs.  “And we’re supposed to let them have our dressing room because they’re famous?”

“Don’t be daft,” Porridge replied.  “We let them have our dressing room because they’re nasty!  They’re the band who gave The Black Eyed Fleas their black eyes!”

“I heard they used to go out on tour with the Sugar-Graves,” said Jazzpants quietly.  “That’s why the group has had so many members – these guys kept scaring them away!”

Vein sighed and rubbed at the decomposing skin on his forehead.  “OK,” he said, turning back to the trolls.  “We’ll take our instruments and go and find another room.”

“I don’t fink so,” gurgled the troll with the glasses.  “Your instruments are better than ours.  We’re keeping ‘em.”

“That’s not fair!” exclaimed Tee.  “They belong to us.  You have to give them back!”

The troll stood, his moptop haircut rustling as it pressed against the ceiling.  “And how are you gonna make us do that?”

Vein smiled pleasantly and closed the dressing room door.  “The only way zombies know how…”


Flashbulbs popped as newspaper reporters took photographs of Brain Drain at the after-show press conference.  The members of the band sat behind a long table, clutching their instruments.

A bog monster near the front of the crowd raised his gloopy hand.  “Fears Morgan – The Terror Times…  Can you tell me how it felt to step in and play the headline slot at Dead Aid after The Meatles failed to appear on stage?”

Vein pushed a pair of tiny round glasses up his nose and picked a piece of gristle from between his teeth with what looked like a large finger bone.  “Delicious!” he burped.


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