Swenayne finished with a porn worthy orgasm, squirting juice up in the air as she quivered and convulsed, her eyes rolling back showing only the whites and her mouth hanging half open, her tongue hanging out, while Don, wishing he would pass out again, astrally projected himself into The Dakota Hotel, where in his flat John Lennon was eating a piece of pizza, jokingly arguing with Yoko that the proper way to eat a piece of New York pizza was folded in half. Yoko looked up from her Nori roll and scoffed at him. The walls melted.
Suddenly Don was back at the Strawberry Festival. He mistakenly thought, anyway. He had actually somehow traveled to the original ‘strawberry fields forever’ of John Lennon’s youth. He found himself in a field of strawberries on the outskirts of Liverpool, England. It was 1949.
Meanwhile, Sweeney had finished his meeting, had returned to the tractor, and was asking the half dressed Swenayne where the man had disappeared to.
Swenayne buttoned up her blouse and pulled her bloomers up a little more, embarrassed.
“Uh… I-“
“Swen, honey, I don’t care that you’re a bloody nympho but can you please abide by my rules and the man’s security protocols! We don’t know where that guy could possibly have gone by now!!! Now you tell me EVERYthing you two have done and where you’ve gone to since I left. IN DETAIL
By the time Sweeney worked out that The Dakota was near enough to project to from Times Square, and his navicomputers algorithms could find the Lennonian thread connected to strawberries and the field in 1949, Donald R. Parzick had already formed a band called The Silver Beetles with his pals John and Paul and George and Ringo, and was playing electric piano for five hours a night in Hamburg, Germany.
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