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Summary
Ringo didn't feel the bullet enter. Instead, he felt a massive, invisible fist punch him square in the center of his chest, a blow so violent it threw him backward off his drum stool. His ride cymbal, his brass shield, shrieked as he clipped it on the way down, the metal vibrating with a high-pitched, mourning wail. He hit the riser with a sickening thud, the wind driven from his lungs in a sharp, wet puff. Ringo hit the riser hard. Bone on wood. The sound knocked the breath clean out of him, a short, wet oof that felt final somehow, like a door slamming shut. For a terrifying moment there was no sound at all inside his head. No crowd. No band. No music. Just a hollow, stunned quiet.
Then the pain arrived.
It wasn’t sharp at first. It was heat. A horrible, spreading warmth that bloomed under his sternum and soaked outward, thick and liquid, like someone had poured molten metal into his chest. His body tried to inhale and failed. Every breath scraped. Every breath felt wrong.
Or,
During The Beatles' 1964 North American Tour, a senseless act of violence in Montreal shatters the world's biggest band and leaves their drummer fighting for his life.