The room looked rather peculiar. Sure, it looked like any other Al-Anon meeting or whatever was taking place. There were a few chairs arranged in a circle, and one of the people, sitting towards the head of the group, had a clipboard. But it was a blank room, almost ghostly- especially the people sitting in it.

Oh, and the banner that read: _The Dead Musicians’ Support Group_.

The woman with the clipboard had her brown hair whirrled up into a beehive style. Her deep brown skin glowed as she smiled and greeted the last few people as they walked in.

“Hello, everybody!” She called to her suportees. “Welcome to the Dead Musicians’ Support Group. My name was Aretha, and I’ll be your mediator today! Now, I understand that this is a sore subject for all of us, so let’s all treat each other with respect, mmkay?”

This got no response.

One person cleared their throat. At this everybody directed their attention to a man with shoulder-length auburn hair and round glasses.

“Erm, hullo, everyone,” he said, awkwardly, a thick British accent coming through. “You know I would assume you all know who I was, so…”

“Oh, no, I _never_ heard of you when I was alive,” the only other woman in the room, who had an Irish lilt, said sarcastically. She even rolled her eyes for good measure.

“Oh, alright, then. I-”

“Oh, my- it was a joke, Lennon! Get with the program for once!”

“Well, then maybe I shouldn’t listen to a stupid woman.”

“_What_ did you just call me!?”

“Hey, break it up, you two!” Aretha interjected, trying to diffuse the flames. “What a lovely segue. Miss…” There was the sound of papers flipping asAretha took a quick look at her clipboard. “… O’Connor! Would you like to share.”

“Sure,” The Irish woman was speaking now. The only thing that made her stand out, other than her dialect, was her shaved head. “Hi. I’m- I _was_- Sinéad. Or you can call me Shuhada. I really don’t care. And so long as you’re not like this one,” she pointed to the man across from her, “I don’t bite. So that’s all from me.”

Lennon adorned a defensive look on his face.

“Let it go, John,” the man beside him, who was in a suit, muttered.

“Shut up, George,” his friend sneered.

“Mister Lennon, we talked about this at the last meeting,” Aretha raised an eyebrow with this, “We can’t walk around picking fights with everyone we see.”

John opened his mouth to argue, but someone cut him off.

“Hello!” Another man with an American accent and a leather jacket called. “I was Michael. Huh, it’s weird to use past tense on yourself. Um… no one’s talked about their cause of death yet, so,” he pointed to himself. “Heart attack. Essentially.”

“Finally, someone who isn’t a walking controversy,” Aretha muttered under her breath.

“Oi, I know how that feels, mate,” John responded. “To die in a hospital. I mean, my death was a little more man-made, but…”

George, still beside him, nodded.

“Beats dying in the bathroom,” the fifth and final participant murmured, although with the Southern drawl mixed with the murmurs made it a little hard to understand.

John and Sinéad couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“Sorry!” Sinéad said in between giggles. “Sorry. Sorry. Gets me every time.”

Aretha sighed.

“_Please,_” said our last musician, “_Never_ mention that again. I’m sick of everyone talking about it!”

“And we’ll respect that sore subject, Mister Presley, _won’t we,_” she eyed John, who was still stifling laughter. Afraid to say anything, he nodded.

And that was just the first ten minutes of The Dead Musicians’ Support Group.