Blood Lite

Yet, as my daddy used to say, when you set out to drain the swamp it always starts out good, but eventually you realize you're up to your ass in alligators.

Like most everything I did with my life, my reputation began to precede me, and pretty soon every goddamned nosferatu sonuvabitch from here to Timbuktu heard that the King was kickin' ass and takin' names. Things got real sketchy for a while there, and the Colonel and the boys thought it'd be a good idea for me to hang up my spurs for a few months, get some rest back at Graceland, recharge the ol' batteries for a little while.

I didn't like the idea of quittin' somethin' midstream, but everyone assured me I wasn't quittin' nothin'. This was just a little hiatus. I'd gained about seventy pounds from all the bad blood transfusions, and my eyes were more sensitive than ever to ultraviolet radiation (that's the shit that's in the sunshine, for those of you of a less "scientific" persuasion; and it's also the reason I was always wearin' those big-ass shades at the end of my life—again, everything has a rea­son, baby; I wasn't as loony as everybody thought).

This little hiatus was to be a time to lose a little weight, get back to some all-night movie marathons at the Memphian (there was this science fiction flick everybody'd lost their minds for called Star Wars that I was dyin' to see), and bang a boatload of broads to see if I couldn't force the ever-present thoughts of Priscilla outta my mind. It was a good idea.

It was a great plan. It was not to be.

August 16, 1977. The vampires finally got the last laugh. Like I said, I'd become so prolific at exterminatin' blood­suckers they'd finally had enough. They got together and decided it was time to put an end to my shenanigans: They sent a pack of southern-fried nosferatus my way, and, bein' vampires and all, they didn't have any trouble sneakin' past the front gates and creepin' into my bedroom at Grace-land.

It was about four in the morning, and I'd just finished reading a great book called The Necronomicon, which was all about Egyptian lore and methods for battling deadly creatures (contrary to popular belief, I loved to read, and I'd devoured just about everything pertaining to the undead).

As I'm sure you're well aware, as luck would have it, heading into the final hours of my demise, I had to relieve my damned bowels.

And it was while takin' a blue ribbon shit that I got a mean ol' case of the vamp vibes, and heard a commotion in the bedroom outside the bathroom door. The girl I was seein' at the time, Ginger, let out a quick scream, but it was immediately muffled, like by a pillow or somethin'.

Silk pajamas still wrapped around my ankles, I jumped off the commode and busted from the bathroom—only to find my little honey pie knocked out on the bed. I was puzzled, whispered, "Ginger?"

She didn't say nothin' back—but my eyes went wide when out of the shadows of the bedroom I heard a familiar curdled voice: "The Kiiiiiiing!"

I turned toward the voice, but was a little too late: a group of redneck bloodsuckers hit me over the back of the head and knocked me to the ground.

And then, wouldn't you just know it? That same fugly (that's "fuckin' ugly") sonuvabitch who'd turned me into a vampire all those years ago was leaning over me.

He was smiling as he got real close to my face and taunted me: "The Kiiiiing is dead."

Yep. "Et tu, Brute?" and all that shit. I mean, yeah, like I said, my reputation had spread from sea to shining sea, and it didn't really surprise me that a small faction of the vampire nation would eventually band together to elim­inate me—it's just that I never thought they'd take me down in my own house, man. That's just.. . rude, you ask me. But ... anyway . . . (I'm gettin' all worked up just thinkin' about it), Fugly and his minions hog-tied my ass, then dragged me across the cold tile floor of my bathroom. And it was with a sense of horror that I realized what they were doin': sun was go

I was ready for the end. And it was coming faster than a fart after a plate of fried sausage and cornmeal mush.

IV. Daddy's Bound to Die

Last concert I ever performed was for an audience of one.

Kind of fitting, really. Took me back to the days in Tupelo, when I sang simply for the love of music. When I'd pick out a few chords on Daddy's old acoustic guitar and sing the traditionals about Ol' Shep or workin' the fields or finding peace in the valley.

I'd always loved "An American Trilogy," and decided that was as good a song as any to end my life with. As I sang the middle verses, I thought about my beloved daughter, and knew—just knew—she'd be okay. She knew that her daddy was a pioneer (maybe she didn't know I'd gotten heavily into vampire huntin', and that I was—in fact—a vampire myself, but that's just semantics). And she also knew that sometimes pioneers get lost along the way. The machete gets dull, the foliage gets too thick, and the trail disappears on you after a while. Such is the life of a pioneer, and if Daddy was one thing, he was a pioneer, baby. Sold more records, made more movies, ate more food, bumped uglies with more chicks, and—above all else—had me more laughs than any sonuvabitch who came before.

I was the first, and I was the last.

The Alpha and the Omega.

Elvis Aaron Presley.

So ... that's why I needed to set the record straight, let you know that I didn't die in the squalid circumstances you'd been led to believe. I died like I lived; a noble death befittin' a king. I died fightin' the vampire nation, and left the world a little bit better off because of my time here.

The sun is starting to spread across the sky, making the clouds look like sponges at a bloody crime scene. My eyes are filling with tears, because I haven't seen the simple beauty of a sunrise in years, and this is going to be my last.

My skin is starting to smoke and mottle. I manage to wriggle just a little bit out from beneath the direct path of the sunlight, but I can't get too far, and the UV damage has already been done. At least I won't completely inciner­ate, though. Thank God for the little things, right?

I reach for my shades, but they're too far away and my hands are tied too tight. Fuck it. I'm go

I think about 'Cilia.

Think about Lisa Marie.

Smile sadly. Proud and happy and low all at once. Fully alive, baby. Fully alive.

I resume singing "An American Trilogy" with every­thing my meltin' vocal cords have to give (the acoustics in this bathroom suck, but hell: you take what you're given).

I can hear a chorus of angels pretty as the Jordanaires singing backup, and as the sunlight finally turns me into a rotten-lookin hunk of meat, I smile, open my arms to the glories that await me (again, as much as a hog-tied sonuvabitch can open his arms), content that I've lived a life worth livin'.

Alas, it happens to us all.

The King is dead, baby. All hail the King.

Elvis has left the building.