Longer Tales

The Ballad of Filthy Elvis

1955

The air is greasy. Every object in the room feels slick to the touch. At least, it would, if you didn’t have these ropes on.

The sound of sirens blaring.

It’s dark here. A basement of sorts? Attic? Who knows. A damp, dark, greasy place. Next to you, on the hardwood floor, is a rather short fellow. He too has been bound and gagged by your mysterious assailant, but also seems to have a blindfold on. You can barely make out his style of dress in the faint light struggling against the boards against the windows. Attic it is, then. He seems to be dressed rather affluently, which worries you. If whoever kidnapped you is doing it for the ransom money, you have nothing to give except your life. You wiggle your legs a bit. Tied together. Of course.

“Mmf!”

You attempt to communicate with your fellow hostage, but he does not respond. Maybe whatever soporific you got slipped hasn’t finished working yet on the poor schmuck.

#TURN YOURSELF IN.#

The scratchy sound of a barely-functioning police megaphone vibrates through the hardwood floor.

“When ah was a boy… ah used ta’ see myself in those comic books an’ those movies we used ta watch… he would see himself as the hero in em… ah was the villain…”

You roll over on your back, hoping to capture a glimpse of whoever the sick fuck is that captured you. Sharp beams of bright light pierce the gaps between the wood, only barely lighting the room you are in. Some sort of abhorrent silhouette is cast on the wall. Seems the guy who spoke is in the next room. His heavy footsteps echo through the building.

Blue and red lights are flashing behind the boards, slightly illuminating the room. Your cellmate is still unconscious. The rag in your mouth is soaked with your saliva, and tastes vaguely like motor oil. The footsteps are coming closer. You see a dark figure slide into the room. A very LARGE figure. His body odor immediately penetrates the greasy air, feeling like a kick to the face. He reaches out to the wall, and you hear a click as the light blinds you for a short second.

Oh god. Oh god no. Fuck that.

In the center of the room stands an absolute mountain of a man, wearing a disgusting, grease-stained jumpsuit, adorned with various cheap plastic gems. His legs wobble. His facial features can only be described as “Elvis Presley, but horrible”. You think you can see his abhorrent pubes growing through the jumpsuit. On second thought, you don’t think that’s a jumpsuit. It might actually be his skin. His oversized sunglasses only barely hide the fact that he does not appear to have eyes. A light dusting of a mysterious white powder adorns the area below his nostrils. His hideous body sways from left to right as he walks, as if he is having serious trouble figuring out how his legs work. His ridiculously greasy pompadour softly bounces up and down with every step. A trail of dried vomit is smeared from his lips to his cheeks, and his skin-pants appear to be covered in a variety of mysterious and horrid stains.

He kneels down in front of you.

“You awake yet, uh-huh?”

Wincing, you turn your head away so you don’t have to look at him. This earns you a swift kick to the sides.

“MMFF!”

“Yea… yer awake alright…”

He speaks to you in a crude mockery of a southern drawl. There is a mild slurring to his words, as if he just had a drop from the old fruit jar. You can see that he has a switchblade in his right hand, and he is staring intently at you, apparently gauging if you are going to be a problem. He gets down on one knee, and removes your gag. You gasp for air immediately. Big mistake. The scent of the building mixes with the disgusting odor emanating from the grotesque mockery of The King standing in front of you, and you immediately hurl on the wooden floor.

“There there dahling, dry yer eyes…”

You spit on the floor a bit, trying your best to get rid of the acidic taste in your mouth. You look up to him, and cough a bit.

“Why… why am I here? What are you going to do to us?”

He scoffs.

“You guys… yer my bargainin’ chip.”

Oh dear.

‘FILTHY’ ELVIS AARON PRESLEY BETA, RELEASE THE HOSTAGES AND TURN YOURSELF IN. #

The King waddles around a bit, seemingly pondering what to do. Eventually, he settles on lurching forwards, and for a second you are afraid that it’s all over and he is going to strangle you. Instead, he grabs your cellmate, and drags him over to the windows by his arms.

“Y’ALL’LL GET YER FIXIN’S!”

With those words, he raises his meaty arms and smashes the poor son of a bitch through the window, shattering the glass and probably the guy’s skull. The hapless hostage gurgles as he drops out of the window, and you hear the sickening crunch of his battered body hitting the stone pavement outside.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Someone get a paramedic goddamn it!!”

“Why aren’t we shooting this sick fuck yet?”

The King guffaws. It makes you nauseous. The cracks of gunfire ring out, and you see the boards  across the windows slowly becoming less and less aerodynamic. The floor proceeds to creak as ‘Filthy’ Elvis hits the deck.

“Uhuh… caught in a trap…”

You take a moment off from wriggling to cover to pray for a stray bullet to shut this asshole up. The gunfire dies down, but you see red lasers on the wall behind you. If that fat fuck would just raise his head to peek out of the windows…

#THAT’S IT, WE’RE COMING IN YOU MOTHERFUCKER#

You roll your eyes. Fucking finally. What, needed a call to the chief first to gun down the most hideous mistake of nature ever spawned?

The wooden floor groans as Filthy Elvis gets up, a mild scowl on his face. He ducks for the windows, taking care to avoid the really obvious and convenient pointers. He waddles to the door, shoving a large sofa in front of it. He gets down on all fours, and crawls over towards you.

He’s definitely doing this to creep you the fuck out, and he’s successful. A thin trail of black sludge pours out from under his sunglasses, where his right eye should be if he was a human being. Grinning, he stands up, rears back, and kicks the wall next to you with the force of a thousand suns. You curl up to shield yourself from the splinters being scattered around the room.

After a few seconds, Filthy Elvis reaches down and grabs you by the leg. He walks over to the newly-created hole, and descends down a staircase that was hidden behind the panelling. Seems he is well-prepared for whatever the hell he was trying to do.

Your head fucking hurts at this point, which isn’t helped by it hitting the stairs constantly. What the hell does this guy want from you? Why you specifically? Does it even matter? What year is it again? 1955? Is it 1955?

It is 1955, and you just kind of left. You woke up one day, and left. You got in your car (do you even own a car? Did you walk?) and fucked off, leaving everything behind. Screw all those responsibilities. You did not tell anyone, you just went. You ended up driving or walking or taking the bus or hitchiking to the nearest forest, where you just sat there, in the middle of the trees, waiting for someone to find you.

You weren’t expecting someone else to be sitting in the forest, just out of view, eyeing you and coming up with a plan for his last stand. He’s lost everything. He was a genetic monstrosity, bred in a lab for the express purpose of replacing his genetic template if he should ever pass away prematurely or be inconvenienced while on the road to a concert. He could do hip gyrations, play the guitar, sing, speak in a drawl and smoke cigarettes, but none of that would hide the fact that he was an inferior version of the original. A fraud. The media found out, and the fans revolted, calling for the ‘real’ Elvis Presley, whatever that meant. They rushed the stage, brandishing scarves, intending to lynch the false King.

They didn’t expect him to lift up his sunglasses. In the ensuing chaos, he dove off the stage, running out into the dressing room. He barricaded the doors, squeezed his oversized tucus through a window, and ran off into the sewers, finally escaping to the very same woods you were sitting in. He was prepared for this, and made sure his compound in Death Valley was well-equipped to handle his last stand. It would be the performance of a lifetime. He already had a nosy local reporter, Gavin Silver, tied up there. Then he spotted you.

Two hostages would be better than one.

You are awakened by a splash of ice-cold water to the face, and the by now all-too-familiar feeling of being tied to something with a rope. At least you are sitting this time, on a relatively comfy dining chair. Next to you is a small table, with on it a large toolbox of sorts. A single lightbulb illuminates the room, and you notice Filthy Elvis standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette and holding a now-empty bucket. He looks at you, and lights up another cigarette, sticking it into his mouth.

He slowly walks over to you, his face illuminated by only the weak flickering lightbulb and his lit cigarettes. You watch in astonishment as he reaches into his pocket, only to fish out another fucking cigarette and light it.

“So… you are probably wondering what happens now.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

He takes his cigarettes out of his mouth.

“You’re probably wondering what happens now.”

“I can guess.”

“Good. Then I won’t bore you with the details.”

Any hint of his accent is gone, replaced only with a cold, uncaring and slightly guttural voice practically dripping with venom.

He walks over, putting his cigarettes back in his mouth (and adding two extra), and opens the toolbox. He rummages through it a bit, before finally pulling out a pair of pliers. You don’t like where this is going.

“Open wide.”

Oh god no, that’s a bad thing to ask when you are holding pliers. You keep your mouth shut tightly.

“Obey.”

‘Filthy’ Elvis Aaron Presley Beta rears back, before punching you in the gut. You wheeze loudly as all the air gets punched from your body, and your attacker puts his foot on your knee, pressing down hard. He uses one of his oversized hands to pull down your bottom jaw, and slowly, almost tauntingly moves the hand holding the pliers your way.

You clench your eyes shut, and gurgle in agony as The King himself extracts one of your canines. The upper right one, to be exact. Blood runs down your tongue and into the back of your throat, causing you to gag from the copper taste. Tears well up in your eyes. You try your hardest, but you can’t kick him in the dick. Not with these fucking ropes on.

Filthy Elvis doesn’t seem too bothered by it, and places your recently departed tooth in a small shot glass on the table.

You cough up some of your blood onto his jumpsuit.

“What do you… why are you doing this?”

He shrugs.

“Fuck, shits and giggles I suppose. They’ll be busting down my door anytime now. They won’t hesitate to gun me down. I’ll be buried somewhere, unmarked grave, no frills around it. Everyone will forget me. But you…”

He looks at you, and grins coldly.

“You won’t forget this, won’t you. And once… once HE sees it, when he watches the news tonight, he won’t forget me either. He won’t forgive himself. And that’s enough for me.”

He turns around, and drops the blood-spattered pliers to the ground. He spreads his arms, and stands there like that for a while. You are barely even startled by the sound of the door splintering, and a couple of heavily-armed men swarming into the room. Your head is swimming.

“Until we meet again. May god bless you as he has damned me.”

You close your eyes as the sound of gunfire rings in your ears. When you open them again, you are being carried by someone, and feel the burning heat of the sun bearing down on you. You squint,  and look backwards at the compound. Various police cars are parked outside it, and you see Filthy Elvis’s ventilated corpse being loaded into an unmarked black van.

You sigh in relief.

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