by Elvis in space #54

Help! I'm being held hostage at the circus.

It all started out innocently enough, with me headed north of Los Angeles to spend the summer at my rich ex-son-in-law's ranch. I've been here at Neverland for two months now, and was planning on returning to Tinbox Acres around halfway through this month.

Don't get me wrong. I've had a blast here the whole time, visiting Lisa Marie when she comes up on weekends and riding all the carnival rides with the grandkids. All we could ever want and more is right here at Neverland.

My ex-wife even came to visit. She ain't a evil witch like most ex-wifes. My ex is real super nice to me, always has been, and she's still a hottie. I married her back in the '60s, but I swear Priscilla don't look a day over 35.

If I had it to do over again, I'd have hung onto Priscilla, and she never would have got involved with that Chuck Norris feller. Oooooh, I seen RED when that happened. I'd just started getting into karate myself at the time, and was feeling all macho from it. Then my wife goes and hooks up with the King of Karate hisself.

The King of Rock 'n' Roll ain't nearly as macho a title as the King of Karate, but I fixed old Chuck's wagon, I did. I swore the very next time I seen that rugged face of his, I was gonna put a bullet in it. The next time I seen his face turned out to be on a hotel TV set in Las Vegas. Now you all know how that happened.

Anyways, back to the current situation here at the ranch. There's a cook who will get up in the middle of the night and make me peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches with a pound of bacon on the side, a pot of coffee to wash it down with, and Quaaludes for dessert. All I gotta do is ask.

There's a kickass sound studio here, which is where I spend most of the time on weekdays. They didn't have studios like this back inna day when I was the King. Neverland has everything a aging, presumed-dead rock star could ever want, and I didn't have no reason to step off the property until I seen Chuck Norris on the TV again.

What I decided to do, you see, is to poof a bunch of that white powdery stage makeup all over my face and put on a white longsleeved nightgown and head for the Hollywood Hills. I know where Chuck Norris lives, and I wanted to creep up to Chuck's mansion in the middle of the night and scare the bejabbers out of him by making him think my ghost had come back to haunt him.

But the guard at the gate here at Neverland wouldn't let me out.

You know, the whole world knows my ex-son-in-law as the King of Pop. Some know him as Wacko Jacko. I know him as the Evil Klown, fascist dictator of Never-leave-land. Any time I head down the driveway, Jacko hangs on my arm with tears streaming down his face, hissing, "Why on Earth do you want to leave? We're FAMILY!"

I have no idea why the Evil Klown won't let me leave Neverland, or what he's got planned for me. Maybe he wants to cook me up and eat me. Maybe he built one of them machines like in that movie The Fly, and he's gonna get in one side and stick me in the other, flip the switch and steal all my musical talent. Or maybe he plans to auction me on Ebay and give all the money to NAMBLA.

Well, I ain't about to take this shit laying down. My ex-wife says she knows somebody with a helicopter, and they're gonna come bust me out so's I can go home to my trailer, where I belong.

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