Elvis Saves JFK!

Elvis Saves JFK!

Stories of Alternate History

Copyright 2011 by Michael Cnudde.

Elvis Saves JFK! Copyright 2008 by Michael Cnudde. Orignally appeared in Elvis Saves JFK! Three Stories of Alternate History.

Chasing Fate Copyright 2008 by Michael Cnudde. Orignally appeared in Elvis Saves JFK! Three Stories of Alternate History and in Theory Train, Vol.1, Issue1, December 2010

Right of Return Copyright 2008 by Michael Cnudde. Orignally appeared in Elvis Saves JFK! Three Stories of Alternate History and in VWS Literary Supplement, August, 2010

A Date in November Copyright 2011 Michael Cnudde. Orignally copyright 1996 as 11-22-63. Not to be confused with and is not related to the novel by of the same name by Stephen King.

Truth, Justice, and the 1962 War Against Evil, copyright 2011 Michael Cnudde

ISBN 978-0-9878657-3-1(EPUB)

ISBN 978-0-9878657-2-4 (Kindle)

ISBN 978-0-9878657-1-7(PDF)

ISBN 978-0-9878657-0-0 (Ebook)

ISBN 978-0-9868723-4-1(RTF)

ISBN978-0-9868723-5-8 (LRF)

ISBN 978-0-9868723-6-5(PDB)

ISBN 978-0-9868723-7-2 (Plain Text)

Cover images on this work are property of their respective owners and are used under the Fair Dealing guidelines of the Canadian Copyright Act and under Fair Use provisions under United States copyright law.

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For Mom and Dad.

Contents

Elvis Saves JFK!

Chasing Fate

Right of Return

A Date in November

Truth, Justice and the 1962 War Against Evil

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Elvis Saves JFK!

The picturephone beeped for his attention.

Elvis Aaron Presley, the undisputed King of Rock 'n Roll, sat back in his big overstuffed Lazyboy, glass of Southern Comfort in his hand. Unconsciously, he ran a hand through this thick dark hair. He was worried. Worried enough that he couldn’t even think about the unfinished deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwich sitting on the table beside him. Four kids from Liverpool occupied his thoughts right now. If the projections from his personal Univac in the basement were right, they would rise in a few short months to challenge him for the status of god and spokesperson for an entire generation.

What would he do?

The phone beeped impatiently again. Elvis shook his head at the annoyance. The picturephone, slated for introduction at next year's Worlds' Fair in Seattle, had been secretly issued by the phone company to all members of the Trilateral Commission. Elvis stabbed the acknowledge button with a finger as he held his glass in his other hand.

The viewscreen lit up to show the stern visage of J. Edgar Hoover in a pink frock.

Uh huh. The King curled his upper lip. Nothing surprised him anymore. The '60s were stacking up to be one helluva decade. Elvis leaned back in his chair, glass in hand.

How are you, Elvis? said J. Edgar, finally.

Not bad, Mistah Hoover. How's life at the Bureau?

Grim, Elvis. Grim. I've got commies and beatniks breathing down my throat and now JFK wants me to go to war against the Mob, but that's beside the point. Are you free for a special mission?

Elvis took a hit of Southern Comfort. What's up?

Are you familiar with the events of 7 June, 1947, in Roswell, New Mexico?

Elvis nodded. One of those flyn' saucers crashed in the desert, but we managed to retrieve it and the crew --check?

That's the story. Two weeks ago, one of the aliens we had as... a guest at Wright-Patterson, broke confinement.

What? He... it's on the lam?

"Obviously we can't deal with this through normal channels. There'd be panic.

Civilization would crumble. Morals would suffer. People would start worshipping strange eastern gods and take great amounts of psychedelic stimulants. They might even question authority. It'd be end of the world, Elvis!"

I know. Might lose some record sales. He thought of those four kids from Liverpool. Maybe J. Edgar could help him there... We have to find the l'll stinker, an' fast!

That's the idea. I'm detailing you another agent who's also cleared for this. J. Edgar broke eye contact for just a second. There's something else you should know... the alien is some kind of shapechanger.

A what?

The alien can change shape at will. Change from alien, to hat stand, to a Studebaker and back again. Seems to have fondness however, for impersonating Former Vice-President Nixon.

Holy mother of God!

I would prefer you not take Her name in vain, said J. Edgar, crossing his legs.

Sometime later...

Well, holy shit," grinned Elvis. He whistled long and low.

The sign said HEARTBREAK HOTEL. The metal sign, faded and flaking, hung limply in the humid morning air. It hung by two rusting chains from a long low wooden porch of a single-story brick building, which baked in the heat on the side of Florida State Road 523, just off US 41, approximately 50 miles south of Orlando.

J. Edgar said he'd be meeting his contact here. Elvis smiled as he pulled his pink '59 Cadillac Eldorado, convertible top down, into the parking lot. The gravel crunched like gunshots under the four big Goodyears. He noticed another car in front of the hotel: a pale blue '63 Ford Falcon, fresh from the showroom. He noticed the California plates: N. J. He shook his head. Elvis opened the Caddy’s door and got out, looking at the car. Wonder who it is? Somebody I know? Maybe Gus Grissom... makes sense to send an astronaut to catch an alien.

Elvis stopped the car, got out and walked to the bar's front door. The warped and dried out floorboards of the porch groaned under the heels of his cowboy boots. Above his head, the sign creaked on its chains in the nominal breeze that rode up from the Gulf. A carefully hand lettered card over the door informed him that the bar was not open Sundays and that Negroes were not allowed.

The King spat on the porch. He inhaled, opened the door and went in. The bar was dark and a little less warm, with a single ceiling fan battling halfheartedly against the heat. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could make out a single figure sitting alone at the far end of the bar. A jukebox in the corner twanged out a moldy country tune.

The shadow beckoned at the end of the bar. He walked slowly towards it, his cowboy boots sounding heavy on the wooden planks. Sawdust ground under his heels. A faint trace of rancid cigar smoke drifted through the air. Elvis drew up a stool next to the stranger – a woman – and sat down.

Are you a friend of Edgar's? he asked.

The woman turned to face him, revealing a shock of platinum blonde hair.

Elvis' jaw dropped. You! You're dead!

She winked at him. Can't believe everything you read, can you now? A fake suicide has always been the best way into deep cover. That’s what they’re calling retirement these days. She smiled. The dress she wore was short and tight. She extended her hand. How are you, Elvis?

He took it. Pretty fine, Marilyn...

Not so loud! This is a safe house, but nothing's that safe! She raised a finger to her pouting lips and winked again. Haven't seen you since the Bay of Pigs.

Elvis shuddered. Lordy, what a mess. Last job I do for The Company. He paused. You been briefed?

She smiled.

They'd left the Falcon back at the hotel, and headed south in Elvis's Caddy, on US 41. The convertible's big V-8 hardly broke a sweat as it chewed up the pavement at a steady 70 m.p.h. Elvis leaned back in his seat, the wind blasting through his hair. He looked over at Marilyn, who let her blonde hair free to ride the torrent. Forget everything else: right now was a good time to be alive.

You reckon that alien's headn' towards Cape Canaveral? said Elvis.

Makes sense, said Marilyn. If you're trapped on a hostile planet and you want to get off... How else are you going to do it?

Elvis said nothing. Instead, his eyes flashed to the rear view mirror. Damn. He was afraid of that. A long black Lincoln Continental bore down on them... and fast. Don't look know, darlin'... we've got company.

Who are they? asked Marilyn, glancing at the mirror. She reached down into the floor and bought up a Thompson submachine gun. Marilyn yanked back the bolt, cocking the weapon. She held it close to her body; Elvis noticed how the gun's barrel rested between her breasts and the wooden stock between her legs.

He gulped, but pressed on: Damned if I know... maybe CIA, or KGB. He gently pushed his foot on the accelerator. The Caddy surged ahead to 85 m.p.h. The Lincoln kept closing on them. Elvis kept his hands on the wheel as he leaned the car into a turn. In the rearview mirror he could see the Lincoln was hanging with them. Come to think of it, could be even be the American Dental Association: never forgave me over that fluoridation business.

Whoever they are, they’re in hurry. Marilyn kept low as she climbed over the front seat and tumbled into the back,