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    The King Lives: an Elvisceral Adventure
    The King Lives: an Elvisceral Adventure
    The King Lives: an Elvisceral Adventure
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    The King Lives: an Elvisceral Adventure

    By Jim Fourniadis

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    About this ebook

    A strange solar episode is the flimsy excuse for the dark storm that squirts the restless , zombiefied corpse of Elvis Presley out of his grave.

    And woe be to those who have disturbed his slumber all these long years.

    Meanwhile young Luke Purvis, an Elvis medium who claims to contact the spirit of the king suddenly comes face to face with the man he has spent so many years invoking.

    And while Luke was for sure not purposely looking for trouble, he reckoned that he had come to the right place...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJim Fourniadis
    Release dateMar 19, 2013
    ISBN9781301853434
    The King Lives: an Elvisceral Adventure
    Author

    Jim Fourniadis

    Jim Fourniadis is just a kid from Jersey who ended up in San Francisco. For nearly two decades he fronted notoriously silly punk band Rats of Unusual Size and has written two musicals, The Wicker Man and Lovesick. Somehow he managed to open up a small black box theater in the Mission called the Dark Room where he writes and directs plays several times a year, when he's not busy emptying garbage cans. He also plays banjo.

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      Book preview

      The King Lives - Jim Fourniadis

      THE KING LIVES: an Elvisceral Adventure.

      By

      Jim Fourniadis

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      * * * * *

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Jim Fourniadis on Smashwords

      The King Lives

      Copyright © 2013 by Jim Fourniadis

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

      This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, except for a certain man from Tupelo, is purely coincidental. The rest of the characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

      THE KING LIVES

      CHAPTER ONE

      The sun hangs, seemingly unconcerned, in the speckled blackness of outer space.

      As you can imagine, it’s really hot. I mean really, really hot, and when I say hot, I mean it is the heat not the humidity. It’s the original great ball of fire; a desert of molten gas, glowing bright orange, with viscous spires of burning ooze spewing freely from every orifice.

      In addition to scaring the bejesus out of poor unsuspecting satellites, these little solar freckles are imbued with magical properties, which few truly understand. So it’s with little in the way of explanation that a flaming pool of bright blue appears on the far side of the lower left hemisphere of the sun one morning. Of course no one notices anything odd. No one even pays attention to the shape of this sunspot, which is too bad because the shape is indeed very odd. In fact had Roscoe Tanner looked up at just the right moment, he might have seen this odd shape, which looked suspiciously like a bright blue gleaming jagged line.

      Instead, Roscoe was busy sweeping leaves and empty Twinkie wrappers away from an ornate cement slab that featured, oddly enough, a jagged line surrounded by three capital letters: T C B.

      In fact he rarely looked up, even when asked to. He mostly just muttered under his breath and dragged his considerably pudgy feet to and fro, completing his chores as slowly as humanly possible. Roscoe wasn’t especially old, but he was worn out. He hated his job and he hated his wife almost as much as he hated her family. Most days he hated his car, and he usually hated his lunch. But there was no one or no thing that he hated quite as much as the name that rested on the slab under the jagged line: Elvis Aaron Presley.

      Momma-loving, drug-taking, cheesy-movie-making, lousy-Vegas-act-having, diaper-wearing, white-boy. You were such a big deal: the King of rock and roll...hah, he would chuckle, well you’re dead now, dead dead dead.

      Roscoe was the grounds keeper at Graceland. He was a leathery, grizzled black man with a luminous bald spot and an impressive paunch. If you were the type that noticed such things, you might notice that his wife dressed him in a vain attempt to command some respect. His freshly pressed shirt and pleated pants clung to his frame earnestly, but alas to no avail. Roscoe, no matter how well costumed, elicited less than resounding employer confidence.  That he worked so little to merit retaining this job probably had much to do with the fact that he inherited it from his father, the late Roscoe Sr.

      When he was a boy, every day his dad would come home and commence drinking. When sufficiently besotted, he would capture young Roscoe, sit him on his knee and whisper to him, That Elvis is the devil, a tacky white devil in a tacky white jumpsuit with a big gold belt buckle. Those white folks didn’t have no music worth a lick so that Elvis, he stole the black man’s music. Old Roscoe paused here as much for effect as to exhale a vaporous cloud of alcohol. Yep he stole our music, as sure as he stole our soul.

      Old Roscoe Sr. truly cared for his boy, much more than he cared for his own teeth, which invariably scared young Roscoe so much more than the sum of desperate warnings his dad imparted about that old Tupelo demon. I don’t like that Elvis, he would croak, no sir, and I don’t like that old monkey and I don’t like cleaning up his damn garden, no sir, but I’m hoping one day, one day maybe you make something of yourself so you won’t end up like your old daddy.

      Unfortunately Roscoe Jr. was about as bright as a bug light and not nearly as useful, so here he was puttering in his father’s footsteps, cleaning up after a dead man, and amusing himself by taunting Elvis with mumbled insults, secure in the knowledge that the old rotting corpse wasn’t likely to do much about it…

      …which brings us back to the sun.

      The jagged blue sunspot began to violently boil. Like a simmering pool of blue solar bisque, the odd shaped spot bubbled forth. Were he paying attention, Roscoe might have noticed the whole mess blow into a full solar prominence; it’s translucent aura extending through the empty ether of space. It cleared Mercury, narrowly missed Venus, and, whizzing right past several visibly anxious satellites, ran right smack into our atmosphere. Suddenly, the sky grew dark. Almost immediately a furious black cloud appeared over Memphis. To anyone noticing these kind of things, they would have witnessed this celestial cumulus swell alarmingly fast, obscuring the sky.

      The air slowly became more and more gelatinous. Sparks twitched spastically across the heavens, rising in intensity until finally a gleaming spike of blue lightning fell from the sky right onto the cement slab next to where the old groundskeeper stood.

      …………………………………………………………….

      Roscoe lay motionless for quite a while with his head resting on the cement slab with the lightning bolt and the letters T C B. When he came around the first thing he noticed was a warm damp feeling under his face.  The next sensation he felt was fear as he quickly figured that surely he must be lying in a pool of his own blood. Opening his eyes he noticed that in fact he was surrounded by a brilliant sky blue puddle of goo in the shape of a large jagged line. A single leaf rolled toward him. He remained frozen for a moment as it danced lightly over his head.

      Slowly, he rose and took stock of the situation. He must have paced these grounds a thousand times, but he was now becoming aware that he never really saw them in detail. In fact he couldn’t be sure now, but he felt the calmness that blanketed the garden now was perhaps just a bit too unassuming to be of any use.

      His attention returned to more immediate concerns. He wiped the side of his face and studied the strange bile. He was fairly certain, as much as one could be under these circumstances, that he was not in fact bleeding bright blue. Roscoe had many an opportunity to closely inspect his own blood in the past, and without exception it was always red. Having discarded personal injury as a possibility, he began to ponder the deeper significance of the situation.

      It’s… it’s blue? he remarked.

      He stood pensively for

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