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Things had been tense after Elvis’ onstage meltdown, to say the least. You knew the moment the words “You’re fired,” left his mouth that that snake in the grass of a manager, now ex manager, of his would have something to say about it. And back up in Elvis’ suite, after a tense ride in the elevator, you find from reading over his shoulder that the Colonel’s say had a hefty price tag attached. An eight-million-dollar price tag, to be more specific.
“Daddeh, I’ve been playing this mausoleum for a hundred years. How could we be broke?” he asks as he tosses the stack of papers down on the grand piano. You step to pick up the strewn papers, reading the full details of the packet. Your eyes scan row after row of any and every monetary expense concurred from the very beginning of the sleezebag’s relationship with Elvis, down to the gas used to get to the Louisiana Hayride. Years and years of charges, from merchandise to a stick of gum, the Colonel had itemized and documented.
Your hands shake with rage as the full gravity of the Colonel’s actions settle over you. Like Elvis, you forcefully throw the papers back onto the piano, but decide that wasn’t enough and quickly scoop them back up to ball them harshly in your fists. You’re turning to face Elvis and his father when you hear Vernon tell him that they’re “gonna lose Graceland.” Your eyes widen as you quietly gasp out. That home had been bought specifically with his mama in mind, and you couldn’t imagine how horribly he was going to take the news. You watch as Elvis takes small steps back and breathes in deeply several times, processing the bomb Vernon had just dropped on him.
You don’t have to imagine; he was quickly showing both of you exactly how he was taking the news.
“I am not takin’ him back!” you jump as he hollers and kicks a small stool clear across the room. He follows that with slinging a table holding a box of his merchandise, yelling as it too crosses the room to join the stool.
This outburst was long overdue, the night before’s blow up just a taste of what was brewing under the surface, and it needed to come out sometime, especially when he was sober. The list had pissed you off, and it wasn’t even your debt to handle, so you couldn’t imagine the fire it had lit under Elvis’ ass. Although you were glad that he had reached his breaking point with the Colonel, you hated seeing him like this. You want to grab him, comfort him, but with his temper this high, you just stand there following his movements with your eyes. Your hands clutch each other so tightly you hear a couple of your knuckles pop.
“He takes everythin’ from me. He takes fifty percent of everythin’ that I make!” He’s pacing now, like an angry, caged animal.
“And now he wants to take the home that we bought for Mama?!” Vernon doesn’t say anything, and neither do you, just hangs his head in regretful shame with his back to Elvis. No longer yelling and having taken a few shuddering breaths, he steps closer to speak directly to his father.
“Listen to me, Daddeh. That old bastard can sue if he wants, but I am flyin’ away. With or without you,” he says, raising his eyebrows and bobbing his head slightly. He cuts his eyes to you and dips his head to signal you to follow him, turning to leave. You don’t hesitate to join in step behind him as he stalks out to the elevator. As the two of you enter it, you grunt in anger.
“I cannot believe that rat bastard. From the first goddamn quarter of gas, to the last water bottle, this piece of shit kept up with it as if, what, you haven’t made it well more than worth his sorry ass while.” Elvis doesn’t respond, leaned back on the wall of the elevator car with his legs crossed, but you see a ghost of a smile form on his lips at your fiery outburst.
“I mean, who the fuck does he think he is?” you ask as you feel the elevator start to slow. “It amazes me that he thinks anybody would piss on him if he was on fire,” you say, absentmindedly walking out of the slid open elevator doors, head turned to speak to a following Elvis. “Let alone pay his leeching, troglodyte ass a god-”
You fall off your rant as you turn your head to catch sight of the cockroach himself.
You don’t even think about it, immediately sprinting towards the snake with every intent of fucking him up, but your attempt is short lived as a re-enraged Elvis is scooping you up with one arm to put you behind him, seething as he spits words at his ex-manager. You allow it because you know this is his battle and only he can fight it, so you settle back behind him, weight thrown on one hip and arms crossed across your chest. You fix a venom filled glare on the colonel.
Silently you watch the interaction between the two men, Elvis holding his ground and giving the Colonel a piece of his mind, the latter using his slick carnie ways to try and manipulate the former back into his clutches. Your jaw drops into an incredulous scowl at Parker suggesting that he could loan Elvis money, from the money Elvis made him, to pay off the debt that Elvis owed him, for making him money. You scoff out a breathy chuckle as you pace in small steps behind the now yelling again rockstar. After threatening to shoot his ex-manager, much to your liking, he makes to leave but stops short of the entryway.
“Who are you?” Elvis asks.
“I am you. And you are me,” comes the rat’s answer.
“Cut the horseshit! Everythin’ I’ve ever known about you was a lie.” From outside the little sitting area you hear Jerry ask, “EP, you all good?” You step more into the entryway and point a menacing glare and finger towards him, mouthing for him to shut the hell up through gritted teeth and snarling lips. You had made it quite clear last night how infuriated you had been at him for proving his point at Elvis’ expense. You had hollered and cussed and slapped his shoulders, telling him he was despicable for letting the crowd witness that, for allowing Elvis to give everyone more ammunition to fire at him in nasty comments and quotes, for not getting them to lower the curtain sooner like you had begged. Your actions must have jogged his memory because he just drops his head and steps away. You turn back to the two men talking.
You listen as the shark-eyed man spews more bullshit to Elvis, explaining how although Elvis provides for everyone around him, the only reason he can is because of the Colonel. Pointing out that people who live from him, you hiss and roll your eyes at him when he cuts his gaze to you, do just that, and that Elvis living from him entitles him to some kind of compensation.
The more you listened the more you realized that the only reason Colonel had any weapons to fight with is because he pulls them from the darkest corners of Elvis’ insecurities. It was no secret that the singer would do just about anything to keep the people he loved from ever having to go without, and that was definitely the Colonel’s main selling point. But past that, he preyed on Elvis’ fear of never being good enough; preyed on his fear that he’d never leave his mark unless he worked himself into the damn ground. And at the colonel’s hand. And nothing would make Elvis relent faster than the threat of everyone he promised would never live poorly ever again potentially coming true. All because he couldn’t make the money they lived off of anymore.
“We are the same, you and I. We are two odd, lonely children reaching for eternity.”
You let out a bitter scoff at that, knowing that this vile pig would never remotely be in the same league as Elvis.
“Maybe you should fly away, my boy. Away from all this.” You can’t help but agree as you step up to wrap a hand around Elvis’ arm, gently tugging him to start towards the parked car in the garage.
“But if you do choose to leave..” You interrupt him briefly with a snarky “You’re still talking,” to which he just looks briefly at you before continuing. “Then I, for one one, would be very lonely, and so would your father,” he says dramatically, walking to call the elevator.
“Good, maybe you’ll die that way too,” you mutter coldly.
“But I think you will be lonely, too.” That remark was definitely for you and anyone else that dedicated their time and life to stay by Elvis’ side. You flip off his wide back turned to you and a quiet, teary Elvis. He turns to jack his jaw some more before selecting his floor.
“Oh, you see, my boy, the truth about the Rock of Eternity,” no. No, he wasn’t. You knew the son of a bitch was low, but that low? You can feel as the putrid anger starts in your toes and creeps up to the crown of your head. You feel the heat coming off you in waves from how much blind rage fills you as the dirty maggot keeps going once he’s stepped in the elevator car. “It is forever just beyond our reach.” A maddened yell rips from your mouth.
If Elvis thought he could catch you like last time, he thought wrong. Even in your platform heels you have no problem side stepping him and running full speed towards that foul piece of shit. And this time you connect, your arm shooting out and down to strike Parker on the left side of his face, knocking him back to stumble against the wall of the car. You mentally rejoice at the feeling of your nails and knuckles connecting with his nausea inducing face. You attempt to repeat the move with your other hand, but Elvis has long snapped into action and again snaked an arm around your waist, holding you back as you cuss and scream profanities.
“You loathsome, dog yard piece of shit!” You claw with a steel grip at the still opened doors, preventing them from closing the man safely inside. You're trying and failing with all your might to use them as leverage to pull out of Elvis’ steadfast grip on your waist. You kick your legs up to try to simultaneously throw your weight back then up and out to get out of his hold, and try to kick the coward in the elevator car holding his face, but to no avail. You just settle with dragging Elvis into a game of body tug-o-war, you attempting a few steps forwards, pulling him along with you, just for him to pull you three steps back.
“I oughta rip you limb from goddamned limb! How dare you you taint that for him!” You make sure to maintain eye contact with an admittedly afraid Colonel.
“If I ever get the chance, I’ll slit your throat ear to fucking ear you sorry, piece of shit, rat!” you angrily shout, pointing a finger at him. “You’re dead, you hear me? Fucking dead!" You manage to throw the last threat through closing doors. Once the doors have connected, Elvis feels it’s safe to remove his hold on you, which you were already roughly slinging yourself out of. Now it’s your turn to pace like an animal, covering the small sitting area several times as you rant and rave.
“He is so infuriatingly vile! I can’t believe he has the audacity to try and loan you money that he wouldn’t even fucking have if it weren’t for you. All he’s done is run you ragged, manipulate your every move and thought, and held you back from your true potential and all to keep his slob ass at a goddamned poker table!” You can’t help yourself as you strike out to punch a section of the cinderblock wall, yelling as you picture it being the colonel’s face instead. You weren’t proud to admit that your temper was just as bad, if not worse than, Elvis’, had been that way since a child. But it doesn’t seem too far of a reach to think many people would react this way having to be around that...
“Despicable piece of shit,” you mutter out.
“Oh, doll, your hand,” Elvis says, stepping closer to you, gripping your shoulders to still your pacing. You grimace as you look down at your hand, the middle knuckle sporting a heavily bleeding gash. You almost reignite your blood boiling anger when you think about how badly the colonel got under your skin: enough to split it. But you breath deeply and shut your eyes, silently counting to five. The calming strokes the man in front of you provides up and down your arms help to ground you more. So after more breaths, you open your eyes and one-handedly reach into your purse to grab your Kleenex pack. Elvis helps you to grab some out and you get to wiping up the drips you trickled back and forth over the floor and then grabbing more to press into your fresh wound. You hiss at the contact, wondering if you’ll need stitches, the pain of the injury quickly settling in. When everything is cleaned up and you’ve managed to stanch most of the bleeding, you plop down in one of the chairs in the room and just stare at your hands in your lap. You see Elvis’ feet stop right in front of you as he stands over you.
“I’m sorry,” you say sheepishly. He crouches downs to grab your face in his large hands.
“What for, baby?” he asks softly as he pushes some hair behind your ear. “As far as I’m concerned, he deserved way more than he got, ‘tween the two of us,” he chuckles out half-heartedly. You give your own nasally huffs of air to laugh weakly with him.
“I’ll never apologize for that, he can rot for all I care. I’m just sorry that I didn’t do it sooner, really. I feel like he’s made us all the outsiders of your life, to isolate you into only needing him, and it’s solely to work you like a dog to pay off his own debts. I feel like he’s only ‘giving’,” you throw exaggerated air quotes around that word, “you this life to rob you of your own.” Your voice shakes as unshed tears fill your eyes. “I’m sorry because you deserve so, so much better than what he gave. And for damn sure after all he took, and still takes.” Elvis rises to sit in the chair beside you as he turns you to face him more.
“Outsider? The woman who just tried to whoop my toad of a manager? She could neva be any such thang.” He chuckles and kisses your cheek, which makes you giggle lightly and smile.
“The fiercest woman I eva had the pleasure of callin’ mine? The woman who would sock it to anyone who tried to mess with me? Nah, Polk Salad Annie, I don’t think you could eva be an outsider.” He looks at you with that promising adoration he gets in his eyes, like when he’s on stage singing sweet love ballads. You laugh and sniffle at the comparison, gripping Elvis’ face with your unharmed hand.
He stands after you’ve pecked his lips, a thanks for his pep talk. It doesn’t surprise you that his caring heart resulted in him consoling you. “Lets get this all fixed up, and then we can get away from all this mess, have a night to ourselves. Hmm?”
You answer him simply with a smile and firm kiss to his warm, inviting mouth.