The air was saturated with the smell of fried chicken. Bull frogs croaked down by the river as it should be, and someone looking for the real definition of ravage need only look around the plantation. It was like an old whore's face, dead in the eyes with makeup smeared here and there at an attempt of life. Maybe all of the old South had gone this way, the way of the Gatsbys and the original Curly. The way of John Belushi and those who play to long near the chasm. Maybe the old South was just like Belushi.
But none of that mattered on this day. with the fried chicken cooking and the crickets a chirpin'. all seemed right with the world. It wasn't too much to believe the South could kick it again, what with the resurgence of REM and Lynard Skynard. Then a figure appeared in the middle of our picnic and while we were all expecting Elvis, we got the next best thing. Ole Scratch stood in our midst, dark prince of the world looking for his king. He peered around and when he DIDN"T see Elvis, he began to loose interest. Unfortunately so did the rest of us.
Satan had definetly overstayed his welcome. Elvis had left the building hours before and we had no indications he was going to return. There had been countless attempts at pratical jokes at Satan's expense in effort to get him to leave, but nothing was working. He reached over in my general direction and breathed into my ear. "I got one more silver dollar boy, one more," says he. Finally the clock struck midnight and he got up and did The Hustle. Once completing that he dissappeared in a wisp of smoke. Several hours later we, that's me and Eddie, heard a shuffling on the doorstep. I threw open the door and what to my wandering eyes did appear but Elvis, the man and the God. Elvis said he knew what ole Scratch was up to and he wanted no part of it. I fixed him a drink. Times like these they can't be bought.
NEXT TIME
It was a hot July day, hot enough to make the finest Christian sweat. Nothing left to bring a person back to where they started, but plenty to send them on an adventure. My house is nothing special, I have no idea why Elvis chose it. Maybe it was all me, I have a nasty reputation. On this day I was kicking back, drinking beer and doing Klonopins, whithout a thought for tommorrow. Suddenly someone came rap tap tapping at my door, it was the man, talking about Elvis. He invited me to partake in one of his drug cocktails, and me being an honest man I had to agree. Two days later I woke up face down on Beale Street, never knowing what hit me. Gotta keep both eyes on that Elvis.
Elvis enjoyed the spotlight. He danced around like he was chasing a chicken, all pent up and about the romance. He died on the toilet, some folks say, but me, I still believe in the second coming. Elvis died for our sins. That doesn't stop ole Scratch from being hot on his tail. come on feel the noise, girls rock your boys, we will get wild wild wild, anyway.
Cause you know sometimes words have no meaning.
AFTER THE NIGHT
Dope sick and drunk, I faced the morning. There had been two visitors on this night, well, one really couldn't consider either of them visitors any more. But ole Scratch and Elvis had both wandered off, truth be told, one looking for the other in both cases. Young Eddie helped me from the doorway as the morning light came creeping in. Eddie is just about my age, which means he is no longer young except to the very old. He wears a black leather jacket, does my Eddie, and don't tell him if you don't believe he isn't a dead ringer for Kurt Cobain, he won't want to hear it. He writes a bit, believes he is the second coming of James Joyce.....I don't know about that but I like to kick back and let him read to me. He takes good care of me sometimes, just like springtime.
So dope sick and drunk I faced the morning. Elvis had understood if ole Scratch hadn't. Funny, with all that at stake the devil had never touched drugs. Elvis, on the other hand, made a lifestyle of them. I guess in this I had to lean toward Elvis, oh, I almost always leaned toward Elvis if the truth be told. Me and Elvis used to have a good time, we'd trade in all our coke bottles and buy a quart of wine. Me and Elvis didn't worry about the cops, he flashed that badge he got from Nixon every time that we got stopped.
I have to get myself together. Elvis will be back in a few hours, and after that Scratch will come shuffling after, always chasing the man. It's a vicous cycle, one the heroin makes me understand a little bit better.
