Warnings: 18+ ONLY typical universe warnings apply
Universe summary: Elvis Presley 1870’s riverboat casino AU
Author’s Note, holy moly guys, the relieved and delighted part of me wants to say “yay it’s finally here!” but it’s taken so embarrassingly long and I’ve not yet heard if you think it worth that, so I’m gonna hush up for now. Except to say that I love and appreciate all of you who have hung in there with this work for YEARS, continued to ask after it and encouraged me to continue on. And even to those who’ve dipped but served in the intermediary time as the grease to my engines by their boundless enthusiasm— thanks. To all of you. Thanks so much. Come yell at me after you’re read it 💋
Dedicated to @ab4eva @missmaywemeetagain @stylespresleyhearted and @from-memphis-with-love
For the next two weeks on their journey westward, their days comprised much of the same as the first, each new bend and mile of the river extracted every bit of expertise on the Captain’s part, while Rosey waited below and busied herself as best she could. Both toiled those fifteen hour days away in anticipation of the thirty minutes, more or less, that they had with each other at the end of it all. Often too weary to do much more than talk and pet in the close quarters of their inner room, those were quiet nights and sweet mornings, seasoned with a bit of heartache when business or sleep took them under. But they were the bright spot in each other's day and the little domesticity that they established was sweet indeed, and easily acclimated to by such individuals who had never had anything steady to compare it to. A groove was soon worn in routine, him coming down after a long shift, paying his regards to old Beans before calling in on Cal and Charlie and, finally, making his way to her.
Interspersed in the few times when they docked early to fill coal, Elvis often found himself pulled away to discuss something with the General aboard, who despite his reputation and Captain Presley‘s own inclination towards disliking of Sherman, had proved to be a civil barbarian and a rather engaging taskmaster. If Elvis could not admire General Sherman’s rumpled form or his gravelly speech, he could give him credit for being remarkably proficient at his job. Something Elvis himself wished he had more discipline to mimic, especially as the days grew routine and his exhaustion with the mundane stress of it all only built by the end of two weeks.
It was not uncommon for Captain Presley to hand the wheel to Jerry partway through the day, if he found them in a straight away with a decent current and plenty of visibility, telling his second made of a desperate need to fetch glasses, or a book, or else to change a neck cloth, any reason for dashing down below to visit *her*.
Eventually Jerry begged him to stop inventing reasons and to go taste his woman with a clean conscience. This only encouraged such coping behavior and soon Jerry found himself at the wheel upwards of five times a day while the captain dashed below to drink his tonic from between Rosey’s chafed thighs. She’d tug at his neckclothe to bring him closer and it would burn his throat like a noose and he’d groan as the blood pumped in his head like a drum and the sweet trickle of her sweetness flooded the dam of his lips.
As early as the second morning aboard, Captain Presley told her he had bought her gifts in St. Louis to keep her occupied on the voyage. Exactly at the same time Rosey had presented her own gift, a beautiful book for him, wrapped in parchment. It had been Verne’s latest scientific novelty piece and he whooped in excitement at the prospect of not having to wait ages to return East of the river and purchase it.
In turn he’d given her the paints and canvases he had bought, having racked his brain in the bookstore for some trivial hobbies she no doubt never had the chance to explore. If he could’ve brought her an instrument down into the hold he would have done so. As it was, there was no harm if she painted the entire little closet they now lived in a myriad of colors. Anything to occupy her frazzled ambitions. Which meant he made a concession and allowed Mr. Clemens to spend his afternoons there with her, or sometimes in her cubby office by the boilers, where Elvis somewhat alarmedly suspected they concocted ghost stories and fairytales that often cast himself as the protagonist.
Mr. Clemens was handsome for a man of sixty, altogether too spry for his shock of gray hairs and charming in a way that Elvis hoped to be after thirty more summers. Under Clemen’s artistic turtledge, Rosey’s paintings morphed from rudimentary sketches of bumble bees and cotton to something altogether more poignant and luxurious, intimate little scenes of book reading and dining in restaurants she’d never been to.
Soon the paintings had faces and what were once pale blobs soon had noses and hair and eyes and lips that looked strangely like Elvis’ own. At this rate he would be staring back at a portrait of himself on the ceiling by the time they got to where they were headed, but anything was better than Rosey growing bored. Or growing too close to Aida.
“She’s remarkable, Presley.” Mr. Clemens took the liberty of saying to him one evening after a day spent steering as usual, “Quite remarkable, but then, I trust you know that.”
Captain Presley who could not think of a single other companion who could have made this journey even moderately bearable, did know it, and to an extent he did not take offense at being told but like a proud father beamed under the shared opinion of his choice of lover.
And it was with the same fervor he found himself sullenly suspicious of men he would have considered harmless companions or easy pickings oniy months ago. He startled at the harmless appearance of men brushing their horses in the hold and went to such lengths as to make Rosey not so much as step out with Cal until he’d done a bit of reconnaissance first. The word was out on board already that Rosetta was indeed a woman but with the innate self preservation that prevents men from petting panthers, Rosetta had been given little trouble by the calvary. Aida, likewise, although Elvis suspected she was given little trouble for much silver and he didn’t bother asking more, so long as the linens were cleaned and the food chopped, her business was her own and distracted the men from the little treasure he kept tucked away beside his books and knickknacks like a carven figurine of his hopes and dreams.
Rosey, Rosey, he would go quite mad if anything happened to Rosey
It had been a long time since he had allowed himself such free reign in his paranoia, mostly unsoothed by any medicinal fog. But in the next two weeks, he indulged himself, and set Cal and Charlie to the same task: suspecting everyone of trying to discover Rosey’s existence. He couldn’t help that the men came into the hold to tend their horses to bathe occasionally in the frigid river, more easily accessible from the large hold door at water level. What the Captain could do was pilot his boat best he was able, and when the mighty tributary straightened enough for Jerry to manage the steering, he took to entertaining the cavalry troop, best he could. Which, for being a little rusty at the more masculine forms of entertainment, was pretty damn well.
The empty ballroom now held ramshackle black jack games and corn hole tosses, Elvis even agreed to the rigging of a rudimentary shooting lane along the top deck where men kept their aim sharp. And some nights, when the weather was so bad outside with a blizzard and squall that Elvis could not so much as see the lines in his own palm ahead of him, they cast rope and anchored to the bank and men pulled out their fiddles and Jerry his harmonica and some their stringed banjos or guitars, and Elvis his old accordion, and such was the stolen enjoyment of those nights that the growing irritability of the cramped troop of soldiers would calm for days after. Lulled and soothed by the goodwill of a night of games and music.
For Elvis it was painfully nostalgic to his time in the war, when there were brief moments of terror and violence aboard the ship, followed by weeks and even months of such warm companionship as only to be brought about by cramped necessity and human goodness. He’d missed his old accordion, missed the burn in his forearms as he pumped the bellows and missed the sharp clip of the ivory keys against his fingertips when he slipped a note too fast for human ability. His audience rarely caught the slip, entranced by the pace of the melody, it was a mistake between himself and his bruised fingertip.
When he went below he played for Rosey too, just to keep in practice. It felt good to make new memories of it. Elvis had thought that pulling such a tainted relic from the trunks might send his mind hurtling back to silk and dark allies but instead it stirred only scenes of seabreeze and Scotty’s sunburnt face adeck with him. He missed Scotty these days. He felt he’d been rash with him, he felt he’d had a better friend in him than he’d likely ever know or be able to appreciate now. Not with the likely outcome of this trip.
Scotty would be a good friend for Rosey, though, when he was gone. If he were gone. And that was a great comfort. That led to Elvis thinking of them together, adeck with him in ages gone by, some alternate world indeed, both scrubbing and swathing boat decks while he played them a ditty, Rosey in trousers and loose linen, curls tucked beneath a sailor’s cap that only made her appear adorable instead of rakish. It intrigued him so much that after the first time that odd imagining came to him as he played for her in their little cubby at night, he returned to it again and again like a memory before falling asleep.
Rosey and Scotty and him, young, at sea, boyish and hard working.
The memory always fogged near the end, before he was quite ready to sleep, fogged and slanted and stabilized just enough that he fled from it with unease. Just enough that when he was honest with himself in broad daylight alone at the wheel, Elvis knew his mind wanted to take him to New York, Scotty and Rosey and Elvis in New York, starving, freezing, learning talent doesn’t count for shit without money.
So he played the accordion for the troop some nights with a head full of nothing by shanty lyrics and the next chord progression, and then he’d go down below to Rosey and play her something more measured, and he’d imagine salt and sea and a life where they grew up near and close and time was on their side. And so at night he would fleece the troop at blackjack and poker just long enough into a game to show them he could and garner their angry admiration before he let them win, to regain their equanimity, and after he’d go down to the hold and share nothing but honest kisses with Rosey and compliments for her newest paintings.
“How’re you managing, with all this entertaining?” she asked him after over a week of this, his head in her lap and her fingers working a sorceresses’ swirl on his aching temples. “You’ve enough work with piloting us.”
Elvis just gave her a reassuring smile, eyes lazily closed and fluttering from pleasure at the relief she gave him, “Can’t pilot if there’s a riot on the damn boat. Bored soldiers are worse than Natives, ain’t got the patience of sailors. Just keeping our throats from gettin’ cut, little girl. And the general likes me well enough now.”
“How’d you manage that?” Rosey asked, tone sour at the mention of Sherman, not one to let a past war crime go.
“Likes tryin’ to beat me at cards.”
“Tell me you don’t let him win like the others?” Rosey begged, irate, “I hope you fleece him. Every time.”
Elvis laughed in shock at her anger, a fully throated thing, “I don’t let him win.” he assured and that was that.
It was after a few weeks of this routine when, bone weary and fresh off a fifteen hour shift at the wheel and an hour and a half of drunken revelry in the ballroom, Elvis was arrested in his progress striding along the hall back to the hold and to his bed.
“I’ve put it together.” He was accosted in the close space, it was the straw-haired man from the stables, first night of transport, down with Beans. Making jokes about finding the maids, making jokes about making do with boys, saying he knew him, saying he’d not been posted at Elmira but he knew him. The man who Elvis had doused his candle for rather than have him snoopingly follow him to his berth and discover Rosey there.
Elvis spun round lightly at the man’s incomplete statement, kept his face loose, recalling he was a man with no lady wife to hide in the hull. He was just an easy-going captain with a job to do, and people liked to try to place him sometimes, mostly it was from a news article and they mistook their recognition for memory. “Hmm?” he queried mildly, cocking an ear as the revelry in the adjacent ballroom was still in full swing despite his recent abandonment of the soldiers.
“Where I’ve seen you.” The man picked up their conversation from weeks gone by.
“Did ya now?” Captain Presley encouraged.
“Haarlem.” The man stated.
“I- beg pardon?”
“Haarlem.” He reiterated, almost fierce in his barely suppressed excitement.
“I ain’t ever been to Haarlem.” Elvis lied easy as ever.
“No?”
“No. I told ya, Elmira. I was imprisoned at Elmira.” The captain turned to go.
“Oh Elmira, yes. That would explain it, s’how I remember you, slight, lanky, all ribs.” The fucker chuckled, “Waist so willowy I could put my hands round it like a lady’s-“
“They didn’t let us out for sight seein’ while we was there, sir.” Elvis only bothered to tilt his head, still persistent in returning to his course and to bed, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“I mean after it, after the war.” the man called after him and Elvis felt his legs go stiff, “You’ve grown, or broadened since. Aren’t all ribs anymore. But if those lips weren’t it, there’s no forgetting the way you tear up an accordion. That’s talent, boy.”
“No.” Captain Presley demurred with a tightened jaw, quite still and drawn up to his full height now in the hallway, “That’s the navy, man, anythin’ light enough not to sink us, we learned how to play. Now if you’ll excu-“
Sudden the man was near him, up to his shoulder, “-you play a lotta flutes back then? Or just in Haarlem?”
“The hell’d’you just say?” it was little more than a hoarse rumble leaving Elvis’ throat.
“I asked if you played a lotta flutes back in the day.” The dig was familiar, but the conviction behind this one sent chills down his spine.
His smile grew tight then fully flattened, a haughty sneer of self preservation forming like a habit on Elvis’ rich face, “I’m gonna assume you’re drunk, otherwise I don’t take kindly to what you’re intimating. Go to bed or you’ll have my fist.”
“Not without you.” That smile was sickening in its surety, Elvis found a compulsive dread already curdling in his gut as if this were as unavoidable as whatever godforsaken rendezvous this man treasured from ten years back. A gnarly hand crept from his premature grasp of his shoulder to a caress of his neck and then to just below his jaw, a tobacco stained thumbnail pulling down on the plump flesh of his lower lip, “I still dream of what these lips-“ a flash of white teeth clenched in a brilliant row, “used to do.”
A gnash of teeth, a click of the jaw. Copper flooded against Elvis’ tongue and with it an exultation of freedom as his consciousness recalled his progress, his surroundings, his newfound desire to be something more than a toy tormented for hire.
He was a free man. Damned but free.
He bit down still harder and his erstwhile client, who no doubt tossed junk coins at him in exchange for an excruciating loss of self, howled.
Perhaps it was an admission of guilt on his part, to respond so viciously to the goading was confirmation beyond any wise course, but the Captain could not find it in himself to care, his neck was free and his hips untouched and his mouth was making a man howl -this time in agony.
There was a satisfaction to it so pungent he thought he saw a mist cloud his vision as the violent delight took over, grit his teeth a little harder and he could be down to the knuckle bone, a spurt of marrow his victory signal.
A knee between his legs reminded Elvis sharply that it was a soldier he was baiting, the sharp crack of it broke his bulldog grip and he stepped back, careful to stagger as little as possible from the blow and draw himself up tall and ready against the opposite wall. It was well he did so as the man was on him again, too close and sweaty, the sharp prick of a drawn knife already nicking ribs beneath his exquisite waistcoat and fine muslin shirt. A warm dribble of blood tickled the soft handles of his waist and Elvis gave a bloody grin in return, familiar with this dance, even down to the expected haggling of a price and the piercing pain of a blade stuck in swift.
“The fuck do you think you’re doin’?” he asked the man, a broad question regarding accusations and the foolhardy knife to his ribs. “Goin’ round accusin’ me of shit and now what? Gonna murder your captain? How’s that gonna work out for ya, hmm?”
“Oh aye, I’ll do worse than murder you.” The man gleamed, so near, “You know I can, make your life a hell, you know it. Not even denyin’ it now are ya, y’fuckin’ fairy?”
Elvis’ gave a twitch of his eyebrow at the irony of his silence being accredited to meek admission and not the ever sharper stab beneath his rib. “Get your hands off me, or it’s you who’ll be dead.” he warned, lowly, listless hands by his thighs starting to gently curl.
“A price, let’s go down to your cabin, and work out a price.” The man suggested and the smooth pet of his hand to Elvis’ other set of ribs sent a shiver through him.
“A price for what? Your goddamn coffin? I said -unhand me, you’re drunk.”
“I’m not,” the man shrugged, “and I’ve got friends who know what I know.”
Elvis stilled against the wall and listened with the intent of a man willing to be drastic.
“They know of you, they’re…our kind, you could say.”
“I ain’t got any kind-“
“-and they are expectin’ a price. Split three ways. I know you’ve got money, and word is you’ve got prospects. Would be a shame if word got around you were anything less than an upstandin’ gambler now, wouldn’t it?”
It would. And not for all these years had Elvis been so sure that such a report would make it off the boat were this man to be let at large, bribe paid and all manner of indignity suffered and still no discretion bought.
“Be a shame if somebody undid all your mama’s hard work.” Elvis bit back, having decided it was a worthy shame, sporting a manic smile.
Calculating the loss of a kidney, he kneed the bastard in the groin.
And that’s about how it went. The knife slid fully home in the captain's flesh while the man crumpled over, the raucous of such a scuffle growing loud enough to distract from the fiddle music in the adjoining ballroom and with a limp screech, the bow slid from the violin strings and chairs emptied as the bored company of horse soldiers poured into the cramped hall, eager to witness the most entertaining bit of kerfuffle they’d seen in ages.
“Fuckin’ fairy.” His opponent seethed as he straightened with effort and Elvis left off palming the still vibrating knife in his side to dodge a vicious first punch the man threw at him.
Chants of “fight fight fight” rose like a ampetheatre’s clamor and soon Elvis and his foe were battering each other against the mahogany paneling in the tight little space in the hall that the encroaching audience allowed. It didn't look good for either of them, but hardly for the fancy dressed man with a knife under his ribs accused of being a lavender sort. He was a brothel owner after all, and even horse soldiers have a more likely testimony than his.
To Elvis’ battered mind, it was clear amongst the exultation of a long wanted fisticuffs that whatever inquiry might be held for why a boat captain would stoop to brawling with a Cavalry man, it could hardly bode well; not for him. Elvis thought of the man’s supposed associates and the thought of looming blackmail and the whole jig being up before he even tried to return to Memphis and sort it. Those associates would need a clear message to be deterred, and this man with his intimate knowledge of the captain would need to be handled.
Or removed. Else, Elvis would find himself removed.
Nobody but Colonel Parker was gonna succeed at defaming him, and nobody was gonna kill him ‘cept for that old toad, neither, and if Rosey had anything to do with it-
-Rosey.
She was all his prospects now, prospects that the knowledge of the man beneath his fists threatened.
He thought of her as he took the bastard down with a painful thump to the plush carpet, and it was her and for her and the million little prayers of impotent fury that his younger self had murmured into ratted sheets that poured out of him and into the skull of his accuser.
The crowd had stopped its chanting some time ago, a hushed blood lust descending instead as the struggle grew mortal and ugly. Then utter silence except for the wet gush of his fist into pliant flesh.
Suddenly Elvis was being pulled up and away from the mash of blood and brain beneath his hands, strong, rough men, many of them, tugging him away from the fellow who dared try to take him back where he swore he’d never go again.
“Enough, enough, you hellion. You’ve done murder.” That was Cash’s voice close against his back amongst the clamor around him and Elvis stopped his struggle against the embrace of the crowd, dozens of men staring at his handiwork on the floor or else at his pretty face with his ashen cheeks and blazing sapphire eyes. Johnny Cash stared down at the knife in his friend’s side, still wobbling with each breath, sharp steel stemming the blood loss for the time being, a vicious little dam.
“The hell is going on down here?” a booming voice made a tunnel amongst the fevered crowd and soon one of the General’s aide-de-camps appeared in front of the hubbub and took in the splattered humanity on the floor with a subtle rock back on his heels and a salvageable slosh of his brandy glass. “Sweet mother of God.” the aide muttered looking down at the good work, for if one is to kill a man he might as well be very dead by the end of the attempt. And then the aide’s eyes flicked up to scan the crowd, one uniformed soldier after another with clean hands and no stains.
Then there was Captain Presley, panting heavily and wild eyed as a fury with a large bruise already blooming on his jaw and a trickle of blood pooling in his Cupid’s bow from a busted nose. Flashing sticky red in the oil lamp’s glow was the handle of a small pen knife in his gut, still moving with each breath. “I take it this is your doing.” the Aide gesticulated with the brandy glass and a tone entirely unbiased.
“Your man stabbed me.” Elvis muttered with a calculated simplicity, the knife underscoring his point rather nicely.
“I see.” the aide wet his lips and squinted in the manner of those complacent drunks who think a matter resolved at the first explanation but feel some need to make the process more lengthy and -sober.
“…After this Molly propositioned him.” someone amongst the varying faces of the crowd jibed and Elvis’ nostrils flared with a new fight, sharp eyes squinting to make out who said the lie.
“The hell did you say?” Cash’s voice rumbled against Elvis’ back like the heavens had opened to thunder in righteous indignation at the charge against his friend.
There was dead quiet and a great deal of uncomfortable looks tossed among the throng of soldiers, plenty of whom had begun to disperse after the killing was done, only now stalled to see if this accusation would provide the further entertainment for criminal charges of the most disgusting nature.
“I guess that's a retraction.” the aide muttured in discomfortment as no further goad emerged.
Cash scoffed angrily, “Can’t just deliver a slander like that and fuck on back to your bunk. Who said that filth?” he demanded of the crowd and moved towards them, finding Elvis capable of propping himself up against the wall.
The crowd of soldiers buckled then closed as he approached them, a mix of sentiments apparent among them. Curiosity the foremost, while some looked fearful and other placating, not a few wore looks of outright disgust at the charge, which Elvis knew full well would morph in disgust for him were it to land with any effect.
“I said who?” Cash bellowed and the aide squirmed at his job being done for him by another but was content to nurse the brandy glass and offer the Captain a handkerchief for his bloodied nose.
Elvis stared at the white lace with savage distrust and the aide gingerly tucked it back, unused, in his own pocket. “Maybe someone should go get the general.” the aide decided as Mr. Cash stared down his men who had now begun to murmur amongst themselves, divided between those who wouldn’t hand over a fellow soldier and those who were questioning their chief suspect, a slight, browned little man, of his accusation.
“Was it you?” Cash wheeled round on this man who had been singled out by attention of the crowd alone.
“I’s only— -Billy done told me—- he was concerned for his safety.” the man protested as a large swell of mutterings ran amongst his comrades at this admittance.
Elvis straightened up at the distinguishing of this accomplice and braced for the next poison drip of accusation. This sort of matter, this subject alone amongst all others was one a man could not walk free from even after exoneration, it followed him always once it had even been contemplated. The fact a man would not have been so upright as to banish all suspicion, for the charge of such prolicivites to even be thought of in conjunction with a man’s name was damning enough. The suspicion was tantamount to a charge and the useless aide by his side seemingly began to sip the brew of scandalized suspicion.
“Why? Why was a member of the United States Cavalry so very scared?” Cash jeered but the little man drew himself up with the confidence of premeditated malice.
“Cause a fuckin’ molly is runin’ our ship!” the man cried out in angry exasperation that was almost convincing, even to Elvis who had been put to use by ever so many men who hated him for their very own tastes in male flesh. “And that fancy bastard wouldn’t leave him alone, poor Bill was wore to distraction in horror of it all, carried a knife with him at all times, feared he was gonna get jumped in some cramped hall, just like this one-“
“Good of a horseman as Bill was,” the gravelly tones of their commander, General Sherman, suddenly amongst them, cut the ever increasingly hysterical babble of queerified terror to a dead calm, “he didn’t have the face for bein’ jumped for free.” the gathered men stepped aside for their general and Elvis watched shiny black boots smash down blood sodden carpet until Sherman was standing over the emulsified corpse. “Not even before Captain Presley took his fists to it.”
Elvis breathed easier at this favorable logic, watching stock still against his polished wall as the general squatted over his dead soldier and with a methodical gravity that belied the otherwise disrespectful action, began to rifle through each of the dead man’s pockets. “No change.” he rose again after this proclamation. “You do your dead mate a disservice, Higgins.” the general glowered at the little man, “I can’t very well question him now, can I? And according to your testimony I must suspect him of proclivities that would make the most innocent man among you tremble. Bill could shoot and saddle well as each of ya, but he weren’t no beauty. Didn’t strike me as fuckin’ queer neither, though what you do in your bunks is not my concern. It becomes my concern when ya got a dead man seekin’ company with no coin in his pocket but penknife. That’s when i gotta make a report for a man dead out of the line of action, who is also, unless I’m mistaken, guilty of stabbing our captain.”
This heavy little speech settled on his men with all the weight that was intended. A court martial for vice was hardly the sort of diversion a man as hard boiled as General Sherman wanted to have eating up his precious time before the Dakotas. Or running amuck in newspapers, further demoralizing a country mourning the death of their sons on the frontier with suspicions of a depravity so sickening as to never be named, not even over a corpse. Only a few, among them those most likely of sharing such proclivities or else driven by holy zeal against pretty men with rich waistcoats, murmured sullenly amongst themselves at the General’s dismissal.
Cash stood to the side, gravely weighing the group’s opinion as it veered wildly from wanting to shelve the matter to a fervent need for justice for a fallen comrade -this last, noble impulse, being no doubt spurred on more by boredom than any real sense of equity.
“Maybe he wasn’t gonna pay him, maybe they was…close.” the little man, with the hunted awareness of a man who has plagiarized himself already to a degree as to make bunk life unbearable, pressed on. “Bill said he’d known, him. Before—, he’d known him.”
Silence followed this before someone else piped up in agreement, “Bill said he recognized him from Sweetheart Row-“
“-are you fuckin’ daft?” a chorus of shocked reactions mounted, varying from scolding and horror to derisive speculations on the speaker's own tastes, now that he’d gone and said the unsayable. It wasn’t very bright of him, damming as the sentence was, Elvis knew full well it bode worse of the dead man and the accuser than even himself.
-“Why the fuck did you get to talkin’ bout fairies with Bill?”
-“You callin’ Bill soft?”
-“Bill weren’t no queer, you callin’ him queer?”
A babble rose up and Elvis stippled his fingers against his thigh in nervous optimism that the tide had changed and his own participation was of lesser interest than the idiotic outing of Bill’s nature by his erstwhile, dim witted friend.
“Maybe Captain Presley wants to say a single goddamn word?” The general suddenly barked so angrily that everyone jumped in surprise and Elvis licked his lips slowly, weighing his options.
Honestly was, as usual, the best course. “Your man was drunk.” he drawled levelly.
“And how did such merry drunkenness as we were all sharing escalate to this.” the General pointed a stubby finger down at the mashed face.
There was a Major among them, middle aged and with the driving enthusiasm of a man passed over by his superiors that crowded Elvis on his left side, an intensity of feeling from the individual that Elvis could almost taste. “I reckon he mistook me for his wife, sir.” Elvis laughed: a practiced, snickering, masculine sorta laugh at a drunk fella’s expense. One he’d learned in the navy, and one he’d been covering all heaps of shit with for the last decade.
“I’m to believe he wished to stab his wife?” Sherman’s craggy face wore an expression of exhausted patience.
Elvis swallowed thickly under the minute scrutiny of the Major and replied gravely, “No sir, he had propositions I declined as he was drunk and no doubt unaware of his mistake.”
“And he pulled a knife on you, thinking you a lady, to try to coerce you?” The Major chose to join in now, skepticism written plain on his face and the men around them shifted uneasily at a near mention of the very crime they were loathe to name. “Bold to think a pen knife would suffice. You are pretty, but not small.”
Elvis knew a skeptic when he saw one and he glanced back at General Sherman who, in an amusing twist of expectations, leveled back a look of something close to appeal for him to extricate himself from his shitstorm of a reputation. Not one to sweat the details, that one, not when a job was half done. And they were only halfway up a muddy river to the Dakotas.
“I may have taken exception to his language, it was drunken but vile. I hate to disparage a dead man but-“ Elvis paused for dramatic, sorrowful effect before admitting, “-his appeals and words were vile, I took exception to them. As any honest man would.”
This admittance to unnatural propositions caused a new wave of murmurings amongst the men. General Sherman gave him a brief grimace of a smile at this before the Major at his side came in with a ruining: “Must've been appalling to have to endure such talk,” the fake sympathy had an edge of fury to it and Elvis squinted at the glowing, greasy face seething so near his own, “one assumes as a brothel owner you’re only used to hearing such talk a couple hundred times a day, hmm, Madame?“
Elvis took one look at such self satisfied righteousness -to be called a Madame? when he captained a ship?- and followed his first instinct: his spit landed goopy and squarely right in the fucker’s eye, all those lazy hours spent in expectorating competitions with Jerry finally paying off.
“-That’s enough!” the General bellowed, before this altercation could escalate too. But even then it was too late, and this fertile seed of doubt had been sewn in the minds of the informal jury around them.
“It’s true!” rose up a great many voices, “Why should we take the word of a riverboat scallywag when one of our own’s been murdered?”
“Because only he can drive this boat!” Spit flew from the general’s mouth at the vehemence of his proclamation and Elvis curled his own hands into fists, trying to keep from swaying in dizzying pain as the adrenalin of the fight and performance of his innocence began to take a toll on him, leaving shaky limbs and the keen feeling of sharp metal gently sawing at him from inside with each shallow breath.
The General stared around him with wild eyes and his crazy shock of thinning hair made the man look capable of any manner of retribution if any were to object.
His proclamation was true, and while it did not suggest innocence, it admitted the Captain’s necessity. Elvis felt sick at the thought of running this boat for another two weeks with men crowding it, all of whom would enjoy killin’ him for the joy of ridding the world of perverts.
A maidenly denial of all such wickedness was exactly the sorta idiocy most men in his position would now indulge in. From previous experience amongst similarly riled jail mates and irate customers, Elvis knew there is nothing so unconvincing or unsympathetic as an accused whore swearing to virtue. And so he kept his mouth shut. Besides, he didn’t think there was a man alive who had the guts to break the heavy silence the General’s scream had created.
“I’m not here to listen to past histories, or speculation on appetites.” the general pronounced in a measured tone, given weight by his momentary rage, “I’ve a good soldier dead and a captain stabbed. That’s enough mischief done and if we were back home in peacetime we’d have a harangue, a look into it.” he turned to his colonel pointedly at this moment, “A court would investigate and lawyers would be called and a jury would ponder and a judge would get paid and whichever outcome suited the goddamn powers that be, would be delivered. On this boat? -I am those powers, and it suits me that my hired captain gets me to where I’ve been commanded by the authority of Congress to go. We are headed to a war!” he stepped past his Major and put a firm hand on Elvis’ shoulder, broadcloth and sweat beneath his palm as he pondered his next statement. He seemed to have a second thought, and so, while keeping his hand on the Captain’s shoulder he asked a so far quiet figure in the doorway, “What is your judgement of this, Mr. Clemens? You are an observer of human nature by trade, are you not? What say you of this debacle.”
It was with a deeper shame than he had felt in some time that Elvis felt those keen grey eyes of his favorite journalist staring at his no doubt bruised throat. He had forgotten about him, he had hoped he wasn’t privy to these details. Now he waited for his judgment.
Mr. Clemens was measured as always, with a slightly weary but invested edge to his voice when he addressed the volatile crowd like a patient grandfather, “You do yourselves a disservice with this talk, truth or no.” he addressed the men and Elvis held his breath, his own eyes burning into the wall behind the group of men, fixating on where the crown molding met the ceiling, praying and dreading against some sort of damning defense being made for his younger self. “You’ve besmirched the name of a comrade who coulda been buried as nothin’ more than an unlucky drunk,” Clemens continued to address them, “but no, you had’a’have a say and speculate on matters that don’t pertain to yous. And so yous say all manner of things that won’t be forgotten anytime soon; you’ve accused our living captain of an occupation punishable by death, and in such a happy muck of speculations you forget -“ the writer stared down at the knife handle wedged in Elvis’ ribs and his hand twitched by his side, “If a boy once got paid to be fucked by a man, it stands to reason a man paid to fuck a boy.“
Well there it was, said with all the plainness usually reserved for mundane issues of life.
Something about the clear and precise articulation of what had been a shame hidden by layers of deceit and artifice for so long had the opposite effect on Elvis himself than he had anticipated. Rather like pulling a knife from a wound, it felt like learning the weapon used to hurt you was hardly the crutch you had made it out to be. His crimes were, after all, ordinary, like all other sins and disappointments and failures regularly burdened on the human race. Never once had Parker spoken so plainly, not even when he sent Elvis in to sacrifice himself to the latest patron. If he had spoken so plainly, perhaps the mirage of binding shame would have shattered and Elvis might’ve felt as he felt now, hollow and embarrassed, but fully deserving of a second chance at it all.
General Sherman’s hand landed with heavy pressure on the knife handle, the weight of his palm alone digging the blade down a bit. Elvis sucked in a breath and he saw Cash move nearer in his periphery. Poor Cash, what a scene to be subjected to, and still the old man was there for him. The Captain braced a hand against the wall as the general’s fingers tightened round the plain wooden handle, his other hand digging out a red handkerchief wadded in his pocket. No wonder the man’s coat was always so frumpy and bulging, Elvis thought amusedly, he had a million artifacts in there to ruin the fit.
"What's more criminal,” the General seemed to ponder aloud as he pressed the handkerchief to the hilt, “a boy doin' something to survive or the man who, instead of being a good Christian and exercising charity, takes advantage of that boy's desperation?"
Cash heard the sickening slither of metal leaving flesh and the gush of blood quickly smashed down by the general’s firm hand. Elvis’ own large palm came to rest on top of it from sheer reflex at the pain.
“Tomorrow at first light we’ll bury him.” The general continued unperturbed, “And we’ll do it respectfully as a member of our troop deserves, and if any of you harbor any doubts on this matter, you can spend your evenings praying they aren’t true for his soul’s sake and considering who among your dog faced lot would be up to the great honor of taking over the helm of this barge if your capable captain falls ill to sepsis from this here wound.”
Elvis leaned against the wall on his own accord, hand pressed to his gushing side and teeth gritted at the smart of it. Head flung back and nose pointed derisively, his eyes dared the company to make a parting remark. The aide’s decision to kneel and begin collecting the parts of his deceased comrade’s skull was sufficient incentive to keep tempers at bay.
With a sharply barked, —“Dismissed.” from their general, soon the crowd of men dispersed or went to fetch a cloak to take the body away, and water pales to wash the carpet.
“You have my sincere hope that this doesn’t impede you, captain.” General Sherman said as he drew back to take his own leave, about as nonchalant as if men stabbed each other and accused each other of abominations regularly in his troop.
Perhaps they did. Fuckin’ war criminal Yankee bastard-
“It ain’t shit, a scratch. I’ll be perfectly fine by tomorrow.” Elvis insisted, stepping away from the wall on his own steam and sending Cash’s supportive hand a glare.
“Good.” The general sighed, “In that case I expect you at the burial and by eight bells I want to be off.”
“As you say, sir.”
“You would do well to bring your lady friend in the morning.” Sherman added as he made to go.
“Sir?”
“It would be…affirming.” he explained, “There’s nothing quite so puzzling to simple men as a man with assorted tastes. Have a good evening, captain.”
Elvis stared after him with squinted eyes, trying to decipher what exactly was the final, apparent outcome of this entire debacle. It was bad, but it could’ve been worse. And wasn’t that the story of all his deliverances? Not a single saving grace came to him that didn’t extract its price in blood and shame. His belly flipped, a roiling, seething anger that felt better than embarrassment and had nothing to do with the biting wound at his side. “General!” he called out after him, Sherman turned ‘round with wary displeasure, “Can I have it?” Elvis asked, hand outstretched, and then expounded when the general remained clueless as to his desired object, “The knife- I’ve got a little collection goin’.”
Sherman let out a gruff scoff, which in the language of taciturn war criminals called him a a crazy bastard, and tossed the knife to him.
“Let’s get you down below.” Cash urged, hand to his elbow firmly but Elvis tried to shake it off.
“Don’t need help walkin, it’s nothin’.”
“Mm, well, I’m helpin’ anyways.” his good friend replied sternly, and shot the few meek individuals scooping brain matter into a tarp with their bare hands, a look of severe pity.
“I’m sorry you had to-to be there for that.” Elvis muttered as they jostled down the stairs side by side, his busted hand gripping the stair rail at each pained step.
“You killed a man.” Cash stated his most pressing discomfiture and Elvis should’ve known this old friend would not have minded the sordid talk, it was the taking of a soul he’d have concern for.
“He deserved it.” Elvis said simply and at the foot of the stairs Cash turned and gave him a searching look.
“I told ya I didn’t like the looks of him.” he reminded.”
“Yes I recall.” Elvis nodded, “And you were right.”
“And did he know you?” Cash pressed and if it were anyone else, Elvis would suspect them of vulgar curiosity. But not Cash, never Cash.
“Apparently.” he muttered, eyes flitting about the boat’s hold in self consciousness, scanning the rows of horses in an effort to center himself. “He recalled me, his own lack of exceptionalism didn’t deter him from trying reacquaintance.”
“I see.”
“He wanted money, and he wanted favors, or else he’d go to the press, -I guess.”
“Then God damn him.” Cash decided vehemently and took Elvis’ arm again, convinced and in need of no further details, “You’re a goddamn mess, I’d put you in a tub if we had one down here. Can’t tell who’s blood is whose.”
“We’ve got a whole river.” Elvis laughed a hiccuping little chuckle that sounded close to hysterics and Cash eyed him warily.
“Oh yeah, ice cold Missouri water’ll do wonder for the fever you got comin’.”
“That’s what I was sayin’!” Elvis cheered.
“I was being sarcastic, you fool. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“No I won’t.” Elvis shook his head with childish surety, already beginning to strip out of his waistcoat as he staggered closer to the large side door from where they watched the gators and watered the horses.
“You won’t?” Cash repeated, unimpressed and not a little worried at the lack of coordination in his friends movements.
“No I won’t.” Elvis insisted, whining softly as he pulled his shirt over his head, the wound on his side stretching and gushing out anew at the movement. “I got me a warm woman.” he explained dreamily and Cash, fully alarmed now at this altered mood gave a furtive look towards the closet Miss Rosey Beaumont inhabited, hoping the approaching footsteps he heard were not a figment of his hopeful imagination.
It was her, thank God. She came out of the hall with a coat wrapped tightly around her, petticoats peeping out the bottom and bare feet on the hay suggesting she was part way through undressing when she heard them lurching down the stairs and came to investigate.
“What in God’s name happened?” Rosey cried out, breaking into a sprint to reach them, stopping right before the captain with a gasping survey of his battered, half naked form. “I heard a great deal of banging above— did you get in a fight?”
“Whadda ya think?” Elvis teased, laughing again at his own joke and Rosey sent Cash an appealing look of alarm, as much at his wounds as the manically cheerful attitude her man now wore.
“Did you -is that- were you knifed?” She stuttered.
“Oh, yeah, yeah I was.” Elvis sobered slightly as he thumbed at the gash in his side. “Open the damn door won’t ya, Cash?” he gestured to the pulleys that swung up the folding wall.
“Whatever happened?” Rosey demanded, heart racing despite her attempts to console herself that he was obviously alive, which was the only outcome she had any great stake in.
“I killed a man.” Elvis stated, shucking his trousers and stepping towards the edge of his boat that, with the great door open now, had the water lapping only feet below them. “Here take this knife, add it to the others in the chest.”
“You what?” Rosey repeated dumbly, trying to process such a statement while impotently protesting what appeared to be his intention to jump into a frigid river with an open wound and limbs shaky from blood loss. “Don’t get in there, don’t! Elvis!”
“They’re all drunk above.” Cash explained while going to his friend’s side, grabbing an elbow again since Elvis had determinedly squatted and swung a leg into the frigid river current. “And certain threats led to a knife fight. Owner of the knife doesn’t have much of a face left. Easy, easy man, im hangin’ onto you,” he addressed Elvis as his friend lowered himself in, yanking at his gripped limb petulantly, “only need a little dunkin’, this ain’t time for a midnight swim. C’mon! Get, get up now, outta there, that’ll do, c’mon.”
Elvis obeyed with muttered protests of being able to do whatever he damned well liked whenever he damned well pleased until he was cut off by a pained cry as the effort of hauling himself back up into the boat’s hold required the recently stabbed muscle of his belly to contract. “Shit shit, that hurts.” he wheezed as Cash stared down at him unimpressed.
Rosey was more sympathetic, she dropped to her knees beside him, gently swiping at the oozing wound with soft hands and tsking over his bruises with mouthwateringly feminine concern. Elvis was in heaven under her attention and Cash left him there to retrieve a blanket so as not to have the Captain sprawled naked in the main hold with spitting snow swirling in from the open door.
“Captain, darling.” Rosey cooed in consternation and admiration and he laid there with his head in her lap, so numb from cold he didn’t feel his perforated belly or the burning pain in his chest from a never ending shame. “What am I to do with you?” she asked him rhetorically.
“Love me.” he suggested thickly, the most painful want covered beneath a jest.
“That cannot be helped.” she sniffled back. “Do not die from this.”
“I won’t.”
“Alright.”
“Alright then.” he agreed.
Sister Rosetta returned with Cash and the blanket, her usual stern attitude was softened by Elvis’ obvious plight. Cash must’ve put in a good word for his cause, that he had not incurred this damage through stupidity, for she was consoling and nice about it. “Lecherous bastards.” she cursed the men upstairs while producing m linen to wrap his belly with. “Girl,” she told Rosey with womanlike efficiency, “these will need changing every few hours if they’re not to get festered.”
“Alight.” Rosey took on the challenge.
They helped him up and shuffled him into bed, his three helpers, and when all had been done to alleviate his wound, they left him under Rosey’s soft hands and tenderly brushing lips.
“What is it?” she asked him after a long while, where despite his exhaustion he could not fall asleep under her petting and quiet singing.
He was trying to sort that out, the feeling he’d had in the hall. The feeling that came not when he’d been trapped, or threatened, or accused, or realized he’d sent yet another soul to its maker.
No. The other one. The feeling of burning shame that felt keen as ever but so utterly, dismally commonplace. “Clemens spelled it all out.” he told her in a whisper, eyes trained in the ceiling, heart thudding under his heaving chest, “Spelled it out for them, and for me. God it was so plain. I ain’t ever—“ Elvis took a deep breath and tried to be equally plain, “I ain’t ever prayed that plain before. Not even for forgiveness.”
“To speak a thing makes it manageable.” Rosie recited and he grunted in agreement. “What now?”
“Nothin’.” he muttered, "Changes nothin’. We go on. As does everyone knowin’ my business, I’m a fool for thinkin’ I can ever outrun it.”
“I don’t like it when you talk like that.” she said.
“Well, you’d’da hated the way he talked about my tight little ass, then.” he snapped back at her, aggravated at times by the tender view she had of his sordid self.
“Elvis!” Rosey rebuked, aghast as much this sentiment as his language.
“Sorry.” he conceded, then burst out again, as if too worked up to contain it, “No but he- he’s been in me, inside me! Do you know how that feels? And I didn’t even know ‘em at close sight. God help me!”
“Oh my love.” she moaned helplessly.
“Will this ever end?” he muttered, hands over his face, abjectly miserable.
“You know,” she went on, “I’d marry you before everyone, even if everyone knew. You know that don’t you?”
He did. “I do.” And he knew he couldn’t ever allow that. And it seemed increasingly foolish to hope he could ever erase that possibility. Where did that leave them? He didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything lately. Faith, blinde fucking faith was all he had these days. “You’re all I got.” he let her know he knew that, and in that way they fell asleep with her head pillowed beside his, his side slowly oozing blood, his soul hemorrhaging its surety.
He didn’t miss the scared yet pleased way Rosey prepared herself to appear beside him at the burial next morning. She knew how greatly he had worked to avoid her presence being known, and here was a grand display. But, despite that, she was ever his devoted girl, proud at any chance she could get to appear beside him.
Considering the humiliating spectate he’d been the star of last night, he thought her totally mad to still consider it a point of pride. She was an object of pity to most, and only she was unaware or uncaring of it. It made him not care much either, and he liked that.
And in that attitude they stood together, her arm through his, at the riverside grave, the crowd of soldiers looking on. The frozen mud made nasty work of digging. Rain came down in a miserable drizzle. Elvis suspected the tide would come and take the corpse away in a month or less, but he didn’t make mention of it. The soldiers had chosen the location and he appeared out of duty to the General, nothing more.
Standing there, awaiting a finishing of the business, Captain Presley battled flashes of rageful feeling between bouts of strong disinterest.
He’d been a soldier, and then a bootlegger, he’d killed men for less. None sat right with him, but some sat easier than others. This one he could give an account for to the Almighty that might pacify even His most holy self. No, when feeling raged at all it was for himself. His younger self. There were no specific memories or complaints against this faceless despoiler, he was one of so many. And yet. Yet. There was boiling inside him a rageful despair for what had been, something he’d not allowed himself to feel outside of dreams. Nightmares, in fact. The emotions he had seen in Scotty’s face when retelling of his own trials now felt personal, as though he was no longer the untested observer of his own destruction but the most belated of mourners for it.
It sat with him all day. A gruesome loneliness he had not fully felt since New York, a raw and young feeling that was sickening in its newness and also its nostalgia.
Mr. Clemens had been kind enough to take a moment, after the last bits of clodded dirt had been heaped over the wretch, in which to encourage Elvis. “You’ve had a remarkably hard road, Captain.” he had observed harmlessly, “Yet you’ve made an astoundingly good go at resilience.” The pat to his arm had been the final blow to his dignity, with thick confusion at what he felt, Elvis swallowed down the compliment and resigned himself to a distaste for the truth of the matter.
He had, after all, become quite accustomed to the honeyed view of his living demise as told by the colonel.
Here was a new perspective. He’d been a whore, he hadn’t a choice. And when he’d had a choice, he stayed at it because it’s what he’d become good at, all he was good at, according to some. He was resilient, he might’ve cast that off long ago. The inference was plain too, as was the accusation: he could start anew now. And at that, he felt so old and weary he ached under the labor of boat work that needed doing while docked.
But Rosey. For Rosey.
Evening rolled around eventually, a day off from piloting the river hardly less taxing than the ones spent at the wheel. The need to take on provisions, exercise the horses and sure up the hole in such frigid weather was grueling, although what might have been three days' work was made one long day’s labor with the help of the soldiers. They were still smarting from under their general’s grim reproof, both those who had been present to endure his dressing down and those who had only had it reported to them. What this also meant, of course, was that not only had the general’s reproof circulated, and their comrade’s death gone in no way unnoticed, but also the purported cause of the altercation to begin with.
All day there had been stares. Heavy silences. Furtive speculations. Testing little defiances when Captain Presley gave an order. Like they aimed to prove him a little less somehow, like all the good humor and rough hewn respect they’d held him in from watching his piloting and sharing a couple dozen evenings worth of cards and drink had dissipated into nothing but ribald fascination with his supposed past.
Then came the early wintry evening. The time that drinks and cards and song had been engaged in like happy clockwork before now.
They probably didn’t expect him to show. He was, after all, wounded and overworked and discovered. Rosey certainly didn’t expect him to. He’d be a fool to go, to bait them, to put up with their thinly veiled bigotry. But, by the six o’clock bell, Elvis was in their small closet berth below, donning a new shirt after having bathed and allowed Rosey to disinfect his wound again.
“You’re not going up.” she finally said it, disbelief coloring her tone and not a small degree of disapproval seeping in alongside.
“Course I am.”
“Elvis.”
“Rosey.” he responded conversationally.
“Don’t do this,” she argued still, coming around to be at his side, to give him a view of her upset face as he did up his buttons. “You don’t owe them anything. They’ll just…you don’t have to be exposed to such…don’t-“ she fumblingly begged.
“Rosey,” he rejoined, the play gone out of him but the patience so strong she almost buckled in admiration for his steadiness in the face of it all, “this ain’t the first time. You know that. And leave it to me, because I know what to do when the regular folks lose all respect. If ya can’t be respected for you respectability, ya gotta earn some recognition for bein’ ballsy at your disreputation.” he gave her a small smile, like he was a master at it, tired of the craft but sure of it. And she was new and unaware there were rules that simply couldn’t be bucked. “If we want to make it to the Dakotas, those dull bastards are gonna have to reconcile their captain’s varied parts. A situation like this don’t ever just sit, it festers. You can come up too, if ya want.”
Rosey wanted to ask if he’d like that, if it would give him courage. It seemed a little silly, and quite self centered, so she didn’t. “Alright.” she agreed instead.
“Stick with Cash.” was all he stipulated and turned and left her down there with a parting kiss to the crown of her head.
So it was Rosey found herself sat between Cash and Mr. Clemens at the small table in the back that General Sherman favored. Cards had been dealt and a small bit of chatter was already mounting at the various tables around. The room was, however, conspicuously absent any musical enlivenment. Rosey never anticipated being willing to sit at the same cloth as this odious veteran, but hard times made odd allies and she responded to Sherman’s terse but acknowledging “Miss Beaumont” as she took her seat with good grace. “Your man intending to join us?” he asked her.
“He is.” she informed him, trying to keep her voice neutral.
She couldn’t be sure, but Rosey thought she perceived a grim flicker of approval on General Sherman’s face at the news.
She played a round of blackjack as well as she could remember from Elvis’ distracted lessons and with the mounting anxiety of what was keeping the captain so long. Cash provided her a steady and unperturbed presence to mimic, whereas Mr. Clemens seemed to be in good spirits but buzzing nervously, as if he anticipated Captain Presley’s next move as much as she.
And then it happened.
Like the subtle but electrifying zap of a shockwave, the room snapped to a stop, the chatter fell silent, the slapping of cards stopped, and then someone -something- crackled the room alive again.
It was just Elvis.
Elvis as she had seen him down below minutes before. Fresh shirt undone at the throat, sleeves casually rolled up his arms, waistcoat undone and unburdened by watches, slouching into the evening’s lassitude imperceptibility by each missing article of finery, each unplaced lock of hair, the droop of heavy eyelids. It was a compelling image, one that familiarity had not robbed her of interest, even fascination, in. The accordion strap hung round his neck was not new, she had seen him hold and play it before, and it looked utterly at home on his body like all musical things did.
With an ease and casualness that seemed stridently unstudied, he walked through the frozen crowd until he reached the little gathering of high legged stools which had served, in previous nights, as the musical section. The noise of him screeching one single chair on its lonesome to the forefront was deafening. He hopped atop it lightly, as if he did not have malaria plaguing his joints, mercury salts calcifying his marrow, a hard day’s work burning his muscles and a stab wound to hamper his mobility. He sat easily atop the high stool, legs already wide and tucked at the knees to catch his heels on the wrung below. An easy stance, one that would allow for the swaying movement required by the instrument’s bellows. Elvis seemed to melt into the posture, what bit of tension that might’ve been in him dissipating as he drew his arm out, the first whining wheeze of the accordion sounding low and doleful; a test, a trial, an omen.
Rosey clasped her hands in her lap, beside her Mr. Clemens seemed not even to breathe.
Into the furtive silence the Captain spoke, easy, clear, a showman of the salt of the earth variety, as if a boy who’d plowed fields had become an entertainer, as if a man who might make you pay a dollar to see below his third button could also punch you dead.
“Since you sick fuckers like a good yarn about desperate people gettin’ their asses handed to them by fate for the hundredth time,” Elvis observed without a shred of malice, for malice would suggest enmity and enmity would suggest he cared, and a showman did not care, for he was the one who others cared about, not the other way around, “I’ve got ya a New Orleans special. I’m sure ya’ve heard it, probably even sung it many a time. If ya know the words, sing it again now. Goes like this—“
With a flex and drag of that ever so tantalizing forearm, and to the dead silent attention of his accusers, Elvis’ accordion mournfully wheezed to life, ominous, anticipatory, perfectly alluring:
“There is a house, in New Orleans,
They call the Rising Sun
And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God!
It's reason to rejoice!! One of my absolute favorite Elvis fanfics is back after such a long hiatus!! We are thrust right back into the angst and high drama of the world of Captain Presley and Rosey.
The dialogue is amazing as ever. My favorite part is when the Captain reassured Rosey: "I know what to do when the regular folks lose all respect. If ya can’t be respected for you respectability, ya gotta earn some recognition for bein’ ballsy at your disreputation". That's the essence of 50's Elvis right there.
Near the end of the chapter when Captain Presley made the dramatic entrance with everyone's eyes on him and a tense atmosphere, I was reminded of the beginning of the iconic 68 Comeback Special.
And extra kudos for ending the chapter with one of my favorite songs of all time. It fits the plot unbelievably well!
Don't usually share pictures but this was too good not to share. Upon hearing the release of the book, Elvis: What Happened? Concert promoter and friend of Elvis, Paul Lichter, wrote Elvis this letter. We can hope Elvis read this before he passed. The letter is dated August 11, 1977. Picture is Elvis and Paul.
Anyone else feeling really giddy today knowing that we will see new footage of this amazing man?! I am not ready to see such footage in such clarity…🫣 I might just pass out but oh I know it’s going to be worth it🤭
There comes a point where we, as a society, have to ask ourselves: How far are we willing to go to get a laugh? And more importantly—at whose expense? Because if we're still using Elvis Presley’s weight as a punchline nearly five decades after his death, something’s broken, and it’s not just our sense of humor—it’s our sense of humanity.
Elvis wasn’t a meme. He was a man. A deeply complicated, wildly gifted, heart-achingly human being. A Southern boy with gospel in his soul and pain in his eyes. He gave everything to the world—his voice, his body, his youth, his sanity. And for what? For us to remember him not as the electric, trailblazing force of nature he was, but as some lazy caricature of “fat Elvis dying on a toilet”? That’s not just disrespectful. It’s cruel. And it’s lazy.
What a lot of people forget—or ignore—is that Elvis struggled. He was sick. He was overworked. He was exploited. The same machine that built him up tore him to shreds. He was trapped by fame, chewed up by a system that saw dollar signs where there should have been support. He suffered from health issues, addiction, and intense mental strain. The weight gain? That was a symptom, not a punchline. But people love to reduce things they don’t understand. It’s easier to laugh at a man than to feel empathy for him. But easier doesn't mean right.
We talk so much about mental health awareness and compassion now—but where’s that energy when we look back at someone like Elvis? He gave his life, literally, to entertain us. He died at 42, exhausted and alone. And somehow people still find a way to mock him as if he was some washed-up has-been who let himself go. No. He was a man crumbling under the pressure of being the most famous person on Earth. And we owe him more than jokes at his expense.
What’s even sadder is how this reflects our society’s obsession with body image. As if someone’s weight invalidates their worth. As if a person stops being a legend the second they gain a few pounds. That mindset? That’s toxic. It’s outdated. It’s dangerous. And it needs to end. Because if Elvis can be the King of Rock and still get mocked, what does that say to the rest of us just trying to exist in our own bodies?
He changed the world with his music. He broke barriers. He gave the voiceless a sound. He moved in ways that got people banned from TV and in love all at once. He inspired generations. And even in his worst moments, even in pain, even bloated, broken, medicated, he still sang. He still performed. He still showed up.
If that’s not strength, I don’t know what is.
So maybe instead of laughing at the image of “fat Elvis,” we should mourn the fact that no one helped him when he needed it most. Maybe we should celebrate the man who made music feel alive. Maybe we should respect the legacy, not tear it down for shallow, outdated jokes.
Let’s retire the fat jokes. Let’s stop dragging the dead. Let’s remember Elvis Presley the way he deserves to be remembered—not for the weight he gained, but for the weight he carried.
Thank you so much for making the point so eloquently! Sometimes, I feel like ranting all day about how superficial and cruel people are when they make those types of comments regarding our Elvis.
First of all, the reason why I am making this post is because @iloveelvis2 has asked for more insight into why I believe Elvis may have been autistic.
Disclaimer: I just want to start out by saying that I am not a doctor or a psychiatrist or any kind of professional. Nor am I definitively saying that Elvis was autistic. We cannot diagnose someone who is not here and who cannot speak for themselves. This post is purely based off of my own personal opinions, lived experiences, and things that I have read about Elvis' life and personality. I am autistic and I also grew up with an autistic sister and father, thus I am using my own lived experiences as a reference point. Remember that autism is a wide-ranging spectrum and can present itself differently in different people, with different symptoms. There is no one lived experience of autism.
This might be a complete mess, but now I am going to list some of the traits that Elvis displayed that leads me to believe he possibly could have been autistic. So here we go.
Stuttering: It is very common for autistic people to have some sort of speech impediment or stutter. We do know that Elvis suffered from having a stutter, especially when he was younger, but it was something he carried with him throughout his life. Elvis himself said in an interview in 1956 that he stuttered when he got excited and had a hard time saying words that started with the letters "w" and "i."
Maintaining a sense of safety, familiarity, and security: Autistic people usually don't like change. We tend to like familiarity and have repetitive behaviors. We don't like outside forces disrupting or coming into our little bubbles. Elvis was the same way. It is well known that Elvis was extremely shy growing up and had trouble making friends. When he got older and as he became famous, he made sure to surround himself with his own group of loyal friends, and quite literally created his own little world and bubble with the famous "Memphis Mafia." These guys gave Elvis a sense of security, safety, and familiarity amid the chaos of his fame. While they were very much needed to help Elvis and provide him with protection for obvious reasons, they also became his entire world. So much so that I have heard countless actors and actresses who worked on Elvis' movies say that it was hard to get to Elvis because his guys were always around him. It was clearly very hard for E to let new people into his life at times, just as it was hard for him to let go of some of the people in his circle who were using him. Autistic people tend to be manipulated easily and taken advantage of by others who see them as an easy target and in spite of it we still keep these people around because we don't like confrontation and don't want to mess with the bubbles we have created. And I think that is exactly what Elvis did in some ways with the Memphis Mafia and the Colonel. Even if he was being taken advantage of, he not only wanted to remain loyal to them, but I think he felt he also would have been lost without them and the transition would have been highly difficult for him.
Repetitive behaviors: This sort of falls hand in hand with number 2. Autistic people usually do not like change and will often develop repetitive behaviors as a way of comforting themselves. One way I can see Elvis having repetitive behaviors is in his eating habits. I have heard countless friends of Elvis talk about how he was not adventurous with his taste (which is common in a lot of autistic people) and that he mainly stuck to the same southern foods he always ate. Yes, this is in part because of how he was raised but he also appeared to have eating cycles. I believe it was Sonny West who talked about a certain food combination Elvis ate repeatedly while he was touring in 1956, and during the last couple years of his life, he claimed that Elvis started "eating like 56' again." Showing that Elvis clearly went through repetitive food cycles. Not only to mention those peanut butter and banana sandwiches he loved to eat that seemed to provide him with so much comfort. Elvis was also known to rewatch movies over and over again. So much so that he would memorize the script and could repeat the dialogue over. It was claimed that he watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail around 35 times and knew every line! He also repeatedly listened to the speeches of MLK Jr. and could recite them back.
Regulating emotions: Most autistic people have problems regulating their emotions and Elvis was clearly the same way. He was highly impulsive and all over the place. His friends and family have talked about how his emotions would swing up and down and if he was upset or mad, they would make sure to stay away from him. Elvis was also known to get upset and fire people, only to rehire them after he cooled back down again.
Sensory issues: A lot of autistic people have sensory issues (including myself, it is an absolute hell). Elvis clearly showed signs of having sensory issues. For example, we know that he hated the smell of fish so bad that he banned fish from Graceland. He also had to have his room and hotel rooms at a certain temperature, usually very cold. There are several instances of him leaving and changing hotels because his room was not as cold as he wanted it to be. He also had a sensitivity to light. But that one is probably due more to his glaucoma in his eyes. But he also had problems with certain textures in food and had to have his meals prepared a specific way in order for him to eat it. For example, he only wanted to eat bacon and eggs if they were practically burned to a crisp. He also ate other specific combinations of food that many people would normally find repulsive.
Sleeping: Like many autistic people, throughout his life, Elvis had problems sleeping. He used to take sleeping pills in order to sleep, and his sleep patterns were not normal, as he was very nocturnal. now this in part was due to his lifestyle, but a lot of autistic people are naturally very nocturnal.
Stimming: Autistic people usually need to stim or fidget to help calm their nerves. Elvis was the same way. He was always moving and fidgeting, and he even said that he took up smoking because it was something he could do with his hands because he couldn't keep still.
Anxiety and digestion: A lot of autistic people have really bad anxiety and thus many autistic people suffer with massive digestion issues. While there are a lot of various medical reasons that could be at play, it is well known that Elvis had problems with his digestion throughout his entire life.
Special interests: Autistic people are well known for having special interests. Things we are interested in that we tend to become obsessive over. We love to immerse ourselves in these special interests and Elvis was no different. Elvis had many different special interests. He loved reading, religion/the Bible, spirituality, karate, football, Captain Marvel Jr., and he even immersed himself in those worlds. He incorporated his love of karate into his performances, had some of his jumpsuits designed after his favorite comic superhero, Captain Marvel Jr., even used Captain Marvel Jr.'s lightning symbol as the symbol for his TCB logo. His friends also said that he always watched football on TV wearing a football helmet because he wanted an immersive experience.
Attention to detail and hyper focus: A lot of autistic people are known for their attention to detail and hyperfocus. Their ability to tune into something, especially if it's something they love. I think we can apply this to Elvis and his music. Yes, Elvis was passionate about music, but he also had an uncanny ability to be able to listen to music and know precisely just how to arrange it. I have heard several members of his friends and band mates talk about how, despite the fact that Elvis never learned how to read music, he had an ear for arranging the music and was so hyper focused that he could come up with amazing music arrangements on the spot. He was also known for learning entire songs after hearing them only once.
Final thoughts:
Wow that was way longer than I intended it to be! I hope it's not too much of a rambling mess. Anyway, those are just some of the reasons why I believe Elvis could have been autistic. There are more reasons I could list but this post would turn into a book, and I would need to do more research for that. I just want to close by restating that all of this is just my own personal opinion and that we cannot and should not diagnose people we don't personally know, especially famous people who are no longer alive. Whether or not Elvis was on the spectrum, we will never know for sure. But I hope this post gets you thinking about the ways we view autism in our society today and how our expectations of what autism looks and acts like has changed as time has gone on. The possibility of Elvis Presley, the "king of rock n roll" being autistic does a wonderful job of challenging societies definition of what it means to be autistic. There has been such a stigma around autism, but the thought that Elvis himself could have possibly been a member of our community brings me a sense of comfort.
Summary: By 2025 in an alternate dystopian future, America is under an authoritarian dictatorship. To sustain the economy, one of the few tricks the government has permitted is biological advances allowing the biggest stars in entertainment to be cloned, trained, and sold to the masses as they once were before. At long last, Elvis Presley’s DNA is next to be developed and brought back to life. Melody Cunningham, a developmental biologist, questions over time if what Truman Laboratory and the government are doing is ethical. Risking her career and life, she must decide if enough is enough to help the new Elvis escape.
Pairing: Elvis Presley x Melody Cunningham!Black!OFC
Chapters: 1/?
WC: 3.6K+
Warnings: Authoritarian/dystopian society AU, oral, p in v, slight age gap, sex worker, uncut, sci-fi sciency biology nonsense, cussing, etc.
A/N: This idea popped into my head because who wouldn’t want Elvis to be alive right now? Enjoy this sci-fi/dystopian take <3 Kind of a long one but so much detail had to be crammed in. Likely shorter chapters in the future lol
Read Chapter 2 here.
The Washington D.C. lab was as cold as most of the minds that filled it. Melody wasn’t brought up to be emotionless but when the country was turned over into the hands of one man and the government bent over to follow, much of her life had changed as she knew it. So she put on the facade of being a loyal subject and obsessively studious. Melody wasn’t much of a fan of anything to do with structure and working out of an office, so she focused on majoring in STEM. The only way she felt her mind could be stimulated in the way music, television shows, and movies did for her was by being on her feet in a lab.
Melody chewed on her bottom lip as she flipped through the notes on the tablet. As the underling to the head biologist, she was meant to double and triple check stats and findings on the subjects. That’s what the people in their vats were meant to be referred to--subjects. Not human beings or real people. Lately, the older she got and the less naive she became to the government’s rule, Melody quietly questioned if she could live with herself. Since she joined Truman Labs last year after six rigorous years of higher education, she put on a show of doing what she was told and doing it better than anyone else who came before her. Melody’s eyes drifted over one famous face after the other, recognizing a few and others not as much.
Checking the queue of who was next to fill the empty columns was nothing abnormal. Her eyes drifted over the list of five new names, using her index finger to scan over each paragraph describing the traits attached to the subject. The very bottom of the list and final name stated ‘Elvis Presley’ and his specimen number ‘EP3577’. Melody heard of Elvis Presley, sure, but since the government regulated the Internet since she was a teenager, delving into older celebrities and music was based on physical media she could obtain.
In the following months, Melody bit her tongue and did as she was told. Elvis’s DNA was collected back in his Army days, she read, the notes describing how his specimen was obtained were as simple as that. It was the company’s way of assuring there was more DNA to spare if need be. A short clip, to her surprise, showed a young Elvis Presley in black and white getting his hair cut on a military installation that stood today. Melody was taken by the sadness that crossed his face and the smile he put on for show.
The weeks carried on until the sac surrounding what could appear to be a fetus grew rapidly within its vestibule. Melody watched and monitored him as the weeks grew into months and he was a full-fledged young man of about twenty to twenty-one years old. That’s how the government and the world liked them. Each celebrity was youthful and spry so they ultimately had a long enough lifespan to be useful again. Melody didn’t know what it was about him that stuck out to her besides how handsome he was. She had seen plenty of handsome men and beautiful women come through the lab. Knowing he died at forty-two may have affected her or it was the commercials broadcasted as of late promising to bring him back to the stage.
She hated it.
She hated knowing they would soon keep him under lock and key the same way the real Elvis had been. That’s what her grandmother who raised her was able to convey one of the nights they met for dinner.
“Now, baby, we shouldn’t talk much about Before. I don’t mind it. They already know how excited folks are about Elvis returnin’.” Her grandmother said.
“Yeah… I was just curious.” Melody offered. Her grandmother had no clue that she worked for Truman Labs. Only that she’s a scientist with an okay-paying job that helps her get by on her own to afford an apartment and modest car.
“He was just eccentric. One of the first White boys that brought flavor and rhythm to America’s attention. Back then,” she clasps her hands over her bowl of food. “Similar to now, you weren’t supposed to be gyratin’ and swingin’ your hips on TV. It was lewd. I’m surprised they want to bring him back at that age.”
“Do you still have some of his records?” Melody asked, stirring her food nonchalantly.
“Of course, baby. Go on and listen to whatever you like. Finish up your food first, you’re a growin’ young girl.”
“Grandma, I’m twenty-five years old,” Melody laughed.
“You’ll always be my baby. Now hush and eat.” Her grandmother dismissed, causing Melody to smile.
That evening she reacquainted herself with Elvis Presley’s music and gratefully enamored with the vinyls of Elvis simply talking or being interviewed. His southern drawl was much thicker than some of the southern twangs Melody encountered in the metropolitan area.
She softened for him a little more, hardly noticing it once she was back at work.
The following week, Melody was checking vitals as necessary but lingered on Elvis a while longer. The application displayed everything from Elvis’s heartbeat to statistics of survivability. The lead biologist, Randall, wandered over to her side and crossed his arms over his chest as he peeked over to the tablet. He was pushing forty or already well into his forties. She wasn’t sure. The gray hairs among the brown strands and his bushy mustache threw her off. He was lean and tall, a bit too wiry for her liking. Melody knew when he was nearby because he always sprayed too much cologne.
“You’ve taken a liking to him, haven’t you?” Randall, leaned over to whisper jokingly.
“Ha, ha. I’m only being cautious so months of our hard work comes to fruition,” she glanced over to him and then back to Elvis. His genetically blond hair was spliced into being as black as his mother’s. It was insisted upon to save costs on his appearance. Melody watched his floating and bobbing figures, a couple of tubes connected to him swishing in the life-sustaining substance.
“It’s okay to like him. Every girl your age back then did. More or less. The world will be happy to have him back.” Randall nodded, looking up at Elvis. She screwed her mouth to the side while debating what to say and what not to.
“What about his family? Doesn’t he still have relatives that are alive today?”
“Some, but who would speak out against the regime? They’ll end up with a bullet between their eyes before someone intervenes on a family’s behalf.” Randall lowered his voice.
“Right,” Melody answered tersely.
“Are you alright, Mel? You’ve been tense lately.” Randall asked, crinkling his brows.
“This is just…important. It’s nothing more than the usual stress. I’m okay.” She nodded.
“Well, don’t be afraid to let me know if you need to put in some leave. Give the rest of these freeloaders something to do.” Randall said, clapping a friendly hand on her back. He left to check on the said freeloaders and Melody felt her shoulders drop as the tension left her.
The day came when the five subjects would be transferred to the Training Wing. Melody was anxious about the entire process. The Training Wing could be stringent and border on abusive, from what she heard. Each celebrity clone needed something in particular about them ingrained into them in a small amount of time. Truman Labs was manufacturing nature versus nurture. In the past year, she learned that some things were just ingrained in every person. Sure, they had to be retaught how to play an instrument or act but they picked up on it like they were born to do it.
One of the other scientists pulled the switch down for the specific group to be drained, a yellow light flashing above his head to alert what was happening. Melody couldn’t stand still, pacing and attached to the tablet as she checked the vitals of all five persons. They slowly lowered to the bottom of their tanks, a few crumpling where they ended up and unable to walk if they tried. Elvis was one of the few that started to come to and open his eyes. His hair hung in his face and he raised a hand slowly to wipe it from his forehead. The awaiting training teams dressed from head to two in white scrubs stood by with five gurneys, two to one. The first few doors were opened with a hiss as they began removing tubes and strongarming the subjects, loading them up onto the carts and strapping their soaked forms in.
Elvis’s head rolled when he was on the cart, his eyes landing on Melody as she stood back. Her full lips parted as his strikingly blue eyes focused on her and his unstrapped arm hung off the gurney as if reaching out. That was strange as the subjects were usually too disoriented to acknowledge what was going on but there he was focused on Melody. She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes back to the tablet, checking his vitals. Elvis’s heart rate had gone up and by the time she was looking at him again, he was using what little strength he had to bat off the training team members.
“Do you have a sedative on hand?” Asked one of the escorts, a stocky woman.
Melody was distracted by Elvis’s eyes holding her gaze, impressed by how much he shoved against the hands trying to wrestle him down. The whimpering sounds he made tugged at her, stabbing into her gut and up into her heart. There was that uncomfortable feeling again, seeing him as a person and not a lab rat. Melody nodded distractedly once she regained her internal composure. The tablet was left on a desk as she walked over to one of the few refrigerators that held all sorts of drugs and syringes on hand. Melody made quick work of drawing the sedative up into a sterile needle and approached Elvis’s gurney, plucking at it to clear out any bubbles.
Elvis seemed to calm down the closer she got to him until he saw how sharp the needle was. He made a sound of discomfort, cringing as Melody gained in on him and turned over his arm.
“It won’t hurt too much,” she told him gently. “You’ll sleep,” Melody said, hoping he understood enough. Injecting the sedative, Elvis looked unsure and the space between his brows crinkled. His expression changed within seconds, his face relaxing until his eyes rolled shut.
“Thanks. He’s one strong son of a bitch,” said the same woman. “I thought they hardly knew what was going on at first?”
“Me too,” the male training member cosigned, exhaling a deep breath.
“Yeah, I don’t know. That was new for me, too.” Melody whispered, bringing a hand up into her hair and scratching at her head.
The first few days were always the toughest for the subjects when adjusting to their bodies and their unusually developed minds for their age. It had been just over six months since they were processed in a tube to where they were now under watchful eyes and cameras recording their every move. Elvis had his own housing as they all did. In some form or fashion, the apartment-like housing quarters were meant to replicate where they lived when they were that age as much as possible. The notes labeled his living space simply as ‘Audobon’ for the street he lived on back in nineteen-fifty-six. Every inch of the living quarters was paneled by two-sided glass that Elvis couldn’t see through but any observers could always watch him from room to room.
Melody observed as his caretakers and teachers filtered in and out over the days and weeks, teaching Elvis how to dress and carry himself. His guitar lessons were scheduled here and there in between and his speech therapist would usually follow. He was doing well besides the slight stutter he had grown accustomed to. But, the collective notes reassured her it was very characteristic of him after all. Any other free time was focused on what Melody called 'The Brainwashing' where a VR headset with subliminal images displaying the past of the real celebrity was given to the clone after they were sedated for up to an hour a day. Sometimes music or movies were played over the speakers too while they slept.
Elvis and Melody had yet to see one another directly since he was strapped to the gurney. As was protocol, Melody checked on the subjects solely for their vitals and acuity. Admittedly, she couldn’t wait for the day to come to encounter Elvis for herself. When the day did come, the steel door to his housing clicked as the large bolts holding it in place were unlocked after approval for entry was gained. The stethoscope around her neck felt heavy. Melody held the tablet at her side. She bumped the blood pressure cuff in her lab coat pocket, nervous to meet Elvis though she had long since come to terms that most of the celebrities weren’t who they were made to be. It felt inauthentic to her either way and yet Elvis filled her stomach with butterflies.
Melody stepped inside and waited for the door behind her to shut. Another heavy clunk and she was locked in with Elvis. From what she had observed, he grew used to his circumstances though he sometimes lashed out at the staff when he didn’t quite get his way. He was genetically a Presley--it was fitting. Melody followed the sound of guitar strumming and playing, finding him in his bedroom lying back on his bed in the same fifties garb he would have worn with the guitar atop of him. She knocked at the door out of politeness, shuffling into the room. Elvis lifted his head suddenly, jumping as he looked over to her. His eyes went wide as he moved to sit up.
“You’re that lady from the-the lab? Where they took me from,” he said warily though he appeared awestruck.
“I am. I’m Melody and here to check on your vitals. Is that okay with you?” She shuffled, clasping her hands together and the tablet against her stomach.
“You told me before that shot wasn’t gonna hurt any,” Elvis said, moving his guitar to his side on the bed. “You lied ta me.”
Melody didn’t know what to make of him, squinting just as a smile grew on his face. Her lips parted in thought before she found herself laughing.
“I’m sorry, but I had to be sure you stayed calm. It’s all protocol we have to follow. Not somethin’ I necessarily wanted to do.” She pressed her lips together, amused.
“Mm, I see. I’m gettin’ used to it, the pokin’ and proddin’,” Elvis said playfully.
Melody crossed the room humming in return, placing the tablet on the bed. She drew out the blood pressure cuff from her coat pocket and stood in front of Elvis. His socked feet were flat on the floor, his back straight as he let his hands lie in his lap. Melody grabbed a hold of the left sleeve of his button-up shirt to begin rolling it up.
“I’m sorry you’re bein’ poked and prodded,” she amended.
“Most of ‘em aren’t as pretty as you,” he tried as he looked down at her hands. “Otherwise, it’s, uh, not so bad.”
“You are just a baby, you know that?” Melody laughed as he raised a brow. Elvis might have looked twenty-one but to her, he was just a boy.
“Not where it matters,” Elvis smirked.
She should have known to expect it but to her knowledge, Elvis never openly dated Black women. Melody narrowed her eyes and didn’t respond, focusing on the task at hand as she finally got the cuff around his arm. The earplugs to the stethoscope were brought up before she took the bell and pressed it into the nook of Elvis’s arm. His eyes never left her while Melody honed in on his pulse and squeezed the pump to the cuff. Elvis’s free hand began to wander, lifting until it settled on her waist. Melody jumped, unable to bat him away while she watched the seconds tick by on her worn wristwatch. She never thought to take any of the warnings seriously about how much he enjoyed touch and attention. The job should have been mostly in and out.
That was how most of her visits went and she wanted to be less entertained and inviting to Elvis’s woes and whims, but he was unbelievably personable. His charisma was that of the original Elvis who died in seventy-seven. For the benefit of making Elvis into Elvis, the lab as a whole and inspectors didn’t seem to mind when he grew fond of someone. In their notes, everyone appeared to agree it was for the better that Elvis remained a lady’s man through and through.
Then came the time for Elvis to be given the first woman of many that he would come to encounter within the lab alone. After a few months of running jokes about watching Elvis touch himself, Melody put her feelings aside for the sake of following rules. A year was coming up since Melody first synthesized Elvis’s DNA and she came to like him and borderline possibly love him. The latter was something she struggled to admit even to herself. As was custom to the rock stars Truman Labs created, there were women on hand and hired as was the norm for the New Age. Agencies of sex workers contracted with the government and most favored working in the biotechnical field strictly for the chance to bed a celebrity.
Melody could have thrown up. She knew somewhere around this age that Elvis slept with a woman for the first time but she didn’t see why it mattered. When men were in control, it didn’t have to make sense. She guessed it was like they took pity on the male subjects to validate their collective horniness. She was on the evening shift that night, grateful to be mostly alone apart from a couple of others who made the arrangements to provide protection and essentials for a romantic evening. Anyone else was in the Security Center monitoring.
She roamed around to the glass window that peered into Elvis’s bedroom where a thin but curvaceous woman with a pixie cut dressed in a tight black dress befitting of the fifties era was leading him by hand. Elvis was slack-jawed, a tent bulging in his trousers. Melody tried to refrain from being jealous when they were on the couch watching a movie together and Elvis made the first move, tipping the woman’s chin in his direction to kiss her. She didn’t blame either one of them.
But why did she feel that way?
The woman--going by Jenny--pushed Elvis down onto his bed and he grunted, staring up with wide eyes that only a virgin could convey. “I-I ain’t never done this before,” he said.
“Oh, I know, honey. I’ll be real sweet to you. I promise,” Jenny said, her voice buttery and recognizably southern.
Then she was kneeling between Elvis’s legs, rubbing her hands up his pant-covered thighs. Melody swallowed as she forgot about the notes she was meant to be taking as she had done a hundred times before. Jenny reached up to unbutton and unzip Elvis’s pants as he perched himself on his elbows. Elvis released a shaky breath as he lifted up his hips while Jenny wrenched his trousers and underwear away. His uncut cock sprung free and Jenny cooed at Elvis warmly. The way he was trembling, Melody was sure he wasn’t going to last any longer than a few minutes and that meant they would have to book her again.
Melody groaned as she rubbed her brow, forcing herself to move to a different spot. She wanted to tell herself she didn’t need to look but her eyes were on them again. Jenny was quick since by then her lips were wrapped around Elvis’s length and she bobbed carefully. He held the base of his cock for her, his opposite hand gentle on the back of her head. Melody froze, watching his face convulse and change with every movement.
“Fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’ll… I’ll come,” Elvis grunted. Jenny made obscene mouth noises as she pulled off of him and his cock jumped as cool air met wet skin.
“It’s okay if you do. But, I guess I can stop.” Jenny smiled, pulling back. Elvis breathed out in response as if he was relieved to hear it. “Do you have a condom, sweetie?” She asked.
“Yeah, uh, yeah. One second, honey.” Elvis sat up, reaching down into the pocket the pants pooling around his ankles. He dug free a shiny, square blue wrapper that Jenny took as she stood. She moved skillfully, tearing the plastic and removing the condom. Jenny rolled the rubber on familiarly, moving with ease over top of Elvis to straddle him with her dress and heels on.
Elvis braced his hands at her hips, watching her with heavy-lidded bedroom eyes that caused an ache deep below Melody’s belt. Her heart was racing and she shivered, hoping the attention from every other observer assigned to Elvis that evening was on the couple. Melody was gripping her tablet hard enough her hand was starting to hurt before she noticed. Elvis’s head fell back as Jenny sunk down onto him, eventually lying flat on his back as her hips bounced.
Melody cleared her throat, suddenly sure she had all the notes she needed and could later review the recording if necessary. Elvis’s eyes opened again at some point and he turned away from Jenny to look toward the window he couldn’t see out of. Melody paused again, wary that he could see her somehow. His top lip curled as he moaned out and he shut his eyes again, his hands sliding under Jenny’s dress by her hand showing him where to touch her. Melody turned on her heel to return to her desk in the lab.
“Oh, my God,” Elvis hissed, his voice echoing into the hall over a speaker.
LOOK AT THESE!! Absolutely in love with this man to the point where it's beyond human comprehension 😂. These just make me feel things I shouldn't feel 😭
Like....look at him....❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
