Well, as much sense as it could possibly make.
I’m out back having a smoke by the bins on my own. By myself I don’t have to stop people grabbing my balls.
Because everyone wants to grab Elvis by the balls.
I know Rod Stewart has this problem too.
Okay, maybe not the real
Rod Stewart, but certainly the one getting on stage now. Oddly enough, his name
is Josh Stuart.
After his set is done he’ll come outside and be mauled by
women. They’ll be all over him asking for autographs and wanting to buy him
drinks. One or two might even slip their panties into his pocket with a wink
and a phone number.
Sounds great, right?
The problem is they’re not the young, nubile women we all
got into music for in the first place.
Rod Stewart was popular, what, thirty years ago? So the
women who come to Josh’s show and pinch
his ass or cup his nuts were eighteen and nineteen about thirty years ago.
He thinks he’s got it bad. He needs to take a look at me.
The women trying to get in my pants could be my grandma.
But I didn’t choose Elvis, I remember, Elvis chose me.
It’s not just the old women with sagging tits and crow’s
feet that get me down. It’s the hair and that ridiculous voice.
Uh huh huh huh!
He wasn’t even like that. It’s like so many
people created this caricature of the King that now they think the caricature is the real thing.
The bins stink of stale beer and
rotting meat. From inside I can hear Josh belting out Maggie May. Next it’ll be Hot
Legs and then I Don’t Want To Talk
About It and then I’ll be back on.
I flick my cigarette into the
darkness. Maybe I’ll mix it up a bit. Start with Jailhouse Rock and try out that new version of Suspicious Minds I’ve been working on.
The voice sounds like honey and
broken glass in a blender, “Hello, Mister Robertson.”
It’s coming from across the
street, “They say you’re the best Elvis Presley in a hundred mile radius.”
The man who steps into the
streetlight is tall and so pale. He’s dressed in a black coat and top hat. His
long, skinny legs don’t bend as he walks towards me.
I got to find myself a new gig.
Too many weirdoes around here.
“Always nice to meet a fan,” I
smile, “I’m back on in fifteen. See you after the show.”
“You’re seeing me now, Mister
Robertson.”
It’s his turn to smile, but it’s
not a Kodak moment. The corners of his mouth rise up and up until it looks like
someone took a knife to his cheeks.
When they reach behind his ears
his lips part. They’re not human teeth, more
like a cartoon shark’s. Long and thick and scalpel sharp.
“Damn,” is all I can think to
say.
My hand is on the doorknob. I
know I should run through the kitchen and into the safety of my fans.
But I don’t.
Smiley walks like he’s moving
through mud. His eyes are crazy. The pupils vibrating, epileptic. Slowly his
arm reaches out to the side.
He takes a violin out of thin air.
With his other hand he pulls the
bow from nowhere.
He holds the violin between his
head and shoulder, stops in the middle of the road. The smile gets even wider,
“Here’s something I wrote especially for you.”
And that’s when the van hits him.
Thud!
Screeching tyres!
The grinding noise of gears being
hastily shifted.
Then a whirring sound of the driver reversing.
The van jolts up and down as
Smiley takes another hit.
“Uh… hey…” I stutter. My brain
frantically tries to process it all, but pops a gasket when the van door slides
open and three guys jump out.
Three guys dressed like me.
Three guys dressed like Elvis.
Two of them grab me. I’m too
confused to struggle. The third, the one with the machine gun, steps round the
back and shouts, “Hey, Pork Chop. All I’ve got is some feet here. Move it
forward.”
Gears grate again.
The van moves forward.
Smiley is revealed.
He’s looking rosy. He’s still
smiling.
The machine-gun-Elvis spits on
him and opens fire. Smiley’s body bounces rapidly
with the rounds. The other two pull me inside the
van.
The driver is a black dude with
serious sideburns. He’s also Elvis. I wonder how safe his driving is
with those sunglasses on.
He looks in his rear view at me
and says, “You better be worth it,” then looks past me, behind the van, “Oh
shit! Shitshitshit!”
He sticks his head out the window
and shouts, “Trigger! Move your ass!”
I turn to look out the back
window. Smiley is on his feet. He looks like he’s laughing.
Trigger swings into the van, “Go,
go, go!”
The van screams away but before
we round the corner Smiley has a chance to play one note on his violin.
Maybe
it’s a coincidence, but as he slides the bow across the strings the back window
shatters and something slices my earlobe clean off.
Blood seeps from my ear, through
my fingers, all over the place.
Picking my lobe off the floor I
say, “Sorry about the seats. Must have been some glass.”
They all trade glances and
Trigger, the guy with the gun, says, “Right… the glass.”
This is an extract from 'The Absolute Evilness of the Anti-Santa and other stories' by Nathan Casey.
Available for download:
Angels, ghosts, superheroes and the best place to live after
the inevitable Apocalypse. You’ll learn why you shouldn’t buy a 3D TV and why
the world really, really needs Elvis impersonators.
Plus a support group with a grim revelation – Santa Claus
might not exist, but the Anti-Santa does… and she’s coming for you.
