| All rights reserved. |
The World Wide Rag
| Ned Necro's Interviews with Dead Celebrities |
| John Lennon and George Harrison |
By Ned Necro
I test the strength of the rope one last time, give my
intern, Ashley, a thumbs-up, and put my head in the
noose. I take a deep breath and kick the stool out from
under myself.
This hurts a lot more than I thought it would. I flail my
arms, trying to tell Ashley to cut me loose, but the
pressure on my neck won't let me get the words out. I
can see her frightened eyes staring at me as I swing
back and forth.
The rope is literally squeezing the life out of me. I start to
black out, then in the black I see a tiny white dot. The
white dot keeps getting bigger and bigger. I can vaguely
hear Ashley yelling, "Go toward the light! Go toward the
light!" Then everything is white.
I test the strength of the rope one last time, give my
intern, Ashley, a thumbs-up, and put my head in the
noose. I take a deep breath and kick the stool out from
under myself.
This hurts a lot more than I thought it would. I flail my
arms, trying to tell Ashley to cut me loose, but the
pressure on my neck won't let me get the words out. I
can see her frightened eyes staring at me as I swing
back and forth.
The rope is literally squeezing the life out of me. I start to
black out, then in the black I see a tiny white dot. The
white dot keeps getting bigger and bigger. I can vaguely
hear Ashley yelling, "Go toward the light! Go toward the
light!" Then everything is white.
| Imagine there is a Heaven. And this is your room. |
"Hey. Are you alright down there?"
The voice is familiar. Liverpudlian.
"Hey! Are you alright, man?" I open my eyes. I'm looking up
at John Lennon.
"Wow," I say, my voice scratchy. Lennon is kneeling over
me. He has long hair and granny glasses. He looks the
same as he did in the last month of his life. "Yeah," I say.
"Yeah, I'm OK."
"You mind getting up off the bloody carpet, then? Ever think
of wiping your shoes before you enter?"
"Sorry." I climb to my feet. Lennon is wearing a white sports
jacket, white T-shirt, white jeans and white sneakers. The
room we're in has white walls, white furniture, white carpet.
A white grand piano is behind Lennon. "Wow, so this is
Heaven? Everything's white?"
"Nah, this is just my room," Lennon says and sits on the
piano bench. "They try to make you comfortable, put you
somewhere you've been before. Somebody up here must
have seen the 'Imagine' video. It was Yoko's design. Now
I've got to live in it for all eternity. Never get married, Ned."
"So you know my name?"
"I know your name and why you're here. And I thought Mark
David Chapman was crazy. Have a seat."
I sit down in a plush white chair that practically swallows me
up.
"Posh, huh?" Lennon says.
"Nice," I agree, resettling on the edge of the seat. "So you
know I'm here for an interview?"
"So they tell me," he says. "You didn't bring a camera, I see."
"We haven't figured out how to do that yet," I said. "No
recorder or paper, either. I'll have to work from memory."
"God, I never thought I'd be misquoted again," Lennon
says. "Some things I didn't mind leaving behind."
"So if you know why I'm here, you must know I wanted to
interview George Harrison as well," I said. "Will he be
coming?"
"I'm right here," a voice behind me says. I turn and there's
Harrison himself, dressed in an expensive-looking white
suit, standing against the wall.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there," I say, rising to
greet him.
"He's the quiet one, you know," Lennon says. Harrison
shoots him a sarcastic look.
"Pleased to meet you, Ned," Harrison says, stepping
forward to shake my hand. "Can we offer you something to
drink? Milk?"
"Kahlua and Cream?" Lennon says. "White Russian?"
"Do you have anything that's not white?" I ask.
Lennon shrugs. "It's a theme."
"No thanks, I think we'd better get to work," I say. "I don't
have much time. Do you live here as well, George?"
Lennon laughs. "No, you should see his place! Cows
roaming around everywhere, six-armed women. That must
come in handy, eh, George?" Harrison looks down at the
carpet, shaking his head slightly. "I don't like the food there
much, though. Did you ride one of your garudas over here
today, George?"
Harrison looks up at me and exhales slowly. "Even in the
afterlife I'm chastised for my beliefs," he says while sitting
down on the piano bench next to Lennon. "Please write that
down."
"He didn't bring a bloody pen," Lennon says.
"So, George, you were a very religious person. You're
probably not surprised to end up here," I say. "But John,
you wrote, 'Imagine there's no heaven.' And here you are.
Do you find that ironic?"
"Well, I also wrote, 'Imagine no posessions,' but you never
saw me handing out money in Times Square, did you?"
Lennon says. "My lyrics were just nice ideas. I couldn't be
expected to live up to them."
"But so many of our songs were about love and peace, and
that did have an impact, " Harrison says. "That's why all of
us, all of the Beatles, are welcome in Heaven. Even John."
"I just wish Ringo would hurry up and get here," Lennon
says. "Now there's a fun guy."
"What about McCartney?" I ask.
Lennon grunts and looks away. Harrison catches my eye
and shakes his head, as if to say, "Don't get him started."
"That stupid bloody git," Lennon says. "It's not enough to
be the richest rock star on the planet. He has to change the
credits on the Lennon-McCartney songs. Am I wrong, Ned,
does 'M' come before 'L'? Am I wrong?"
"Well, no," I begin.
"And now he's singing 'A Day in the Life' in concert,"
Lennon says. "That's my song! I wrote all the good parts,
anyway. He just wrote about getting his fat ass out of bed in
the morning!"
"Now, John, calm down," Harrison says.
"Oh, yes, calm down, that's all I ever get from you," Lennon
says. "NIce, sensitive George! Let's all calm down and
worship the cows!"
"John, we're in Heaven," Harrison says.
"Oh, yeah, we can't have the truth in Heaven! We can't talk
about a partner stabbing you in your dead back in Heaven!"
"Come on, John," Harrison says with a slight smile. "Give
peace a chance."
"Fuck you, George!" Lennon stands up from the piano
bench. "Just get out of my bloody white room, all of you!"
"How about another subject," I say. "What do you think
about Cirque du Soleil's 'Love' show?"
Now Harrison comes up off the bench. "What a bloody
travesty!" he shouts. "What do flying midgets and, and ...
twirling nymphs and clowns with umbrellas have to do with
us?"
Lennon, delighted, claps him on the back. "Preach, brother,
preach!" he says.
"And in Las Vegas!" Harrison says. "The capitol of the
decadent materialistic world! That's a knife right in my
heart!"
"Yeah, see what I mean?" Lennon says.
"I'm sorry for getting so worked up, Ned," Harrison says,
sitting back down. "This isn't the place for anger."
"No, no, this is great!" Lennon says, cackling with delight.
"Who wants some popcorn?"
"I felt betrayed, but I'm getting over it," Harrison said. "All
things must pass."
"Hard-boiled eggs?" Lennon asks. "Peeled bananas? A
white chocolate Easter bunny?"
"And John, I also wanted to ask you about Yoko," I say.
Harrison slaps his palm on his forehead.
"Bloody hell, Ned," Lennon says. "Just when I was feeling
good about myself ..."
Suddenly a shudder passes through me, and I can feel
myself leaving, somehow being sucked out of the room and
hurtling through a dark void. The white room recedes into
the blackness.
"Hope to see you again someday, Ned," I hear Harrison call.
"Yeah, next time bring some powdered doughnuts!"
Lennon yells. "A joint is white, right? Yeah, bring a joint!"
Everything is black.
The voice is familiar. Liverpudlian.
"Hey! Are you alright, man?" I open my eyes. I'm looking up
at John Lennon.
"Wow," I say, my voice scratchy. Lennon is kneeling over
me. He has long hair and granny glasses. He looks the
same as he did in the last month of his life. "Yeah," I say.
"Yeah, I'm OK."
"You mind getting up off the bloody carpet, then? Ever think
of wiping your shoes before you enter?"
"Sorry." I climb to my feet. Lennon is wearing a white sports
jacket, white T-shirt, white jeans and white sneakers. The
room we're in has white walls, white furniture, white carpet.
A white grand piano is behind Lennon. "Wow, so this is
Heaven? Everything's white?"
"Nah, this is just my room," Lennon says and sits on the
piano bench. "They try to make you comfortable, put you
somewhere you've been before. Somebody up here must
have seen the 'Imagine' video. It was Yoko's design. Now
I've got to live in it for all eternity. Never get married, Ned."
"So you know my name?"
"I know your name and why you're here. And I thought Mark
David Chapman was crazy. Have a seat."
I sit down in a plush white chair that practically swallows me
up.
"Posh, huh?" Lennon says.
"Nice," I agree, resettling on the edge of the seat. "So you
know I'm here for an interview?"
"So they tell me," he says. "You didn't bring a camera, I see."
"We haven't figured out how to do that yet," I said. "No
recorder or paper, either. I'll have to work from memory."
"God, I never thought I'd be misquoted again," Lennon
says. "Some things I didn't mind leaving behind."
"So if you know why I'm here, you must know I wanted to
interview George Harrison as well," I said. "Will he be
coming?"
"I'm right here," a voice behind me says. I turn and there's
Harrison himself, dressed in an expensive-looking white
suit, standing against the wall.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there," I say, rising to
greet him.
"He's the quiet one, you know," Lennon says. Harrison
shoots him a sarcastic look.
"Pleased to meet you, Ned," Harrison says, stepping
forward to shake my hand. "Can we offer you something to
drink? Milk?"
"Kahlua and Cream?" Lennon says. "White Russian?"
"Do you have anything that's not white?" I ask.
Lennon shrugs. "It's a theme."
"No thanks, I think we'd better get to work," I say. "I don't
have much time. Do you live here as well, George?"
Lennon laughs. "No, you should see his place! Cows
roaming around everywhere, six-armed women. That must
come in handy, eh, George?" Harrison looks down at the
carpet, shaking his head slightly. "I don't like the food there
much, though. Did you ride one of your garudas over here
today, George?"
Harrison looks up at me and exhales slowly. "Even in the
afterlife I'm chastised for my beliefs," he says while sitting
down on the piano bench next to Lennon. "Please write that
down."
"He didn't bring a bloody pen," Lennon says.
"So, George, you were a very religious person. You're
probably not surprised to end up here," I say. "But John,
you wrote, 'Imagine there's no heaven.' And here you are.
Do you find that ironic?"
"Well, I also wrote, 'Imagine no posessions,' but you never
saw me handing out money in Times Square, did you?"
Lennon says. "My lyrics were just nice ideas. I couldn't be
expected to live up to them."
"But so many of our songs were about love and peace, and
that did have an impact, " Harrison says. "That's why all of
us, all of the Beatles, are welcome in Heaven. Even John."
"I just wish Ringo would hurry up and get here," Lennon
says. "Now there's a fun guy."
"What about McCartney?" I ask.
Lennon grunts and looks away. Harrison catches my eye
and shakes his head, as if to say, "Don't get him started."
"That stupid bloody git," Lennon says. "It's not enough to
be the richest rock star on the planet. He has to change the
credits on the Lennon-McCartney songs. Am I wrong, Ned,
does 'M' come before 'L'? Am I wrong?"
"Well, no," I begin.
"And now he's singing 'A Day in the Life' in concert,"
Lennon says. "That's my song! I wrote all the good parts,
anyway. He just wrote about getting his fat ass out of bed in
the morning!"
"Now, John, calm down," Harrison says.
"Oh, yes, calm down, that's all I ever get from you," Lennon
says. "NIce, sensitive George! Let's all calm down and
worship the cows!"
"John, we're in Heaven," Harrison says.
"Oh, yeah, we can't have the truth in Heaven! We can't talk
about a partner stabbing you in your dead back in Heaven!"
"Come on, John," Harrison says with a slight smile. "Give
peace a chance."
"Fuck you, George!" Lennon stands up from the piano
bench. "Just get out of my bloody white room, all of you!"
"How about another subject," I say. "What do you think
about Cirque du Soleil's 'Love' show?"
Now Harrison comes up off the bench. "What a bloody
travesty!" he shouts. "What do flying midgets and, and ...
twirling nymphs and clowns with umbrellas have to do with
us?"
Lennon, delighted, claps him on the back. "Preach, brother,
preach!" he says.
"And in Las Vegas!" Harrison says. "The capitol of the
decadent materialistic world! That's a knife right in my
heart!"
"Yeah, see what I mean?" Lennon says.
"I'm sorry for getting so worked up, Ned," Harrison says,
sitting back down. "This isn't the place for anger."
"No, no, this is great!" Lennon says, cackling with delight.
"Who wants some popcorn?"
"I felt betrayed, but I'm getting over it," Harrison said. "All
things must pass."
"Hard-boiled eggs?" Lennon asks. "Peeled bananas? A
white chocolate Easter bunny?"
"And John, I also wanted to ask you about Yoko," I say.
Harrison slaps his palm on his forehead.
"Bloody hell, Ned," Lennon says. "Just when I was feeling
good about myself ..."
Suddenly a shudder passes through me, and I can feel
myself leaving, somehow being sucked out of the room and
hurtling through a dark void. The white room recedes into
the blackness.
"Hope to see you again someday, Ned," I hear Harrison call.
"Yeah, next time bring some powdered doughnuts!"
Lennon yells. "A joint is white, right? Yeah, bring a joint!"
Everything is black.
| Forgot to bring his crown of thorns to the photo shoot |
"Ned, are you O.K.?"
I open my eyes. My intern Ashley is looking down at me, her
blond hair hanging above my face.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm fine."
"Thank God," she says. "I need these credits to graduate."
Two paramedics are gathering up their equipment and
preparing to leave my apartment. "Hey, thanks, guys," I say,
rolling into a sitting position on the floor.
"No problem, sir," one of the paramedics says. "Next time
be a little more careful doing your, uh, 'magic rope tricks.'"
The other paramedic rolls his eyes.
"Sure, thanks again," I say.
"Did you get what you wanted?" Ashley asks.
"Oh, yeah," I say. "I got my story." With my hand I feel the
rope burns on my neck. I clear my parched throat. "Do we
have any Kahlua?"
I open my eyes. My intern Ashley is looking down at me, her
blond hair hanging above my face.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm fine."
"Thank God," she says. "I need these credits to graduate."
Two paramedics are gathering up their equipment and
preparing to leave my apartment. "Hey, thanks, guys," I say,
rolling into a sitting position on the floor.
"No problem, sir," one of the paramedics says. "Next time
be a little more careful doing your, uh, 'magic rope tricks.'"
The other paramedic rolls his eyes.
"Sure, thanks again," I say.
"Did you get what you wanted?" Ashley asks.
"Oh, yeah," I say. "I got my story." With my hand I feel the
rope burns on my neck. I clear my parched throat. "Do we
have any Kahlua?"
| Coming Soon ... |
Gene Siskel reviews movies from Hell! |
| This column is a work of satirical fiction. Any resemblance to anyone dead is purely coincidental. Copyright 2008 |
| Elvis Presley |
By Ned Necro
Paranormal Journalist
I can’t do it. There’s no way. Not another bite.
“Come on, Ned, open up. It’s just a doughnut,” my intern,
Ashley, says.
“Hunh-unh,” I grunt. I can barely lift my head off the table. My
stomach feels like a block of granite.
“Just one more bite,” she says. “You can do it. Open up for
Ashley…”
I swallow against the rising tide and finally open my mouth
again. Nobody can say I’m not committed to my work.
‘Good, good,” Ashley says as I nibble at the doughnut in her
hand, the sugary white frosting sticking to my lips. “That’s a
good boy …”
As the sweet dough slides down my throat, my stomach starts
to quiver, violently. I knew this was a mistake. I can feel I'm
going to be sick — again — and I struggle to keep it all down.
Then a pain jerks me sideways in my chair, and it feels like
something vital has broken open down there. A groan of agony
escapes my mouth.
“Oh, come on, Ned,” Ashley says. “You’ve still got pudding
left.”
Sweat pouring off my forehead, I slump forward, holding my
stomach with both hands. Another wave of pain hits me, and I
pitch forward onto the floor.
Everything goes black.
Paranormal Journalist
I can’t do it. There’s no way. Not another bite.
“Come on, Ned, open up. It’s just a doughnut,” my intern,
Ashley, says.
“Hunh-unh,” I grunt. I can barely lift my head off the table. My
stomach feels like a block of granite.
“Just one more bite,” she says. “You can do it. Open up for
Ashley…”
I swallow against the rising tide and finally open my mouth
again. Nobody can say I’m not committed to my work.
‘Good, good,” Ashley says as I nibble at the doughnut in her
hand, the sugary white frosting sticking to my lips. “That’s a
good boy …”
As the sweet dough slides down my throat, my stomach starts
to quiver, violently. I knew this was a mistake. I can feel I'm
going to be sick — again — and I struggle to keep it all down.
Then a pain jerks me sideways in my chair, and it feels like
something vital has broken open down there. A groan of agony
escapes my mouth.
“Oh, come on, Ned,” Ashley says. “You’ve still got pudding
left.”
Sweat pouring off my forehead, I slump forward, holding my
stomach with both hands. Another wave of pain hits me, and I
pitch forward onto the floor.
Everything goes black.
| The promised land? |
bigger, brighter, and suddenly I’m engulfed in white light.
There’s no sound, as if I’m in outer space. Then the white
above my head: a huge potted fern; a tiki-and-glass coffee
table; a small monkey looking down at me.
“You alright down there, man?” a husky voice asks.
I turn my head to the right — I’m lying flat on the floor — and
look up at a huge, hairy belly, hanging out of an unbuttoned
Hawaiian shirt. I blink my eyes, trying to focus.
“Can you hear me, buddy?” the voice asks, the belly rising
and falling in time to the words.
I try to sit up but I’m still too dizzy; I lurch sideways, and the
man drops to one knee and takes my elbow in his hand. I
look up at him: a mass of jet-black hair and mutton-chop
sideburns, concerned blue eyes and what could only be
described as a friendly sneer.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp. “Elvis!”
His laugh is just as husky and breathy as his voice. “Who’d
you expect, Tom Jones? You came here to see me, right?”
“Yeah, but … God, it’s an honor!” I grab his hand and shake
it urgently. “You look so great! I can’t believe it!”
“Great?” He gives me the sneer again. “I’m 70 pounds
overweight, man. You stay in the shape you were in when
you died, you know. I’m grateful to be up here, don’t get me
wrong, but still …”
“It’s just so good to see you!” I get an urge to hug him but
think better of it. “Sorry, I’m still a little woozy.”
“Yeah, let’s get you into a chair,”
He helps me to my feet, then into a big, cushy chair with a
floral-print fabric. “Wow, this is the Jungle Room, from
Graceland!”
“Yeah, they try to put you in a room where you’ll feel
comfortable,” Elvis says as he sits in a throne-like chair with
carved wooden armrests. “I mean, I decorated the place, but
it’s getting a little old. I definitely wasn’t thinking about
eternity when I picked out this paneling.”
I laugh and then let out a startled sound as the monkey
jumps into my lap. It looks up at me, laughing and showing
its teeth. It’s holding a lit cigar.
“Scatter, get out of the man’s lap, damn it!” Elvis says,
reaching over to shoo the chimp away. “That’s about as
funny as a shitter on a hearse!” The monkey leaps away,
screeching, then lands on top of a 1970s-style wood-cabinet
TV set and puts the cigar in its mouth.
“Turn the TV on, Scatter,” Elvis says. “Keep the sound
down low. Just a little background noise.” The chimp
reaches down and does as commanded.
“Wow, you get TV up here?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve got Dish, TiVo, you name it,” the King says.
“And satellite radio. They pipe the music in for me.”
“So do you follow modern music?”
“Not really,” Elvis says, looking at Nancy Grace’s image on
the TV set. “They’ve got an oldies channel on the satellite
radio. That’s good enough for me.”
“It’s weird, but a lot of people think you’re still alive,” I say.
Elvis shakes his head and lets out a weary laugh, his eyes
still on the TV screen. “A lot of people think we put a man on
the moon, too. People don’t know nothin’. But neither did I
when I was down there, so I can’t say much.”
“So you’ve learned some secrets since you’ve been up
here?”
“Well, I could tell you about that,” he says, opening a
storage compartment in the right arm of his throne. “But
then I’d have to kill you.” He takes a pistol out of the
compartment.
“Uh … Elvis … I’m already dead,” I say, rising from the chair.
Elvis turns the gun away from me and fires. The TV screen
explodes. The monkey jumps, shrieking, from the top of the
TV, landing on a fern against the far wall.
“Never could get used to a remote control,” the King says,
putting the gun back inside the chair arm. “They’ll bring me
a new TV shortly. They always do.”
I sit back down in the chair, a little shaky. “So I gather you
don’t like Nancy Grace?”
“Is that who she was?” Elvis asks. The monkey begins to
laugh, hyena-style, from the fern; somehow the cigar is still
lit and in its hand. Elvis sneers at me again and snickers
quietly.
“OK,” I say, attempting to gather my wits. “Um … I’m trying
to think what I need to ask you about.”
“This is a long way to come without a plan,” Elvis says.
"Didn’t you bring a notebook, or a tape recorder?”
“I haven’t figured out how to do that yet,” I say. “I apologize,
I’m just a little rattled by the gunfire. You know. In Heaven.”
“Sorry, Ned. Just havin’ a little fun,” Elvis says, reaching
across the coffee table to shake hands. “No hard feelings. It
gets a little lonely up here with just a monkey for company.”
The chimp shrieks again from the corner.
“Where are your friends, the ‘Memphis Mafia,’ as they were
known?”
“Those boys ended up in a different place, if you get my
drift,” Elvis says, glancing at the floor.
“Yeah, I saw some of those books they wrote about you
after you died. Pretty rough stuff,” I say.
“Oh yeah. I’ve had a whole lot of time to think about all that
back-stabbin’ garbage, you know?” Elvis says. “It’s hard to
keep the bad thoughts away, even up here. It’s enough to
make a good man mean.”
“Not to take you down another unpleasant road, but what
did you think of your daughter, Lisa Marie, marrying Michael
Jackson?”
The sneer again. “I’m the King, you know? The King of Rock
and Roll, is how it started, and then just the King. So then
when he gets big, he calls himself the King of Pop. Like that’
s something to brag about. It sounds like a beverage
distributor. And then, when he gets in trouble touchin’ the
little kids, he marries my daughter, like it’s a royal wedding
or something. I was against it, but what can I do up here?
She got out of it, and no real harm done, I guess.”
“What do you think of Michael’s music?” I ask.
“Next question.”
“What about Lisa Marie marrying Nicolas Cage?”
“Well, he’s more my kind of guy, for sure,” Elvis says. “But
he’s always imitatin’ me in his movies. Have you seen that?
He’s doin’ me in, like, half his movies. And then he marries
my daughter. Again, it kind of creeped me out. But she
moved on from that one, too, so whatever. She’s a tough
kid.”
“You were a notorious ladies man. Do you still get around
with the women?” I ask.
“Come on, this is Heaven, man,” Elvis says with a
reproachful look. “I’m lucky they let me have the gun.”
“Any of the women stand out in your memories?”
“I loved them all,” Elvis says. “Some several times.” He
laughs, then composes his face into a serious expression. “I’
m sorry, Lord,” he says, looking up to the green wallpaper
on the ceiling. “We’re in Heaven. I try to keep that in mind.”
“None of the women stand out? Ann-Margret?”
“It’s all a blur,” he says, smiling. “A pretty, nice-smellin’ blur.”
“I saw Cybill Shepherd on TV once talking about sleeping
with you,” I say. “She said you were famous for loving fried
peanut-butter and banana sandwiches and stuff, but there
was at least one thing you wouldn’t eat.”
Elvis’s face reddens. “Oh yeah? Well, ol’ Cybill might have
convinced herself that story was true, but there was at least
one thing she wouldn’t swallow.” He looks back to the
ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord.”
“Speaking of eating, that was one of your great joys. Do you
get to do that up here?”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same,” Elvis says with a hangdog
expression. “You can eat anything you want, as much as
you want, but it doesn’t really have any taste, and you can’t
feel it in your stomach afterward. We don’t go to the
bathroom up here, either. Did you know that?”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. Really?”
“Really. Except for that little bastard.” Elvis gestures toward
the chimp. “I’m cleanin’ up his messes all day long.” The
monkey puts the cigar in his mouth and then blows out a
thick puff of smoke.
“So, forgive me, Elvis, but it seems like you’re kind of
depressed up here in Heaven,” I say. “What do you do for
fun? Do you still sing?”
“Oh, yeah, you know it, man,” he says, standing up from the
throne. “I sing every day.” He steps toward a grand piano at
the back of the room. “Nothin’ but gospel, though. That’s all
He wants to hear in Heaven.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “I mean, you’re the King of Rock and
Roll, and God brought you up here. Maybe he’d like to hear
‘Heartbreak Hotel’ or ‘Jailhouse Rock.’”
“Maybe,” Elvis says as he sits at the piano bench. “But I don’
t want to take that chance, you know what I mean?” He
looks up at me with a killer smile, as he puts on a pair of
gold wraparound sunglasses. “Just TCB, man. Takin’ care
of business.”
He plays a few chords, still smiling. His mood improved as
soon as music was mentioned. He begins humming along
with the piano, as the chimp hops deftly on top of the
instrument.
Elvis begins singing “Peace in the Valley,” his voice so clear
and strong it sends shivers down my spine. Then a deep
shudder passes through me, and I feel myself being sucked
out of the room somehow, hurtling into a dark void. The
jungle room begins to recede into blackness.
“Hey, don’t leave so soon, Ned,” Elvis says. “Let me show
you how I taught Scatter to sing harmony.”
The monkey shrieks in the darkness.
“Eat a Twinkie for me, man!” Elvis calls.
Then everything is black once more.
There’s no sound, as if I’m in outer space. Then the white
above my head: a huge potted fern; a tiki-and-glass coffee
table; a small monkey looking down at me.
“You alright down there, man?” a husky voice asks.
I turn my head to the right — I’m lying flat on the floor — and
look up at a huge, hairy belly, hanging out of an unbuttoned
Hawaiian shirt. I blink my eyes, trying to focus.
“Can you hear me, buddy?” the voice asks, the belly rising
and falling in time to the words.
I try to sit up but I’m still too dizzy; I lurch sideways, and the
man drops to one knee and takes my elbow in his hand. I
look up at him: a mass of jet-black hair and mutton-chop
sideburns, concerned blue eyes and what could only be
described as a friendly sneer.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp. “Elvis!”
His laugh is just as husky and breathy as his voice. “Who’d
you expect, Tom Jones? You came here to see me, right?”
“Yeah, but … God, it’s an honor!” I grab his hand and shake
it urgently. “You look so great! I can’t believe it!”
“Great?” He gives me the sneer again. “I’m 70 pounds
overweight, man. You stay in the shape you were in when
you died, you know. I’m grateful to be up here, don’t get me
wrong, but still …”
“It’s just so good to see you!” I get an urge to hug him but
think better of it. “Sorry, I’m still a little woozy.”
“Yeah, let’s get you into a chair,”
He helps me to my feet, then into a big, cushy chair with a
floral-print fabric. “Wow, this is the Jungle Room, from
Graceland!”
“Yeah, they try to put you in a room where you’ll feel
comfortable,” Elvis says as he sits in a throne-like chair with
carved wooden armrests. “I mean, I decorated the place, but
it’s getting a little old. I definitely wasn’t thinking about
eternity when I picked out this paneling.”
I laugh and then let out a startled sound as the monkey
jumps into my lap. It looks up at me, laughing and showing
its teeth. It’s holding a lit cigar.
“Scatter, get out of the man’s lap, damn it!” Elvis says,
reaching over to shoo the chimp away. “That’s about as
funny as a shitter on a hearse!” The monkey leaps away,
screeching, then lands on top of a 1970s-style wood-cabinet
TV set and puts the cigar in its mouth.
“Turn the TV on, Scatter,” Elvis says. “Keep the sound
down low. Just a little background noise.” The chimp
reaches down and does as commanded.
“Wow, you get TV up here?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve got Dish, TiVo, you name it,” the King says.
“And satellite radio. They pipe the music in for me.”
“So do you follow modern music?”
“Not really,” Elvis says, looking at Nancy Grace’s image on
the TV set. “They’ve got an oldies channel on the satellite
radio. That’s good enough for me.”
“It’s weird, but a lot of people think you’re still alive,” I say.
Elvis shakes his head and lets out a weary laugh, his eyes
still on the TV screen. “A lot of people think we put a man on
the moon, too. People don’t know nothin’. But neither did I
when I was down there, so I can’t say much.”
“So you’ve learned some secrets since you’ve been up
here?”
“Well, I could tell you about that,” he says, opening a
storage compartment in the right arm of his throne. “But
then I’d have to kill you.” He takes a pistol out of the
compartment.
“Uh … Elvis … I’m already dead,” I say, rising from the chair.
Elvis turns the gun away from me and fires. The TV screen
explodes. The monkey jumps, shrieking, from the top of the
TV, landing on a fern against the far wall.
“Never could get used to a remote control,” the King says,
putting the gun back inside the chair arm. “They’ll bring me
a new TV shortly. They always do.”
I sit back down in the chair, a little shaky. “So I gather you
don’t like Nancy Grace?”
“Is that who she was?” Elvis asks. The monkey begins to
laugh, hyena-style, from the fern; somehow the cigar is still
lit and in its hand. Elvis sneers at me again and snickers
quietly.
“OK,” I say, attempting to gather my wits. “Um … I’m trying
to think what I need to ask you about.”
“This is a long way to come without a plan,” Elvis says.
"Didn’t you bring a notebook, or a tape recorder?”
“I haven’t figured out how to do that yet,” I say. “I apologize,
I’m just a little rattled by the gunfire. You know. In Heaven.”
“Sorry, Ned. Just havin’ a little fun,” Elvis says, reaching
across the coffee table to shake hands. “No hard feelings. It
gets a little lonely up here with just a monkey for company.”
The chimp shrieks again from the corner.
“Where are your friends, the ‘Memphis Mafia,’ as they were
known?”
“Those boys ended up in a different place, if you get my
drift,” Elvis says, glancing at the floor.
“Yeah, I saw some of those books they wrote about you
after you died. Pretty rough stuff,” I say.
“Oh yeah. I’ve had a whole lot of time to think about all that
back-stabbin’ garbage, you know?” Elvis says. “It’s hard to
keep the bad thoughts away, even up here. It’s enough to
make a good man mean.”
“Not to take you down another unpleasant road, but what
did you think of your daughter, Lisa Marie, marrying Michael
Jackson?”
The sneer again. “I’m the King, you know? The King of Rock
and Roll, is how it started, and then just the King. So then
when he gets big, he calls himself the King of Pop. Like that’
s something to brag about. It sounds like a beverage
distributor. And then, when he gets in trouble touchin’ the
little kids, he marries my daughter, like it’s a royal wedding
or something. I was against it, but what can I do up here?
She got out of it, and no real harm done, I guess.”
“What do you think of Michael’s music?” I ask.
“Next question.”
“What about Lisa Marie marrying Nicolas Cage?”
“Well, he’s more my kind of guy, for sure,” Elvis says. “But
he’s always imitatin’ me in his movies. Have you seen that?
He’s doin’ me in, like, half his movies. And then he marries
my daughter. Again, it kind of creeped me out. But she
moved on from that one, too, so whatever. She’s a tough
kid.”
“You were a notorious ladies man. Do you still get around
with the women?” I ask.
“Come on, this is Heaven, man,” Elvis says with a
reproachful look. “I’m lucky they let me have the gun.”
“Any of the women stand out in your memories?”
“I loved them all,” Elvis says. “Some several times.” He
laughs, then composes his face into a serious expression. “I’
m sorry, Lord,” he says, looking up to the green wallpaper
on the ceiling. “We’re in Heaven. I try to keep that in mind.”
“None of the women stand out? Ann-Margret?”
“It’s all a blur,” he says, smiling. “A pretty, nice-smellin’ blur.”
“I saw Cybill Shepherd on TV once talking about sleeping
with you,” I say. “She said you were famous for loving fried
peanut-butter and banana sandwiches and stuff, but there
was at least one thing you wouldn’t eat.”
Elvis’s face reddens. “Oh yeah? Well, ol’ Cybill might have
convinced herself that story was true, but there was at least
one thing she wouldn’t swallow.” He looks back to the
ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord.”
“Speaking of eating, that was one of your great joys. Do you
get to do that up here?”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same,” Elvis says with a hangdog
expression. “You can eat anything you want, as much as
you want, but it doesn’t really have any taste, and you can’t
feel it in your stomach afterward. We don’t go to the
bathroom up here, either. Did you know that?”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. Really?”
“Really. Except for that little bastard.” Elvis gestures toward
the chimp. “I’m cleanin’ up his messes all day long.” The
monkey puts the cigar in his mouth and then blows out a
thick puff of smoke.
“So, forgive me, Elvis, but it seems like you’re kind of
depressed up here in Heaven,” I say. “What do you do for
fun? Do you still sing?”
“Oh, yeah, you know it, man,” he says, standing up from the
throne. “I sing every day.” He steps toward a grand piano at
the back of the room. “Nothin’ but gospel, though. That’s all
He wants to hear in Heaven.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “I mean, you’re the King of Rock and
Roll, and God brought you up here. Maybe he’d like to hear
‘Heartbreak Hotel’ or ‘Jailhouse Rock.’”
“Maybe,” Elvis says as he sits at the piano bench. “But I don’
t want to take that chance, you know what I mean?” He
looks up at me with a killer smile, as he puts on a pair of
gold wraparound sunglasses. “Just TCB, man. Takin’ care
of business.”
He plays a few chords, still smiling. His mood improved as
soon as music was mentioned. He begins humming along
with the piano, as the chimp hops deftly on top of the
instrument.
Elvis begins singing “Peace in the Valley,” his voice so clear
and strong it sends shivers down my spine. Then a deep
shudder passes through me, and I feel myself being sucked
out of the room somehow, hurtling into a dark void. The
jungle room begins to recede into blackness.
“Hey, don’t leave so soon, Ned,” Elvis says. “Let me show
you how I taught Scatter to sing harmony.”
The monkey shrieks in the darkness.
“Eat a Twinkie for me, man!” Elvis calls.
Then everything is black once more.
| Elvis shakes his Dick on The Rag |
“Good, I was so worried,” she says. “Without you, I’d
have to take a real class.”
“Uh, Necro, what happened here?” Noonan, one of the
paramedics, asks me as I attempt, painfully, to sit up on
the floor.
“Just celebrating the completion of a good article,” I say,
holding my still-sore stomach.
“Some celebration,” Noonan says, being a real hardass
about the whole thing. “It’s no fun pumping the stomach
of a guy who almost eats himself to death. We got fried
baloney sandwiches here, fried chicken, chicken-fried
steak, fried pork chops … and what’s that, a deep-fried
Twinkie?”
“Yep,” Ashley says.
“This looks like a suicide attempt to me,” Noonan says.
“Come on, Noonan,” I say. “Why would I want to die? I’ve
got everything to live for.”
Noonan looks around at my cheap apartment, the ratty
furniture and tiny TV. “If you say so, Necro,” he says,
shaking his head. “Just know that we’re getting a little
tired of cleaning up your messes.”
“Point taken,” I say and watch Noonan and his boys carry
their equipment out into the hall. Ashley sits down on the
floor next to me.
“Did you miss me?” she asks.
I think about spending eternity with a shrieking, shitting
monkey and say, “Yeah, sweetie, I did.” I pull her face
close to mine and kiss her on the forehead. “Just don’t
ever take up cigars, OK?”
have to take a real class.”
“Uh, Necro, what happened here?” Noonan, one of the
paramedics, asks me as I attempt, painfully, to sit up on
the floor.
“Just celebrating the completion of a good article,” I say,
holding my still-sore stomach.
“Some celebration,” Noonan says, being a real hardass
about the whole thing. “It’s no fun pumping the stomach
of a guy who almost eats himself to death. We got fried
baloney sandwiches here, fried chicken, chicken-fried
steak, fried pork chops … and what’s that, a deep-fried
Twinkie?”
“Yep,” Ashley says.
“This looks like a suicide attempt to me,” Noonan says.
“Come on, Noonan,” I say. “Why would I want to die? I’ve
got everything to live for.”
Noonan looks around at my cheap apartment, the ratty
furniture and tiny TV. “If you say so, Necro,” he says,
shaking his head. “Just know that we’re getting a little
tired of cleaning up your messes.”
“Point taken,” I say and watch Noonan and his boys carry
their equipment out into the hall. Ashley sits down on the
floor next to me.
“Did you miss me?” she asks.
I think about spending eternity with a shrieking, shitting
monkey and say, “Yeah, sweetie, I did.” I pull her face
close to mine and kiss her on the forehead. “Just don’t
ever take up cigars, OK?”
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