The King is Dead
In this week’s excerpt from Controlling Chaos, titled The King is Dead, and here I’m talking about Elvis, you’ll learn what really happened.
I was up at five, just putting the coffee on, when Tom arrived. We’d have a cup, fill up a thermos, then head to Beaver Island. I looked at the calendar, saw it was August 17th, and put a big X through the day before. I was thinking: Five more weeks of this ungodly weather and we’ll start the harvest!
Tom came into the kitchen and asked, “You hear about Elvis?”
“Unh uh. What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
“The King is dead? What happened?”
“They’re kind of vague on the radio, but it sounds like he had a heart attack trying to squeeze one out.”
“One what?”
“One turd. He died on the toilet.”
“No shit?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Actually, I meant that in a figurative way.”
“Crazy way to go, huh?”
“That’s for sure. I suspect there’s more to the story.”
As we learned that evening from the Waffle Shack tape, there was.
A call from Major Johnny to Anil provided some interesting details. “I heard his girlfriend Ginger screaming, ran in the bathroom, and there was Elvis, bloated and frozen in a squatting position, face down on the bathroom floor with a sausage stuck in his throat.”
“What was he doing?”
“Nothing. He was dead.”
“My star attraction is dead? Goddamnit, Major Johnny,” raged Anil, “you were supposed to get Elvis healthy for my concert; instead you done killed him.”
“I might’ve over-prescribed, but you’re just as much to blame.”
“Me? I’m not the one drugging him.”
“No, but you did send him pork products.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“They gave him terminal constipation, that’s what.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a Valsalva Maneuver.”
“What’s that?”
“According to Dr. Nick, it means the strain of forcing a poop cut off the blood to his abdominal aorta and caused a heart attack.”
“Jesus. . .what a way to go. Was it. . .painful?”
“With all the codeine Dr. Nick geezed into him? I doubt he felt a thing.”
“Codeine?”
“Codeine and a pharmacy’s worth of other drugs. Dr. Nick prescribed Elvis about forty pills a day.”
“What kind?”
“Well, they weren’t multi-vitamins. And that’s not counting what I gave him.”
“Why so many drugs?”
“Because addicts build up a high tolerance.”
“Ah, right.”
“Then there were medications for diabetes, glaucoma, liver problems, heart issues, and brain damage.”
“Elvis had brain damage?”
“Side effect from falling over all the time.”
“Why’d he fall over all the time?”
“Side effect from the pills and booze.”
“What the hell kind of physician is Dr. Nick?”
“A well-paid one about to get a lot of bad press.”
“Well, shit. That’s some bad news.”
“I’ll pass along your sympathy to Dr. Nick.”
“I meant about Elvis.”
“That’s right, you and Elvis were friends. I imagine you must feel bad.”
Unfamiliar with empathy, Johnny couldn’t be sure.
“You bet I feel bad. I can’t believe that self-centered son of a bitch didn’t wait to kill himself till after my concert.”
If you enjoy your humor snarky and irreverent, and haven’t grabbed Turning On yet, what are you waiting for?
