Tabloid Tales Blessed be the Meek
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Tabloid Tales: Memphis Interlude free porn video
Back when Paul1952 published "Sultan's Choice", I asked if I could set a
story in the Tabloid Tales universe. He was kind enough to say yes.
He was also kind enough to read this story before I posted it and correct
some mistakes that I had made in my use of British terms.
Thank you, Paul, for your time, your kindness, and your stories.
Ellie
Tabloid Tales: Memphis Interlude
By Ellie Dauber
Copyright 1999
The Wheatsheaf Pub -- Wapping London -- October '99
It was another Friday night at the Wheatsheaf, the small dockside pub that
had somehow become the favorite place for London's tabloid reporters to
relax and unwind after a day of muckraking. It was a warm and pleasant
Autumn night, the sort that people called "Indian Summer". Normally, the
Wheatsheaf would have been filled, but some American rock stars had flown
into Heathrow late that afternoon. There had been some sort of blow-up:
drugs, under-aged girls, exotic pets - maybe all three. Half the reporters in
town, including a lot of the regulars, were waiting to see how it all sorted
out.
Tom Walters and Mike Langston were sitting in a corner booth, trading "war
stories" about rockers that they'd covered, when Billy McNeil came in. Tom
shouted and waved him over. "Not out at Heathrow to see the Dogs at Bay?
I thought you covered the rock scene?"
"Actually, they're called the Baying Hounds," Billy said, "which pretty well
describes Snake Addison's singing voice." He sat down at the table and
motioned for the barmaid to bring him a beer. "I do a story now and then
when there's nobody else that wants it, but I lost interest - especially
American rock - over twenty years ago." Billy was a tall, stocky man of
about 50, with thinning sandy brown hair going to gray. He seldom got
rocker stories any more. Except for dinosaurs like Clapton or McCartney,
what rock star would open up to a man who looked more like his father than
one of his mates?
"Say, that's right," Tom said. "You got one of the last interviews with
Elvis, didn't you?"
"Got that and a lot more." The barmaid brought his beer. He took a long
swallow. "I got a story - well, nobody would believe."
"What is it?" Mike said. "You know who really killed him? You have proof
he's really still alive?"
"No," Billy said. "In a crazy sort of way, he really did kill himself." He
paused and looked around. He took another swallow of his beer and
continued. "And he's regretted it ever since."
"Oh," Tom said. "So you're - what do they call it - you're channeling Elvis'
ghost?"
Billy looked nervous. "I've said far too much. Nobody would believe me
anyway. It would be hell, though, if they did." He put a two pound coin on
the table to pay for the beer and stood up to leave.
Tom caught his arm. "Look, Billy. We're tabloid journalists here, the lot of
us. We've all heard and seen too many things not to believe a story just
because it seems strange. And if you ask us, the story goes no farther than
this table."
"Promise?" Billy said.
"On my honor as a tabloid reporter," Tom said.
"Mine too," Mike added.
"Most blokes would say 'honor' and 'tabloid reporter' are mutually
exclusive," Billy said. "But I know you two." He sat down and finished his
pint, then motioned for the barmaid to come over. They all ordered another
pint, making small talk until she'd brought the beers and left. Then Billy
leaned forward and began his story.
*****
Billy McNeil's Story - Memphis -- August, 1977
Back in '77, I was something of a young Turk. I'd done dozens of stories
about the British rock scene. They'd all gone pretty well, and I had visions
of even bigger things ahead. I managed to talk my editor, old Sammy
Matthews, into flying me to the States to spend time with some of the big
American names. The thing that set the deal was that I'd pulled in every
favor anyone in the Business owed me, and managed to get a week with
Elvis as a finish to the trip. Actually nothing was 'writ in stone' as they say.
I had managed to get an interview. If we hit it off, I'd get to stay with him
for the week. If not, well, at least I had the interview.
I read up on him as much as I could; real background stuff, not just the
rubbish that we all write. He loved fast cars, especially sports cars. They
made a museum out of his collection, in fact. My uncle Bill, the bloke I'm
named for, worked at British motors back then. They had a small store on
the factory grounds, mostly for employees and collectors. Uncle Bill got me
the schematics and manuals for a couple of their classic models. I never
really paid attention to what they were, but Uncle Bill said they were books
anyone who fancied sports car would go crazy to have.
I had the books in my camera bag when I arrived in Memphis. I was staying
in one of the cheaper local motels. Charlie Hodge, an acoustic guitar player
who lived at Graceland, picked me up at the door and drove me out to the
mansion. Elvis met me at the door, wearing jeans and an old T-shirt from
one of his tours. He looked rather well, I thought. He was hardly the
skinny fellow the Yanks called "Young Elvis" on that stamp of theirs a few
years back, but he had lost some weight from the pictures I'd seen that were
taken a couple of months before.
That was the first thing that I asked him about. He looked unhappy for a bit,
and I was certain that I'd just ruined my chances. "I got tired of my own fat
ass, Mr. McNeil. Weight's a lot easier to put on than take off, but I'm
trying."
"Looks like you're more than trying. Congratulations."
"Thanks, but I'm not sure that I want you to write about it. My fans will
know soon enough. I leave tonight for a tour of New England. The
Colonel's already up there in Portland setting things up."
Tonight? Nobody had mentioned anything about a tour. Now I was really
worried.
"Yeah," Elvis continued. "I thought I needed to lose some weight. My fans
expect, hell, they _deserve_ the best show I can give them."
This was a side that Elvis didn't normally show, and I could see that he felt
uncomfortable about it. I decided to change the subject. "So, what other
surprises are you planning for this tour?" Elvis started talking about a couple
of the new songs that he'd been working on. He sang one - no music, no
back up, just that beautiful voice. I still have the tape, and he sounded great.
We talked about the songs. One was a gospel number. That got him talking
about his roots, singing at his family church. From there we went on to talk
about the other influences on his music. And on and on.
His publicist had only offered me two hours. We talked for nearly four. It
was one of the best interviews I ever got. And I was beginning to think that
it might not be over. I reached into my camera bag. "Elvis," I said, "the
deal was that you'd decide after this interview if this interview was it, or if
I'd get some time with you."
"Yeah, and I've enjoyed it. You can stay if you still want to."
"I can't thank you enough for that. I wanted to give you this before you told
me if I could stay, but this way, I guess they don't quite qualify as a bribe."
I pulled out the manuals and handed them to him.
Elvis looked at the one book and began spouting some automotive techno-
babble that I could barely follow. As near as I could tell, I'd brought him
just the book he needed to tinker with a fancy auto that he'd just bought.
The man all but kissed me.
He said that I could stay as long as I wanted and could ask him or anyone
else anything that I wished. He even offered to drive me back to the motel to
pick up my gear. As far as he was concerned, I was his guest, and he
wanted me to stay there at Graceland. His road manager, Jerry Esposito,
said somebody else should drive me, but Elvis was adamant. He wanted to
show off one of the autos I'd brought the manual for, a car _nobody_ drove
but him. He did agree to let a couple of others come along with us, though.
About halfway back to the hotel, Elvis asked if anybody else way hungry. It
was almost noon. One of the others, Lamar Fike I think it was, agreed that
he was a bit hungry. Elvis turned the car and headed towards a restaurant he
knew nearby.
We were driving through a residential neighborhood. As we turned down
one side street, we could see a man and woman on the sidewalk. They must
have been arguing because the woman suddenly turned and walked away -
right into the path of Elvis' car. He tried to swerve, but it happened too fast.
We heard a scream, then felt the "THUMP!" as the car hit her.
Elvis pulled the car over to the curb and started to get out. Lamar Fike
grabbed his arm. "Elvis, what are you doing? You want them to see you
was driving?"
"Hell, no," Elvis said. "But I don't want to leave that girl lying out there on
the street. He pulled his arm free and got out of the car. The rest of us
followed.
The woman - the girl was about 18. She was Black, with skin the color of
milk chocolate and hair down to her shoulders in a mass of dark curly
ringlets. She was wearing a short, sleeveless sundress that showed off her
figure. Her body - what I could see of it -- wasn't heavily bruised. When
the car hit, she'd been knocked back against the curb and hit her head. I
could see a trickle of blood running down into her hair.
Lamar checked her pulse. Then he put two fingers against the side of her
neck. He'd been one of those field medics the Yanks used in Viet Nam. He
looked up at Elvis with tears in his eyes. "She's dead, man. Dead."
"Marie - Marie Michelle!" The voice was ragged with fear. A man came over
and bent down beside the girl. It was the one she'd been talking to - arguing
with - on the sidewalk. He was a lot older than her, but the resemblance was
obvious. Her father or grandfather, I thought.
"I - I am Auguste deSange. My granddaughter, how she is?"
Elvis stepped forward and bowed his head. "I'm very sorry, Mr. DeSange,
but I think she's dead."
DeSange turned and looked at his granddaughter. He never touched her or
even walked closer, but I got the impression that he was examining her
somehow. He sank down against the car and began to sob. Then he
recognized Elvis and straightened up. "Cochon! Bastard! You think you
can do this because you such a big star? My Marie Michelle, you kill her!"
Elvis looked as if the man had hit him. "Sir, Mr. deSange, I'm very, very
sorry. I - she walked out in front of me. There was nothing I could do, no
way to avoid hitting her."
"You kill her! You kill my granddaughter! You will pay! So much you will
pay!"
Elvis started to say something when we heard the siren. An ambulance
someone must have called. Jerry Esposito yelled for Charlie and me to get
him out of there. Elvis protested. He wanted to stay, but he knew Jerry was
right. He let us push him into the car. Jerry stayed behind while Charlie
drove us out of there. It was the only time Elvis had ever let anybody else
drive that car.
*****
Jerry Esposito showed up by cab about forty minutes after we got back to
Graceland. He said a couple of other witnesses had backed up Elvis' story.
The police wanted to see him later that afternoon to sign a statement, but that
was all they wanted.
"What did they do with the girl?" Elvis asked.
"I don't know," Jerry said. "That old man - the grandfather - was really
weird. The medics tried to put her in an ambulance to take her to a funeral
parlor or something. He wouldn't let them. He told them to just take her
into her house just up the block. The medics didn't want to, but he insisted.
He swore at them in English _and_ French, he did. He said he was some
kind of priest down in New Orleans. Finally, they did do what he wanted.
One of the medics warned him to be careful; said the cops would get him on
he health laws. He promised that the body would be gone by the morning.
Then he gave me a look like death itself."
Elvis got very upset and began to pace. He wanted to track down deSange
and try to explain again. He said that he would offer to pay all of the cost of
getting the body back to New Orleans and for the funeral itself. If deSange
wanted, he would even sing at the funeral.
We could see how upset, how out of control he was getting. Lamar asked if
he wanted a drink. Jerry said deSange was probably still too upset to
appreciate the offer. In the morning, he'd have his office contact the man
and offer whatever help was wanted.
That seemed to quiet Elvis somewhat. Somebody suggested a game of
poker, and the five of us sat down to play in Elvis' dinning room. Mostly,
we just wanted to give Elvis something else to think about.
Now, I'm not a bad poker player, but these blokes were out for blood, even
Elvis. I was soon very glad that the limit was fifty cents, about twenty-five
p. back then, a hand. Even so, I was soon down by almost five pounds.
We'd been playing for an hour or so, when we suddenly heard the guard
dogs barking. They sounded like they were after something, barking madly
off at a distance. Then there was a loud yelp, and the barking stopped.
"Cat," somebody said, and we all laughed.
A minute or two later, we heard a knock at the door. Charlie went to see
whom it was. I heard him scream and call for Elvis. "You okay, Charlie,"
Elvis called, but there was no answer. We all went to see what happened.
Charlie was on the floor. He'd fainted dead away, and no wonder because
the dead girl, Marie Michelle, was standing over him. DeSange was
standing next to her with a truly evil smile on his face.
*****
The Wheatsheaf Pub -- Wapping London -- October '99
"Wait a minute," Tom Walters said. "New Orleans, some baddie named
deSange. Are you telling us that Elvis was killed by some voodoo zombie?"
"No," Billy said. "The zombie was as much for effect - for shock value - as
anything else. Still it - she - _had_ to be there for what deSange had in
mind."
*****
Billy McNeil's Story - Memphis -- August, 1977
We all took a look at the thing and tried to run. We couldn't. DeSange had
done something to us somehow.
"The police, they say it was accident," deSange said. His voice was low and
even, almost without emotion. "Elvis would not do something like what you
tell us, they say. Elvis is good man, they say." Now his voice was filled
with emotion, with hate. "There is nothing we can do Elvis, they say."
Elvis tried to speak, but deSange wasn't finished.
"Elvis kill my Marie Michelle, _I_ say. Elvis thinks he is too rich, too
powerful to face justice, _I_ say." His voice was becoming shrill. "Elvis
will face justice before something much, much more powerful than a
_human_ judge." His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to fill with an inhuman
anger. He just glared at Elvis, at all of us, for a moment.
Then he regained his self-control. "No," he said as if talking to someone,
"that is the way of vengeance, not justice." He turned back to face us. "You
will take us, all of us, to your inner sanctum, Elvis. To the place where you
sleep, where you think you are safest. That is where you will receive your
punishment."
Elvis tried to fight the command. We all did. It was no use. Elvis turned
and led us up the stairs to his bedroom. DeSange and Marie Michelle, the
zombie, followed at he end.
Once we were all in the bedroom, deSange had Elvis and the zombie stand in
the center of the room. "Remove your clothes," deSange said. "You face
your end as naked and defenseless as you were at your beginning."
Elvis and the zombie began to slowly take off all their clothing, tossing each
item into a separate pile in front of them. I could see that Elvis was fighting
it. His teeth were clenched and his body shook as he tried to regain control
of it. Whatever he was trying, it didn't work.
In a few moments the pair were naked, a 42-year-old man standing there next
to a teen-aged girl. Frankly, she was the much better show as far as I was
concerned. There was no sign of the bruises that we'd seen before, more of
deSange's work, I guessed. She was just standing there totally unaware of
any of us, her female charms on full display for her paralyzed audience.
DeSange began to speak again. A little of what he said was in English and a
bit more in French. That I could follow, but much of it was in a language
that I'd never heard before - and _never_ want to hear again. I got a feeling
of things ancient, of demons that had ruled the world while our ancestors
still hid in caves and barely knew fire. These were dark beings that came
now to do justice as deSange directed them.
A strange yellow-green mist seemed to form in the air around Elvis and the
girl. It gradually thickened to hide them. Before it had totally hidden them, I
could see Elvis' body shrinking and growing darker. The girl seemed to be
growing and becoming more muscular as her skin seemed to lighten.
The mist stayed there, surrounding and hiding the pair for what seemed like
hours, though I later noticed that it had only been a few minutes. It hung
there around the two of them, now moving at all despite the air conditioners
loudly humming away in the windows.
Then it went away. It didn't drift off like a fog, it just faded away, losing
color until it was just the air in the room. Elvis and the girl were still there.
They looked exactly the same as they had when the mist appeared around
them. Except they had switched positions. No, I realized, they had
exchanged bodies.
"Elvis," I said aloud. I could talk if not move about. The girl turned and
looked at me. Then she looked down at her body. She was about to scream
when deSange made some kind of weird gesture. Her face went blank. She
walked over to where her clothes were, right in front of Elvis, and began to
dress.
"Where does Elvis keep his night clothes," deSange said. Lamar pointed to a
dresser against one wall. He seemed to be fighting the compulsion "Th-
there. Se -- Second drawer."
DeSange pointed to the dresser. Elvis - his body anyway - slowly moved to
the dresser. He opened the drawer and pulled out a pair of white silk
pajamas, which he slowly put on. Once he had the pajamas on, he picked up
a brown robe that was draped over a chair. After typing the belt around his
waist, he just stood there as if waiting for something.
Me, I watched Elvis dress him -- or her now, I supposed -- her pretty new
body. She moved slowly as if half asleep or in a trance - which, I guess,
she was. Still, she put on those clothes as if she had always had such
things. She didn't even seem to have trouble with the bra. After she'd
finished, her hands dropped to her sides. She stood there, too, just waiting
for the next command.
DeSange saw that they had both finished. He pointed to the half-opened door
to Elvis' bathroom. Elvis' body walked over and went into the bathroom.
DeSange mumbled something and snapped his fingers. I heard a thud as
something heavy hit the bathroom floor. "I could only keep my poor Marie
Michelle alive for a short time, even in her new body. She will shortly be
dead again, this time forever. If they investigate, it will seem as if her new
body die of a heart attack."
'What about us,' I thought. 'We all know the truth.'
DeSange turned towards me. "What these others know now is now what
they know five minutes after we leave. Elvis spend a quiet day at home.
You talked, then you leave. After lunch, he go upstairs. Soon they find him
dying or dead."
He gestured again. I watched as everyone else seemed to fall into a sort of
trance. They just stood there a few moments, their eyes glazed, their faces
drained of any emotion. Then, they all quietly turned and left.
"No one will remember that my Marie Michelle die. The police, they have no
need to see Elvis."
My reporter's curiosity got the best of me. "Why are you telling me all
this?"
"Elvis must be punished for what he do, but I am not a cruel man. His life,
his career, they are gone. He will need help -- someone to care for him --
while he make a new life. It can not be his friends for they would help him
be Elvis again. I will not do it -- I cannot do it -- for I grieve for my Marie
Michelle, and I do not want a living reminder of her. That leave you."
"And if I refuse?"
"I think you will not. You are, I sense, a good man." He pointed to Elvis.
"Tell her, tell her now -- if you can - that you will not help her."
I looked over. Elvis didn't move. His -- her - blank expression didn't
change, and she was still staring off into space as if she didn't know that
anyone else was in the room.
But she was crying, tears running down her face.
"I'll help," I said.
"Good." He handed me a purse that I would have sworn wasn't in his hands
a moment before. "I give you Marie Michelle's life. The purse has her birth
certificate, her bankbook and her check book, her Social Security card, even
her passport. You will need them. I have also put in $1,000 to help start her
new life."
"But how can she ever adjust to her new body?"
"Her body will help her adjust. It has its own memory, and it will not let her
disgrace herself by acting like a man."
"It'll force her to act like a woman, then?"
"No, not force her. It just will seem natural to her to act that way."
He walked over and took Elvis by the hand. He led her over to where I was
standing. She still seemed to be in a trance, but her movements seemed much
more graceful and feminine. He put her hand in mind. "I give her over to
your care." There was a sudden noise from downstairs. "Now we must
leave for the others, they begin to wake up."
We hurried downstairs and out of the mansion. There were two cars parked
in the circular driveway, my rental car and an old black Cadillac. De Sange
got in the other car, while I led Elvis - Marie - to mine. Somehow, all my
luggage from the hotel was in the back seat along with a light blue suitcase
that I didn't recognize. I helped Marie into the car. She seemed to be
waking up, too, but she didn't say anything. She got into the car the way a
woman would, sitting down with her dress tucked under her, then moving
her feet into the car.
I thought about driving back to my motel, but as I started the car, I heard
deSange's voice in my head. "You must take her far, far from this place." I
drove straight to the airport. My ticket home was in my camera bag. I
traded it for one on an immediate flight to London and bought a second ticket
for Marie. Our plane left for London by way of New York within the hour.
We heard the first reports of Elvis' death during the layover in New York.
Marie cried a little when she saw the papers, but so did a lot of people.
*****
The Wheatsheaf Pub -- Wapping London -- October '99
Tom and Mike looked at Billy in disbelief.
"You're saying that Elvis didn't really die all those years ago?" Mike said.
"She turned into a girl, and you brought her back to London with you."
"Yes, but please don't tell anyone. Why I'm frankly rather surprised that
you believe me."
"I'm still not sure I do, even though I've heard other stories just as strange,"
Tom said. "But, if it _is_ true, what happened to her after you two got to
London?"
Before Billy could answer, a tall young man in his late teens burst into the
pub. "Dad," he yelled. "Are you in here?"
"Over here, son," Billy called and waved him over.
"Mom said to tell you to stop hanging around with this lot and get yourself
home."
Mike and Tom looked at the boy. He was tall and lanky with very closely
cropped black hair. His skin was the color of coffee with cream. He was
wearing the jacket of one of the local football clubs and a pair of jeans.
Mike noticed that he didn't look at all like Billy. Both men stared at him,
imagining him with long black hair cut in a style from the 1950s and a
sequined leather jacket.
Billy must have guessed what they were thinking. As he and his son turned
to leave, he said, "A final joke of deSange's. My son, Aaron Jesse, looks
just like his mother."
The End
Copyright Ellie Dauber, 1999
Author's Note: There are bits of fact in this story.
Elvis was to leave at 11:30 PM for a concert the next day in Portland, Maine,
the start of a new tour. Col. Parker, his manager, was in Portland the day of
the story preparing for the concert.
Jerry Esposito, Elvis's road manager, is the man who found the body.
Charlie Hodge was an acoustic guitarist who lived at Graceland. Lamar Fike
was Elvis' music publisher. The three men were pallbearers at Elvis'
funeral. Vester Presley, Elvis' uncle, was head of security at Graceland.
Elvis was found around 2:30 in the afternoon in his pajamas in his bedroom.
He was still alive, but unconscious and dying. A paramedic team that was
summoned to the site could not revive him. The coroner's verdict was death
due to heart attack.
Elvis' full name was Elvis Aaron Presley. He had a twin brother, Jesse, who
died at birth.
Vicky
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