He Dwells Among Us
Ya’ hear it everywhere… “Elvis is alive!” The most controversial topic of 1988. Blockbuster news, overshadowing the end of the Iran-Iraqi war, the INF treaty, and even those daily communiques which keep us posted about the Dow Jones Industrial averages. These are frivolous matters, and rightly deserve being shoved to the back pages by a persistent barrage of rumors concerning the lad who grew up in Tupelo, made a few bucks, then moved upriver to Memphis where he found a nicer house. Every human alive today is glued to his or her “idiot box”, anxiously awaiting the next new development in this unfolding drama. Cossacks in Russia, Australian aborigines, Arctic Eskimos and natives of Timbuktu are just as interested as rock-and-roll fans in Detroit, USA. One question, and one alone, is on the lips of every Muscovite: “Is Elvis hiding in capitalistic America, and might such a scheme be part of a CIA plot to overthrow our government?” Such is not outside the realm of sane thinking. Our wire-tapping federal agency will open your private mail quicker than they’ll snoop on the Russians ( I’ve recently learned the CIA has somehow been obtaining copies of my water bills. The Feds carefully scrutinized those cards under powerful microscopes, and have forwarded a memorandum to all CIA “listening posts” around the world. The message, which is unclassified and open for public inspection, is worded quite simply: “drinkin’ water is cheaper in Beverly Hills than in Narz, Virginia.”). Finally, after 40 years of bungling, the G-Men have at last made a correct analysis. Our spies are in constant contact with the Soviet embassy in Washington, assuring the Russkies that the CIA has no idea where Elvis might be located, nor the current status of his breathing, heartbeat or pulse rate. A note of caution here, however. We’re talkin’ KGB and CIA. I place not a great amount of confidence in the spoken word of either. It’s quite possible, indeed PROBABLE, that our cloak-and- dagger boys are lying…again! Half the world’s population believes the death of the “King of Rock and Roll” was faked. Such a sham would certainly be the stuff of a Cecil B. deMille extravagansa…”epic in nature.” If true, you can bet the Chase Manhattan Bank and all it’s branch offices that our CIA played a leading role in any such deception. This sorta’ stuff is their bread-and-butter, tickles them “snoops” plumb pink. A disturbing thought, knowing a group of spies could “get a charge” out of shenanigans and tomfoolery. If in fact this is true, then a dark spectral shadow looms large across our broad land. We’d better appoint a watchdog committee to investigate the investigators. Sounds very much like another bunch of perverts are runnin’ on the loose. Ladies and gentlemen, forget all this stuff you’re hearing about Elvis Presley. Just ignore those allegations, cast ‘em aside for what they really are…the wild, unfounded rantings of morons. In the following chapters you’ll learn the truth of this matter…you’ll witness the expose of a gigantic hoax the likes of which our world has never before experienced. You see, for more than 5 years old Elvis has been residing right here in Giles County with us. Please allow me to explain…
Chapter II
I have absolutely no desire of being involved in controversial matters such as the current “Presley Affair,” an enigma which for several months has been holding an entire planet spellbound. Quite the contrary, I much prefer keeping a low profile here in my humble abode, peeking out a window occasionally to watch as a mad, mad world goes rushing by. Admittedly said world is leaving me far behind, and for that I’m eternally grateful. It’s like this. I’m too low on fuel to join that rat-race out there, but even with a full tank of petrol I wouldn’t be an entrant. I’ll just sit up hereon this ridge, watch the ever-increasing insanity, and take turns laughing…and crying about the senseless madness. For some unknown reason I don’t hafta’ go lookin’ for phenomenon, or as I refer to it, “high strangeness.” If something of a puzzling nature is making the rounds, it’s guaranteed to find me. And it does so against all my wishes. As previously stated, non-involvement is all I seek. But ya’ know, seldom, maybe never have my wishes been granted in this arena. This particular case, a living Elvis, is a striking example. As in so many previous instances I happened upon this story quite by accident, got caught up in a whirlwind of events that have far-reaching implications for every living person on earth. This thing can easily affect the economy of all nations and dictate the monetary situation on a planet-wide scale. For a year I’d been reading those educational tabloids…Star, Globe, Tattler, National Enquirer, etc. Their bold headlines blared: “Elvis seen at the North Pole,” “Presley has joined a band of Monks in a Tibetan monastery.” “The King finds peace and solitude in the Amazon.” Regularly scheduled TV programs have been interrupted by a year-long series of sensational “Special news bulletins:” “A teletype just in! NBC news has learned from a reliable source that Elvis Presley is working on a chicken farm in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Stay tuned to this station for further details!” For the most part I thought that stuff was utterly ridiculous, intended solely to boost the sales of magazines and to better the ratings of television networks. But for some inexplicable reason all the hulabaloo set me to thinking: “What if these nuts are really onto something?” A long, long time ago I learned an important truth…If’n ya’ see a whole lotta’ smoke, there exists a strong possibility that an itsy-bitsy fire might be burning! Almost without exception the licking red flames are flickering nearby. Following 3 months of exhaustive legwork I’ve arrived at a startling conclusion. Giles County is at the very center of this on-going story about a lad who once sang a song that made “hound dawgs” very, very popular. Licking flames are indeed burning. Much, much closer than any local resident has heretofore realized…
Chapter III
For several seasons I watched a television production of my liking, sat enthralled as high-drama unfolded in my living-room each week. Avid TV viewers may recall it, a little thing starring Robert Conrad entitled “The Blacksheep Squadron.” That plot followed the adventures of a group of Marine Corp fighter pilots as they blasted Japanese Zeros from the Pacific skies. It came as a shock to me that it aired at all. Because you see, them “fly-boys” were a motley bunch of misfits if ever there’s been such. Screwballs, weirdos, trouble makers, non-conformists, creeps freaks, neer-do-wells on the lam from the law…all thrown together in a common cause high above the biggest pond of all during World War II. Yeah, I was surprised the Corp allowed it to be broadcast. Why hellsfire, I’d been indoctrinated to believe only All-American types had ever served within the ranks of that most elite branch of service. Just proves how wrong one can be. I mean, I once served in the plain old rank-and-file army, but even so we soldiered far better’n them “jarheads” on “The Blacksheep Squadron.” Now then, please don’t think I’ve gotten sidetracked onto a story about the shores of Tripoli, and maybe forgotten the matter concerning Elvis. Neither the United States Marine Corp nor Robert Conrad has anything whatsoever to do with this informative essay. But one character seen in those weekly episodes of “Blacksheep Squadron” is very closely associated with what’s happening in our midst, a news event certain to thrust Giles County front and center onto the world stage. I feel sure most readers remember that program, and direct your attention to the burly, cigar-chomping Marine master-sergeant who kept those gull-winged Corsairs flying. He was reputed to be the best durn airplane mechanic in that whole “jarhead” organization. I wouldn’t know about that. But pal, listen to me. He was the ugliest damn brute I’ve ever seen anywhere. A hulking, menacing monster of 260 pounds on a six-three frame. All viewers of that program knew they were looking at the very essence of violence when seeing that man/gorilla on the screen, fury about to explode. And such a portrayal came easy for this animal, for it was a true depiction of his real life before going to Hollywood. A re-enactment of all his bullying, macho days on this earth. Slappin’ people here, knockin’ some more there, and kickin’ yet others way over yonder. A real, real nice beast! How many readers know who that dude was! Well now, you’re absolutely right. His name was Red West. And just who, you might ask, was Red West? Podnuh, old Red of terrible temper was the former chief honcho of all Elvis Presley bodyguards! Last July I’d stopped in Maxway Shopping Center for the purpose of purchasing two quarts of motor oil. It had been an uneventful day, nothing extraordinary had happened on the local scene. Lo and behold, guess who I ran into on a scorching hot day in Pearisburg, Virginia?…
ChapterIV
The American consumer is seeing entirely too many different brands of motor oil on store shelves these days. Ditto for cookies, candy, soaps and soups. Millions of people are standing around several hours each day tryin’ to decide which brands to buy, resulting in billions of lost man-hours of productivity. This senseless waste of time has cut our GNP to half it’s potential. All because our choice of commodities is too varied, a selection so wide as to be mind-boggling. The number of motor oils available to keep your car in tip-top shape is amazing. For instance, multi-purpose oils. I don’t need an oil to serve many purposes, just one that puts a thin, slick film on the moving parts of my engine. High viscosity oils. Hell man, my jalopies are more’n 20 years old . A low viscosity oil, which I presume is cheaper, is plenty good enough for such junkheaps. I certainly had difficulty selecting a motor oil that sticky July day. The Maxway store had 102 brands, each company claiming their product to be the very best your money can buy. Hmm…this told me something. One oil company was truthful, 101 were lying! They oughta’ be tracked down, arrested, prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, and thrown in a dungeon for 40 years. For fraudulent advertising. But indecision about an oil purchase wasn’t my only problem while standing in the store aisle. I had an uneasy felling, didn’t feel comfortable at all. Instinct set off an alarm…I was being watched! Not by those ceiling cameras up there with their all-seeing eyes focused on shoplifters. Mechanical eyes are cold devices, incapable of burning into the innermost core of the human soul. Ladies and gentlemen, I sensed being subjected to that sorta’ scrutiny at that precise moment. Turning to my right, I glanced 30 feet down an aisle and saw the source of my discomfort. He stood at the gun and ammo counter, alternately buying bullets and looking at me. The man was huge, of powerful build. A piercing, malevolent glare emitted from a pair of bulging eyes that seemed pig-like and too small. The glare, as a laser-beam might easily do, penetrated thru my eyes and exited the back of my skull. The dude was one mean, vicious lookin’ cuss, projected an unmistakable image…THREAT! His face was vaguely familiar, and I remember thinking: “Hey, I know this man from somewhere.” Pondering the situation, my thoughts drifted back across the years ( bringing images both good and bad ) and finally zeroed in on a TeeVee series called “The Blacksheep Squadron.” As a thunderclap the realization struck. And, as later events would prove, I wasn’t wrong. Sure, I knew this man, had watched for years as he portrayed an airplane mechanic on television. What the hell was Red West doin’ in Pearisburg? Having kept abreast of the “Presley Affair”, my curiosity became greatly aroused, heightened extensively. I sniffed something big in the air. And the aroma was overpowering…
Chapter V
Red West picked up his purchase of ammo, which I calculated to be 300 rounds, and headed for the exit. Ten seconds later so did I, albeit with great wariness and “leery as all git out.” I knew much about the past history of this goon, a walking powder-keg ready to detonate anytime, anyplace. With, I might add, little or no provocation. Didn’t want to crowd Red West! The bullying ex-marine of TV fame walked to a discrepit sedan on the parking lot, a flivver which, judging it’s dingy appearance, hadn’t known soap and water since the 1950’s ( shades of Howard Hughes! That reclusive billionaire, even until the day he died, used 1946 Chevrolets. Any Hughes employee caught driving a new car was fired on the spot. The general public don’t notice autos that have run up and down the highway for 30 years. Howard Hughes certainly didn’t want to draw attention to himself.). Tough Red cranked up, drove slowly through downtown Pearisburg, exited the town-limits, and headed south on route 100. I trailed along behind at a safe distance, keeping in mind always that the ape driving the car just ahead, one Mister Red West, had “packed a rod” since his early age of 12years. Furthermore the bully had just purchased enough ammo to hold a regiment at bay for 6 months. And further still, was considered a crack marksman. We passed a location where a Drive- In Theater once did business and was nearing Charlie’s Restaurant. It was then that I fell victim to an old, old habit; namely, allowing my mind to go wandering back to the past (a past forever lost , never recoverable. For you, myself…everyone. All gone). A flood of memories returned , including a few recollections about Red West and his former employer, the black-haired Elvis “The Pelvis” Presley. I knew more about this world-famous pair than either could possibly imagine. Before a clamoring of “wild exaggeration” begins, allow me the opportunity to explain. Just before the alleged death of Elvis, a serious rift had developed between the crooner and his bodyguard. The pair couldn’t see eye to eye on anything. Their erstwhile friendship turned really, really sour. Harsh words were spoken, a lotta’ obscene name-calling became commonplace. Old Red told Elvis to take that job and shove it, quit, and walked out in a huff (the rock-and-roll musician was extremely lucky his pretty face didn’t get creamed ). Maids, butlers, gardeners…bodyguards. Domestic help, and they each and everyone resort to a predictable course of action immediately after leaving the payroll of their celebrity bosses. The very next day after quittin’, those servants commence writin’ one of them thar “tell-tale” books. Red West wrote a “tattle-tale” book. I read it. Not once, but four times. I absorbed every word of his literary work, let ‘er sink in real deep. His book painted an entirely different picture of Elvis Presley, and everyone connected with the crooner, than had been told by slick press-agents at those famous “press releases.” Altogether different! The contrast was about like uh, let me see…well, imagine the difference between night and day. You’re close. Red West laid it bare, revealed all, drew a sleazy picture of a sick place. Fighting, cavorting, hell-raising, alcohol and drug abuse. The situation was out of control. Behind the public-relations façade of glitter was the real world of the lad from Tupelo and every other show-biz celebrity. A real ugly scene…like Hades! Red claims Elvis sat around the last 10 years of his life in easy chairs with a variety of high- powered weaponry cradled lovingly in his arms. The young man didn’t like to see anything standing, Elvis began pulling the trigger and shootin’ ‘em down! Walls, trees, bushes, ceilings, furniture…all came tumbling down in a withering hail of gunfire. Many lives were shattered crumbled. And they too came tumbling down…
Chapter VI
My nerves had calmed somewhat as our two-car caravan rolled past C&S oil headquarters. I felt quite certain the Neanderthal driver ahead wasn’t aware of the “tail” just a short distance behind. Extenuating circumstances here. I was following a dude prone to violence. A seething, cynical man who might be likened to an active volcano about to erupt. No doubt about it, any person caught meddlin’ in the affairs of Red West would very quickly be reduced to one big glob of mince-meat. I recalled a chapter in his book where the red-headed monster had clearly stated: “The tougher my opponent the better I like it. And odds of 6 to 1 are just about right.” Damn, was he human or an Arnold Schwarzenegger terminator- type? I muttered aloud my one and only sure-fire conclusion: “I don’t desire to test him.” Many questions were running through my mind. Just what was Red West doing in our area? What might his business be in Giles County? The whole scene seemed jumbled and mixed-up. But then, there existed several rather simple explanations which might unravel the whole perplexing mystery. For instance. Another movie production company had moved in for “location shooting” at Mountain Lake. Maybe the ugly, brawling bruiser had resumed his acting career and was a member of the cast. In which case I’d bet my shirt it wasn’t a flick about “Dirty Dancing,” clean dancing or any other ballroom activities. Any motion picture Red West appeared in would more’n likely be filled with mayhem, mugging, maiming and mutilation. Another possibility. Old Red was just passing through. Perhaps on his way to Nashville, or a little further west to a riverboat village called Memphis. You might recall there is a rather famous residence in that hamlet called Graceland, and it has a few connections with this on-going “Elvis is alive” story. Then again, maybe the producers of “The Blacksheep Squadron” had decided to revive that series and the original cast was being brought back to Hollywood. Old Red would need to stop and trade cars if he was going that far. The rattletrap ahead of me wouldn’t make it to the west coast. I kept thinking of bold headlines in National Enquirer and unceasingly hearing: “We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to bring you a special news bulletin. Elvis Presley is reportedly…” But something was dreadfully wrong here…parts were not interlocking. There had been a much-publicized “split” between Elvis and Red a few years back. The relationship between these once bosom-buddies had completely disintegrated. Or so it was alleged. Well now, just maybe that wasn’t true. In all likelehood another big lie, a “ploy within a plot” to deceive the world. Gosh o’mighty, for what unfathomable reason? Doggone it! This sham story about Elvis “ crossing that great river into the beyond” had it’s beginning right then and there. There had been no break-up twixt Elvis and Red!! Brake lights on the car ahead grabbed my attention. A right-hand turn signal indicated the vehicle was leaving route 100 at the Moose Lodge. Red West turned onto Wilburn Valley Road. Motoring thru Wilburn Valley ain’t no shortcut to Nashville. And definitely not the most accessible route to Memphis or Hollywood…
Chapter VII
Even from a distance of 100 yards and before topping the rise I heard the twin reports…POW, POW! Sounded like a double-barreled salvo of field howitzers being fired at an enemy stronghold. I was very much aware that a lotta’ rounds of ammo are squeezed off in Wilburn Valley, but the shootin’ occurs during hunting season. Shucks man, this incident took place in July, a time of year when wholesale slaughter of vicious rabbits, cunning 60 pound deer and savage squirrels is considered illegal. I envisioned a terrible scene, surely the worst had happened. Good gosh o ‘mighty!…that arsenal of ammo old Red was totin.’ An innocent resident of this serene rural setting hadn’t been driving fast enough to suit the hulking monster. Red West, an interloper from the outside world accustomed to the “fast lane” had resorted to drastic measures. The goon had probably unholstered his shootin’iron, loaded all cylinders and drilled an unfortunate farmer full of bullet holes. That poor soul was more’n likely stretched prone on a car seat at this very moment, writhing in agony and closely resembling a swiss cheese. I topped the hill, and in doing so could ascertain that my imagination had ran wild, a human weakness I’d never previously been guilty of. (Right then and there I made an important decision. Never again would I allow an out-of-control imagination to take control of my mental faculties. Adult persons should live in the “world of reality,” make a determined resolution never to drift away to that place reserved for pre-schoolers, fantasyland. I’m happy to report that, as of this date, my stringent efforts to remain always serious has proved successful). Both front tires had blown on the car I’d been following for some 5 miles. The derelict pile of junk rested now on front tires flatter’n two pancakes. Red West stood by the roadside, muscular arms flailing in wild gestures indicating he wanted me to stop. Beads of sweat oozed from my forehead, resulting from my state of high anxiety. Red had faced unruly throngs at rock-and-roll concerts around the globe. His mere presence, glowering and menacing, had been quite sufficient to maintain order…this to ensure “Elvis the Pelvis” could exit the stage with hide, hair, clothing and another 4 million bucks intact. I didn’t relish being in close proximity to this baboon. Neither could I leave the sonofagun stranded out in the middle of nowhere. Braking to a halt, I opened the conversation with a nervous: “Howdy neighbor, havin’ problems?” “Are you blind?” Gruff and blustery it came, with an accent not from these parts. Globe, Tattler, Star, National Enquirer. I remembered their headlines, and sensed an opportunity to delve a tad into those “Elvis is alive”claims. “Hop in if’n you want a lift.” “ Thanks,” Mister West answered in a surprisingly polite tone (“no man is an island.” An old adage, a true saying. Sooner or later every person on earth will need a helping hand. This can cause a sudden transformation in personalities, at which time a tad of politeness and humility will gush forth). “Where to?” “I’ll show you,” said the long-time protector of Elvis Presley. The next 30 minutes would find me in an exchange of dialogue with Red West that’s well-nigh impossible to believe. But so help me…
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