Elvis

A messed up little short story that I wrote a while about… well… you’ll find out. It has much sex and a little violence and profanity as well. I believe that it needs extensive editing, but that’s part of the reason why I’m posting it here (to find out what is wrong with it).


“Elvis”

If life is a buffet, then Marianne was the gravy.

Thick.

Lumpy.

Rich.

Filthy. Stinking. Rich.

If a few hours in bed with that hideous sack of lard was what it would take me to become a millionaire… well, just make sure I’m on top (I don’t wanna be crushed).

Besides, I won’t have to bear it for long. After all, I’m going to kill the bitch. Yep. Poison her. All I have to do is rub it on her fucking lardass with a towel and psh… she’s dead. A tragic, inexplicable (and most importantly) absolutely untraceable death.

What’s that Mr. High and Mighty? I’m a reprehensible bastard? Yeah. I suppose you’re right. But I’m going to be a rich reprehensible bastard.

Maybe I’m not painting you a good enough picture here.

She has waist length black hair that WOULD be fetching if she washed it (“I don’t believe in bathing with soap or shampoo- it’s bad for the environment,” [“and so is her stench”, I’d add in my head]), a black fuzzy caterpillar of a unibrow crawling over her two blue oases in a pasty cookie-dough desert of flesh. The only fetching feature on her face was her big pouty lips, although they would have been a lot sexier if they would SHUT once in a while. But no, they always flap open and shut, open and shut, open and shut. She looks like a… a… grouper. A fucking fish. And when she breathes on me? It smells like a combination of sour milk and spoiled bacon put into a blender and sat out in the Sun for about ten days. Her dentures (she was twenty eight- twenty FUCKING eight with dentures) were filled with bits of food and God-Knows-What, although I’d rather she keep them in, because when she took them out that meant she wanted to suck my cock. There is nothing more arousing than bloody gums. Mmm-mmm.

Her body was that of a morbidly obese human or an anorexic elephant. I suppose she was human, because elephants don’t tend to have gigantic tits (DD, she aaalways bragged about that) with stretchmarks the size of the Mississippi River. Her tits might be more impressive to me if her greasy cunt wasn’t the size of the Grand Canyon. And I guess some of those fucking pack-mules got lost in there or something, because it smells like fucking carrion in there. Finger fucking licking good.

And her legs? Ah, her legs were a source of most of her angst. “Oh, I can’t exercize, my legs are too short to support my body, woe is me.” Well, that’s terrible, I’d really feel for you if you didn’t eat French cuisine all day then complain about your fucking weight. There are still exercizes and diets people who can’t stand up can do, and she can fucking stand up- so she should stop bitching. But instead, she sits at her TV eating bon-bons and watching an old John Wayne movie. Or Charlton Heston. Or Elvis.

Elvis.

Fucking Elvis.

Her favorite and damned near ONLY subject was Elvis. “Elvis is the King of Rock N’ Roll! He paved the way for every rocker! Long live the King!” “Elvis could sing in a rough voice or croon softly, he was the King!” Or… or… oh God. The most dreadful of all the phrases:

“Have I ever told you that you look like the spittin’ image of Elvis?” That was MY cue to… excavate the Grand Canyon.

I’m “blessed” with looking exactly like Elvis. Unfortunately as an actor (yeah, that’s right, I’m a fucking actor, the only other people that can pull this shit off are politicians and lawyers and they don’t NEED to). You might have seen me in the Mr. Pancake commercial as Elvis, or Elvis in that God awful toy car commercial with the rats. But you more likely saw me in one of my… starring roles.

You know…

“Blue Suede Shoe Fetish.”

“Handcuff Hotel”

“Fuck Me Tender”

Women, men, both at once. Hey, it’s a living. It pays the bills. And I get some recognition. It’s recognition from the horny nymphomaniac FREAKS (hey mom- look what four years at acting school did for ME!) but hey- YOU don’t have a fanbase.

Unfortunately, for all that recognition, I lived like a college student. Cramped room. Ramen. No cable. Ramen. Ramen. RAMEN. FUCKING RAMEN!

But anyway, back to the point, Maria’s father tragically died about a year ago under his personal assistant. His wife died soon after (of heartbreak, they say). Thank youuuuuuuu mom and dad. Ahahaha! If you didn’t croak, then I’d still be eating ramen ramen ramen… ramen. 'Cause you see, the fat bitch gets all the money, now.

So you see, one of the chickies I worked with in “A Little Less Conversation” knew the fucking shitwhore, and so to do me a favor (or so she said) she introduced me. Apparently, Marianne saw me in a couple of my movies and was a big fan. A really fucking big fan. So this chickie, right, she sets me up with the fucking ugly chick. Well, since she has lots of money, I charm the fucking pants off of her. She immediately falls in love with me (sucker), so I enjoy the ride (fuck, getting the attention was enjoyable enough, at first). I courted her with all the flattery I could possibly squeeze out of my lying little mouth (oh God, I deserve a fucking Oscar for that one “You’re such an intriguing woman,” “Mmmm… I love the big, beautiful women,” “Mmmm… That was the best sex I’ve ever had”), and don’t forget the God awful wedding. Hahaha… THREE WEEKS LATER- MARRIED! In Las Vegas, by an Elvis impersinator, but I was married. My ma would be proud of me, I suppose.

And with marriage comes the house, comes the entertainment and the food… all the food I want. No more fucking ramen. Ramen has been abolished from this household. Yeah, she’s unbearable to look at and BE with, but I’ll fucking tell you something- for all the moneyI get I’d watch Andy Warhol movies for a WEEK while Kenneth Anger was peeling off my skin with a potato peeler. Besides, all the grief will go when she finally croaks. It’s nice being the sooole recipient of her father’s fortune. Ahhhh…

Get off your high horse for just a second and put yourself in my shoes. Besides, she’s pretty fucking pathetic. Her whole life revolves around Elvis and my cock, how sad is that? I’m doing her a favor, after…

…fuck. I spilled the damn thing. I guess that I’m gonna have to buy a new bottle. Well FUCK me. Nothing is going my way today. I think that I’m going to go into the living room and watch TV, relax a little. Eat… drink… be…

No, I think I’m going to go to bed, I’m getting really…

What’s that, Mr. High and Mighty?

Not 100% sure on the next point (I always forget about descriptive lists and commas, but…)

… to be a rich, reprehensible bastard.

“Would” in the first sentence should probably be italicized instead of capitalized for emphasis. Also, the set of parentheses there seems to not make sense style-wise, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen brackets used in a story.

Also a run-on, as you go straight from the hair to the unibrow, separated only by the parentheticals and a comma.

Same thing for “shut” being italized rather than capitalized.

“Sun shouldn’t be capitalized.”

“Twenty-eight.” Missing the hyphen. Probably be more appealing to the eyes as follows: “twenty-eight; twenty-fucking-eight…” and makes more sense if you say it aloud, as most people tend to emphasize the last part after saying “fucking.”

“God-Knows-What.” Only God needs to capitalized.

Unfortunately, as an actor…

“Need.” See above about capitalization v italicizing.

I stopped there for now. I’ll do the rest later.

“Rich reprehensible bastard” works better if you leave it as-is (sans comma) but italicize the “rich”. Other than that, what Cala said. Nice work.