Where is Elvis when I Need Him Most?

That night as Elvis slipped further out of my mind, like mucus down a larynx, I awoke to shouts of laughter and feet pounding down the second floor balcony outside. The mirror mounted on the wall opposite my bed undulated with shadows as the crowd passed my room. I decided I’d wait five minutes before I went out to see what the hell was going on. A girl screamed loudly as if she was being hurt, but then laughed and said, “Fuck off Conner.”
That was it. I sat up in bed an sneezed, wondering how long it’s been since the motel laundered this hideous, floral bedspread. I lazily slipped into my blue suede loafters, opting to crush the backs of them instead of slipping them around my heel. Slowly I turned the knob, carefully rehearsing how I would confront the obnoxious party-goers.

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