The King(pin)

It was an ordinary day until Elvis robbed me.

I had just ordered some lunch at an eatery up in Kalamazoo and was rooting about for my car keys when I heard the sound of suede clopping on the pavement. I paid it next to zero mind (shoes were shoes, were they not?) until I felt the cold steel barrel of a revolver squarely in the small of my back.

“Give me your money,” an unmistakable accent drawled. “Give it now.”

I obliged.

I slowly turned around to see this impossible sight—the hair, the sunglasses, the white outfit, the blue suede shoes. It was dreamlike. This sunglass-using, cream fabric-wearing, blue suede shoe-sporting celebrity was not only alive and well but was relieving me of my money.

“B-b-b-b-but…y-y-y-ou’re the King,” I stammered, not sure of what I was trying to accomplish by saying it.

Elvis merely laughed and dumped the cash into a white saddlebag. He turned around and walked away, but something made him pause and look back at me.

He said: “I’m not just the King, I’m the king_pin_.”

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