It was an ordinary day until Elvis robbed me. I was at his gig at the House of Blues – light crowd. He finished his set, and applause was rendered. I’d cleaned out my wallet buying dinner, but there was an ATM down the street. I headed out quietly, walked up – then I heard his gravelly voice whisper behind me.

“Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.” I felt the muzzle of the gun in my back. I froze.
“Payday.” I gave him the $200. He snapped, pointed at the screen.
“You Little Fool.” I tried to give him my ATM card, but he snorted and poked me with the gun.
“Worthless Thing.” I put it back in the machine, showed my paltry balance, then withdrew it all. He grabbed it, giggling.
“Success.” Then, the rat bastard clocked me in the head with his 38. I barely made out his words as he ran away.
“I Want To Vanish.”

It was only later I found out he’d gotten robbed himself later that evening – and killed besides.

Shot With His Own Gun.