When the company I worked for named me manager in our branch office in Memphis, Tennessee, where Elvis Presley lived most of his life, I wasn’t very happy about that. Personally I do not like rock and roll, and for me Elvis was the embodiment of that kind of music. After a morning touring the city looking for a house to rent, I was captivated by a small house in the suburbs. When I rushed to rent it, however, I made the mistake of proclaiming to the agent of the real estate agency that I preferred the suburbs because I did not like the omnipresence of Elvis’ living memory that I found in the center. I tried to escape from that cult to a dead singer whose music I did not even like. As a good salesman he was, he hid me then that Elvis had resided briefly in that same house when he was still a young unknown musician.
At first, everything went well. But one night I was awakened by what I thought was a recording of an Elvis song. I got up angry against the neighbor who at that time of night was listening to rock and roll. The song could be heard throughout the house. I hurried to get dressed and went to knock on the neighbor’s door. I had to insist because the whole family was asleep. Indeed, I had made another mistake: the song did not come from the neighboring house. After enduring a rain of deserved insults for waking up a family at that late hour, I returned home pondering where the devil could come from that song. But that night it did not let itself be heard again.
It was the next night when I was awakened again by that song that pierced my ears. I got up agitated and picked up the pistol that I kept on the bedside table. I thought there was an intruder in the house. And indeed, there was: when I entered the living room I saw, outlined by the light of the moon, the silhouette of a young man singing and playing the guitar like a madman. “Silence! Hands up! “I shouted as I turned on the light. Then I almost collapsed because of the impression. It was Elvis himself! I screamed in horror. What the hell did that mean? The legend that Elvis had not died was true? I dropped into a chair and stared at him while my brain tried to assimilate what was happening. When the performance finished, Elvis gave a hip blow and vanished into thin air. “Aha!”, I said, because then I understood everything. Elvis was as dead as a doornail! What I had just witnessed was a performance of his ghost!
The enigma was solved. But not the problem. And it was a serious problem! If Elvis appeared to you every night singing the same song, would not you get sick of it? And you surely like rock and roll, but I don’t! One night I couldn’t take it anymore. Without reasoning, I took the gun and shot him. You can imagine my surprise when I saw him fall to the ground, as if I really had killed him! There I was, with Elvis’s corpse in my living room! However, there was not a drop of blood. That reassured me a little, and then I hurried to get rid of the corpse: I hid it in the attic. “At least the nightly serenades are over”, I thought. But how wrong I was! The next night he appeared again! I killed him again and hid his body in the attic. And the same happened the next night. And the next. And the next … I made up an excuse to rescind the rental contract, but they told me that I had to wait until the end of the month. When I finally left the house, the attic was packed: there was no room for one more Elvis!
More than six months have passed. But I still read every day the newspaper in a state of panic, afraid to find the news of the surprising discovery of a lot of Elvis’ corpses in an old attic of the suburbs of Memphis.