Elvis is dead. That’s what I though until last night, when he visited me in the liquor store. Just before I left at twelve, I sold my last six-pack. The king rolled in, cigar in tow, being dragged by a shitty little ratdog on a leash. I could nearly see the belch, in its acrid stench rolling towards me, as he asked where I kept the forties. I indicated a spot at the back of the store, where the malt beverages were kept. As he was walking back through the aisles, he noticed the orange and black sale sign. “Five ninety-five a twelve-pack of tall boys…is that right,” and opened the case. A light frost glazed the King’s gold-rimmed sunglasses and the little dog yelped as the mist tumbled from the cooler. A light hum, and quiet again when the door is shut. The lights flicker in the room as the cooler engages.