The King is Dead

It was pitch black when he awoke. His chest hurt and his stomach was roiling. He lay still, not knowing where he was. He had spent so many nights and days sleeping in strange beds, that this feeling of confusion was the norm.

His tender jaw cleared the confusion. He had been to the dentist yesterday. He was at home, in his own bed. He felt around the bed; he was alone. Mind over matter, that’s what it took to control nausea. He lay back, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths.

The nausea increased, as did the feeling of oncoming diarrhea. He clicked on the bedside reading lamp.

3:18 am.

An array of over 20 perscription were scattered over the bedside table. He swung his legs over and sat up. He donned his thick framed glasses, and picked up ramdom pill boxes.

The nausea swept over him again. Not the time to read, he decided. He pattered across the carpeted floor and into the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet he dragged over a waste basket.

He fell.

Elvis Presley was dead.

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