Eyes that didn't blink surveyed the mausoleum. At least, they had followed the instructions of his secret will to the letter. Much as he wanted to be buried at Graceland, the thought of grave-robbers digging up his body and holding it for ransom had been too much for him. That was the reason for this special, secret tomb on the other side of Memphis. Here, he could rest in peace, undisturbed for all eternity. And, because even in death he wanted to keep an ear on rock and roll, he specified a radio tuned to a Top Twenty rock station be left playing in the crypt.

He climbed shakily out of the pink, gold-trimmed coffin. It was nicely put together, though there were no racing stripes on the sides as he requested. It hardly mattered. He had been a pretty easy-going guy in life as well as in death.

Being the King meant putting up with a lot. There had been those incredibly bad covers for some of his greatest hits. Not to mention Presley classics slowed down as ballads, sung by British rockers with Mersey accents, or done as disco soundtracks. None of it had bothered him.

Dimly, he remembered laughing at some of them while he was alive. Just dimly though. He had been dead so long that his brain didn't work that well anymore. His memory wasn't the best anyway, considering all those damned pills he had been taking right before his death. The pills that finally killed him.

Then there had been the impersonators. Hundreds of them, thousands of them now if the radio could be believed. Young men and old, white and black, even Asian and Latino, dressing like him, acting like him, trying to sing like him. Calling their acts, "Tributes to Elvis" and things like that. Personally, he felt anyone with a decent voice should be trying to make a career on his own instead of living off the King's image. Even though he'd never written any of his own songs, "I always did them My Way," he croaked, testing out his long-dormant vocal cords.

What the impersonators did with their lives was fine by him. They were, after all, his fans and treated his songs with more reverence than he had toward the end.

He could even tolerate the commercials using his songs to sell cars and candy bars and power tools. And the velvet paintings of him they sold at flea markets. Not to mention the latest indignity, the post office vote on the fat or skinny Elvis stamp.

He blanched at the thought of the week-long movie marathons on TBS, wondering how anyone could sit through some of those turkeys. He accepted it all as part of the legend of the King of Rock and Roll. Besides, being dead, he didn't care much. Still, he did have a legacy to protect, and this new group had pushed him too far.

According to the disc jockey, the group called themselves K.I.D. Stupid! which stood for the "King is Dead, Stupid!" It was a rap group.

Elvis hated rap. Everyone had a right to his own kind of music, but rap wasn't rock and roll. And it didn't belong on top-twenty stations. He was sorry now that he hadn't requested the radio in his tomb be set to an oldies station. But, there hadn't been such outlets when he was alive and any dial spinning now would surely be noticed by the caretaker.

There were enough stories about him in the tabloids without him providing new material. He trusted the groundskeeper but big money meant big temptation. Just look at all those miserable biographies by his suck-up friends. He was just glad he'd never revealed to any of them his secret will.

At times, it seemed everyone he'd ever met had written a book about him. There was a virtual library of Elvis books. And they kept on coming. Like that really gruesome account of his death and autopsy published recently. Damned thing had been grisly enough to kill him a second time.

He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Nobody had any respect for the dead these days. Not like when he was a kid and you showed proper reverence for the dearly departed. If he had been capable of crying, a tear would have trickled down his cheek. But there was no time for crying in the chapel.

New York City was home to K.I.D. Stupid! The disc jockey had mentioned they were playing a concert in Madison Square Garden a few days from now. Elvis sighed heavily, though his lungs no longer needed air. He remembered playing the Garden on his come- back tour. It seemed sacrilegious having rap there, especially rap by K.I.D. Stupid! mocking his music. Elvis knew it was his sacred duty to make sure that didn't happen.

Stiffly, he walked to the door of the tomb. As per his final wishes, the door could be opened from the inside as well as out. He had always worried about being buried alive. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the least of his problems.

He usually woke up three or four times a decade. When he did, he'd sneak out of the tomb and head across the street to the Gas and Go Mart.

A quick karate chop got him inside, even though it broke a bone or two. He hit the frozen food cases first, popping a cheeseburger and a chili burrito into the counter microwave. He couldn't eat food anymore - his teeth were too loose and his digestive tract didn't work. But he still liked to smell it.

Next, he cleaned out the cash register. Then he shuffled down the aisle, opening and sniffing candy bars, bags of chips and cans of Pepsi. His senses satisfied, he cleared out before the police arrived.

But there was no time for a food run tonight. Carefully, he turned the inner handle of the tomb door and peered out into the darkness. No one was around. The King smiled, his dry mummified lips crackling like peanut brittle. Tonight he was after that big old pink Cadillac stored in the garage about a mile away. He was the only one who knew of its existence.

Back in his paranoid days, he'd stashed cars with a ready supply of cash all over town. They stayed gassed and ready to go in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Over the years, he had sold or given away most of them, but a few remained. One was all he needed to make it to New York.

A Special Addition! "Elvis Can't Dance,", a new song written by Tina Jens.

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