The Fear Merchant: An Elvis Novel

By Michael Hodjera

An epidemic of fear and mistrust grips the nation's capital. A seemingly random series of errors and misjudgments on the part of the Washington elite have sent the world spiraling toward war and environmental disaster

Meanwhile, two accomplished Hawaiian shamans, O'e Kalani and Aunt Betty, sense a sinister design in the bleak mosaic of current events. They believe a dangerous and powerful intelligence is at work behind the scenes, manipulating weak minds and orchestrating the erosion of international peace and harmony. With the patience borne of millennia spent watching and waiting, this intelligence has carefully and methodically been pursuing its own agenda for the future of the planet, an agenda that has no place for mankind.

Having no clear idea of what he is up against and lacking any inkling as to how he might help, Elvis is again called into service on behalf of the planet and humanity.

The saga that began with The Return of the King comes full circle in this third and last novel in the Elvis series as the prodigal son returns, anonymous and unknown, to where it all began: Memphis, Tennessee. It is here that he will be called upon to confront his greatest fear and to fulfill a destiny he could never have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 17, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595911240

Michael Hodjera

Michael Hodjera is the author of a trio of books featuring the fictional present day adventures of Elvis. One of these, The Fear Merchant, was a Darrell Award finalist. A songwriter and composer, he lives in the Santa Cruz mountains. Sleeping Gods is his fourth novel. To learn more visit michaelhodjera.com.

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Copyright © 2007 by Michael Hodjera

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Author photo by: Jhea Anne McCloskey

ISBN: 978-0-595-46834-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-91124-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PROLOGUE

THE OTHER ELVIS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

THE FEAR MERCHANT

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER Eleven

CHAPTER Twelve

CHAPTER Thirteen

CHAPTER Fourteen

CHAPTER Fifteen

TROUBLE

CHAPTER Sixteen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER Eighteen

CHAPTER Nineteen

CHAPTER Twenty

CHAPTER Twenty-One

CHAPTER Twenty-Two

LONG DISTANCE INFORMATION

CHAPTER Twenty-Three

CHAPTER Twenty-Four

CHAPTER Twenty-Five

CHAPTER Twenty-Six

CHAPTER Twenty-Seven

CHAPTER Twenty-Eight

CHAPTER Twenty-Nine

CHAPTER Thirty

CHAPTER Thirty-One

CHAPTER Thirty-Two

CHAPTER Thirty-Three

CHAPTER Thirty-Four

CHAPTER Thirty-Five

CHAPTER Thirty-Six

CHAPTER Thirty-Seven

ALL MY TRIALS

CHAPTER Thirty-Eight

CHAPTER Thirty-Nine

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER Forty-One

CHAPTER Forty-Two

CHAPTER Forty-Three

CHAPTER Forty-Four

CHAPTER Forty-Five

CHAPTER Forty-Six

CHAPTER Forty-SeVen

CHAPTER Forty-Eight

CHAPTER Forty-Nine

CHAPTER FIFTY

MEMPHIS

CHAPTER Fifty-One

CHAPTER Fifty-Two

CHAPTER Fifty-Three

CHAPTER Fifty-Four

CHAPTER Fifty-Five

CHAPTER Fifty-Six

CHAPTER Fifty-Seven

CHAPTER Fifty-Eight

CHAPTER Fifty-Nine

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER Sixty-One

CHAPTER Sixty-Two

CHAPTER Sixty-Three

CHAPTER Sixty-Four

CHAPTER Sixty-Five

CHAPTER Sixty-Six

CHAPTER Sixty-Seven

CHAPTER Sixty-Eight

CHAPTER Sixty-Nine

CHAPTER Seventy

CHAPTER Seventy-One

CHAPTER Seventy-Two

ALWA\ YS ON MY MIND

CHAPTER Seventy-Three

CHAPTER Seventy-Four

CHAPTER Seventy-Five

CHAPTER Seventy-Six

CHAPTER Seventy-Seven

CHAPTER Seventy-Eight

CHAPTER Seventy-Nine

CHAPTER Eighty

CHAPTER Eighty-One

CHAPTER Eighty-Two

CHAPTER Eighty-Three

LITTLE SISTER

CHAPTER Eighty-Four

CHAPTER Eighty-Five

CHAPTER Eighty-Six

THE RETURN OF THE KING

CHAPTER Eighty-Seven

CHAPTER Eighty-Eight

CHAPTER Eighty-Nine

CHAPTER Ninety

CHAPTER Ninety-One

CHAPTER Ninety-Two

CHAPTER Ninety-Three

CHAPTER Ninety-Four

CHAPTER Ninety-Five

MYSTERY TRAUN

CHAPTER Ninety-Six

CHAPTER Ninety-Seven

CHAPTER Ninety-Eight

CHAPTER Ninety-Nine

CHAPTER One Hundred

EPILOGUE

Special thanks to Gail Bartafor her help in

preparing this manuscript for publication. Heartfelt

gratitude also to Jhea Anne McCloskey and Juliane

and Eva Hodjerafor their indispensable assistance

and support.

PROLOGUE 

It was five minutes before closing time at the flower shop. The shop was located on a virtually deserted stretch of Route 29 deep in the Louisiana bayou. Despite the remoteness of the location, the flower shop-Aida’s it was called-seemed to be prospering. This fact was not lost on the two swamp rats who entered the shop.

Hell, Wilbur. Put that thing away, whispered the tall one to the shorter one. You ain’t gonna need that pea shooter a yurn. Do you see anybody besides us around here? This is gonna be a stroll in the park. Trust me.

The elderly lady behind the counter eyed the two men over her readers, her brow furrowed. She was the perfect image of the kindly grandmother. She could have been plucked from the pages of Mother Goose. She wore a cornflower print dress over her short round frame and had her salt and pepper hair done up in a bun.

Can I help you gentlemen? she inquired with a slight southern inflection. I’m just about to close for the day.

Uh, yeah, well, how much are a dozen a’ them there flowers? the tall man said, avoiding her eyes. Shit. She looked just like his Aunt Bessie. Bessie had been the only bright light in the long line of ne’er-do-wells that constituted his family tree.

It’s six dollars for a bouquet of daisies, young man, the old woman said. Shall I wrap them up for you?

Sure, why not, the tall one said. Even sounded like Aunt Bessie, bless her departed soul.

The woman shuffled out from behind the counter, accompanied by an impossibly long dachshund. Come on, Bismarck, she said to the dog.

She plucked twelve stems from the flower bin, oblivious of the surreptitious glares of the two men, who were standing over her, contemplating their next move. The one called Wilbur reached for the pistol in his belt, but was stayed once again by the tall one, who shook his head, no.

The men continued to wait in silence as the old woman assembled beautiful, bright flowers, using ferns and baby’s breath and Queen Anne’s lace to fill out the arrangement. Finally, apparently satisfied with her handiwork, she handed the bouquet to the taller of the two men. That’ll be six dollars, she reiterated.

The tall man pretended to reach into his coveralls for the cash but came up instead with a .38 caliber snub nose pistol.

My word! the old woman exclaimed, her cheeks flushing.

That’s right, granny, the tall one said. We’re gonna be postin’ a withdrawal about now. We don’t want no excuse to hurt ya. You unnerstand? Just give us the loot thar in the register and we won’t be troublin’ you further.

My heavens, the old woman said, gulping air, her hand at her throat.

OK, then, the tall one said. Just step away from the cash register. We’ll just be helpin’ ourselves. Did you hear what I said?

Oh my, the old woman said, apparently having trouble grasping the situation.

Wilbur removed several bills from the register, while the tall man held his gun casually pointed in the old woman’s direction. Honestly ma’am, this can’t be the first time ya been held up. I mean out here in the middle a’ nowhere, all by yer lonesome? No one hardly ever uses this highway anymore. Not since they put in the interstate. He shook his head ruefully.

The old woman seemed incapable of answering. She was having a hard time breathing.

Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything, he said and the two men started to turn for the door. It’s our gain, right?

The woman seemed to be trying to say something. Finally, she blurted out, You forgot your flowers, young man.

Won’t be needin’ the flowers, ma’am, the tall one said. We got what we come fer.

But when he saw the beseeching look of on the old woman’s face, he felt sorry for her and relented. Well, OK then, he said, shaking his head. He snapped up the flowers.

They had started to move toward the door when something strange began to happen. It was as if someone had dimmed the lights. What had seemed the brightest and most cheerful of shops suddenly began to take on a sinister cast. The plants seemed to lean in toward the two men menacingly, and the shadows along the wall deepened. The bouquet of flowers dropped to the floor, followed immediately by the bills that had been taken from the till.

To the two men it seemed as if their most horrific nightmare had suddenly come to life. They gaped at each other in mute terror, frozen to the spot.

It may just have been a trick of the light, but for a moment it appeared as if the shadows themselves had taken on form, obscuring the two men. Finally the shades departed, spiriting the souls of the men away to eternal torment amidst shrieks of horror. Or so it seemed.

What was certain, however, was that as the late afternoon sunlight returned to life, here on this deserted strip of roadway deep in the Bayou, there was nothing left of the two men. It was as if

they had never existed.

I came awake with a start. It was dark, and I was in a strange room. Rain was falling outside, and flashing neon flickered around the edges of the window drapery. Sleep was slow in leaving. It took me a full minute to get oriented. Then it all came floodingback….

I was back in my old hometown, Memphis, and I was still getting used to the idea. I’d been sent here by O’e and Betty. I was looking for someone and didn’t have a clue as to how I was going to find them. They’d said I knew the territory, having been born in Tupelo and raised in Memphis. They claimed I was the one best qualified for the job. I didn’t have near the amount of confidence in my own abilities that they seemed to.

But none of that mattered now. I was here. And I had conflicted feelings about it. Having gotten to know and appreciate a life lived simply, anonymously, this was kind of like going back into the lion’s den. This was where it had all started. This was where I’d made my first record at Sun. This was home when the storm broke, and I had my first taste of success as a performer in the fifties. And it was where I very nearly died two decades later in my home at Graceland.

Going over my life in the wee hours, I found myself missing Des more than ever. She’d been there to soften the trauma of being back in Vegas the year before. Where was she now? It had been unsafe for her to come with me, O’e had said. As with so many things, I’d had to trust O’e’s wisdom on that one. A shaman, a Hawaiian holy man, he knew more than I would ever know. He’d been on the planet for more than two millennia, for chrissakes. And I wasn’t about to place Des in harm’s way.

I remembered the fateful night she and I had met. It was spring of 1977, almost exactly thirty years ago to the day. She had just appeared there in my limo at the gates of Graceland. We’d gone for a ride which had ended along the river just around the corner from the hotel I was now staying in. It had been raining that night, too.

I saw the limo in my mind’s eye out there in the empty parking lot along the Mississippi. I saw everything the way it was that night: the rain glistening off the asphalt, the rain-shrouded street lights. It was the night my life changed forever.

Des had been made for the job of pulling me back from the verge of self-destruction. She was dark, sexy, gorgeous. My ideal woman. She was perfect, except for one minor detail. She was a vampire. That wasn’t a deal breaker, as far as I was concerned. I had enough sense left to realize I was about to hit bottom. After years in decline from drug abuse, weight gain and general depression, I sensed that the end of the road was just up ahead. I was primed for something, anything, to change the direction my life was taking. If I was going to die to my old life, my old self, then let it be at the hands of this amazing creature.

But my life didn’t end that night. Nor did it end later that summer, as the world believed. I pretended to die in August of that year. Instead, I went into hiding. A little facial surgery, some new identity cards, and I became Paul Galahad. The next stop was the South Pacific, where I lived incognito for two and a half decades, renting my boat out to tourists and playing tour guide to put food on the table. I’d had to leave every vestige of my old life behind, including any claim to what was left of my fortune. I cleaned up and straightened out. I lost all the extra weight I’d put on, along with the emotional baggage I’d accumulated over the years: the insecurity, the guilt, the regret.

Now, after all these years, I had done what I had sworn I would never do. I had come back to Memphis. This place was poison, as far I was concerned. Jinxed. If it hadn’t been for Des, I wouldn’t have come out of here alive. I’d been burned here. Burned badly.

It didn’t seem to matter that it was me who had struck the match….

THE OTHER ELVIS 

CHAPTER ONE 

Bloody fockin’ ‘ell, Declan Elvis Enders thought to himself.

Enders was the lead singer of the wildly popular British rock group, Trowel. When asked about the name of the band by the press, he quipped that it had seemed appropriate when they were starting out as they tended to lay it on a bit thick. The band’s publicist, as usual on these occasions, went apoplectic. He needn’t have bothered. The genial pronouncement did nothing to diminish the band’s phenomenal record sales. On the contrary. Trowel’s popularity continued to increase exponentially with each passing day. Enders and his band mates could do no wrong.

Hailed as the new king of rock ‘n roll, Enders had been invited to a dinner at the White House when it was learned he was in States. The president’s daughter was a fan. He now occupied the high ground near the punch bowl. From here he had a mostly unobstructed view of the entire room. The secretary of state was hobnobbing with the President of Saudi Arabia. The vice president was red-faced and clearly tipsy, holding forth on some topic of interest before a bevy of well-heeled matrons who sported jewelry, the combined worth of which equaled the annual federal budget of Ecuador. The president himself was off in a corner with his campaign strategist.

Enders, like most Europeans, was appalled at President James McKinney’s aggressive and militaristic foreign policy. So far, the current administration’s policies had failed to accomplish their goals of bringing peace and democracy to the Middle East and, in the minds of many, had dramatically exacerbated the instability of the region, while alienating its allies and hardening resistance from its perceived enemies elsewhere. He reflected that in another time and in another country, hara kiri would have been the only honorable option. But here in the States in the 21st century, the current regime continued to be regarded as heroic by many.

The administration’s doctors of spin were second to none. There was a small cabal of journalists, PR men and lobbyists close to the presidency, whose job it was to present the policies of the administration in the best possible light and to paint the domestic opposition as fanatics, charlatans and traitors. Strategies of secrecy and slander of political opponents had so far successfully neutralized dissent, while the world continued to slide toward chaos and armed conflict..

Enders was stoned. That was a given. He’d been stoned now for about six years, give or take. Ever since his star had started to rise. Elvis Presley himself, the real Elvis, had gone down in flames, if not quite down the toilet, at age forty-two. That gave him a ten-year margin, Enders figured. At the very least. Look at Keith. Even so, this scene called for an extra layer of padding. Tonight he was truly reptilian. He was scales, head to toe. He veritably slithered his way around the room.

A movement at his elbow made him jump. What the effin’ ‘ell? You could give a bloke a ‘eart attack sneakin’ up on ‘im lawke ‘at.

Bollocks. It was the president’s daughter, Serena, Sofia, Samantha. Samantha-that sounded right-Samantha McKinney.

Fockin’ A? he slurred, regarding her unsteadily.

You don’t look too hot, the president’s daughter observed. Your eyes are bloodshot, and you look all pasty. Like you’ve been embalmed or something. Mind if I take your pulse?

Effin’ great, Enders thought. A wiseass. But, he realized, if he didn’t make some effort here to cover for himself, he could be inviting a world of grief-arrest, censure, deportation. Hefty fines, at the very least.

Insomnia, he said, his dilated pupils focusing elsewhere, anywhere else but at the girl. Je’lag. Some truth in the latter. It sounded plausible, at least. Never mind that he’d slept for eighteen hours straight after getting off the plane from London. But that was more like catatonia, not sleep really, and wasn’t worth mentioning.

Looks like pinkeye to me, the president’s daughter pressed, trying to get a better look at his face.

Enders kept turning away from her, trying to appear nonchalant, pretending not to notice her scrutiny. Having made a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc which brought him back to the punchbowl on his other side, he finally halted and eyed her obliquely, taking stock. Plain American face. Maddeningly wholesome. Decent rack, though. Perky. Then he noticed the four secret service men who formed a hemisphere around him. Shit. Where had they materialized from? Why couldn’t she, Dancer, Prancer, Donner and Blitzen just leave him alone in his cocoon of inebriation? He was all right as long as he wasn’t forced to communicate with anyone.

He squinted around the room. His eyes widened and then narrowed.

He leaned toward the president’s daughter, bleary-eyed. Who keeps muckin’ with the flippin’ lawghts? he slurred.

He noticed the blank look in the girl’s eyes and decided to rephrase the statement. Doesn’t i’ seem a bi’ dim to you in ‘ere, luv?

But it was absurd. The cut glass chandeliers were at full blaze. Light reflected off every spotless, polished surface in the place. The darkness wasn’t real. Just a figment.

Dim? Samantha looked about.

Yeah. And look a’ them blokes weavin’ in and out, like the devil’s ownbleedin’ clergy.

Where?

The girl was humoring him. He could see it in her eyes. Maybe there was something to this bird after all, he speculated. Something more than was first apparent.

The Secret Service agents sidled closer, trying to appear discreet. They weren’t about to let the president’s daughter fall victim to this suspicious limey’s perverted ways. They weren’t taking any chances. He caught sight of himself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far side of the room. He couldn’t say he blamed them. Here he was, dressed in black from head to toe. He had on greasy black jeans, shiny from wear, a black cowboy shirt, and a black, fashionably distressed motorcycle jacket. His black, lacquered pompadour seemed to aspire to the chandelier above him. He couldn’t have stood out more in this crowd if he’d had antlers attached to his head and a blinking clown’s nose. Still, he flattered himself by affirming the uncanny resemblance he bore to his namesake, the King, though in slightly diminutive form. Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the fact that he was 5’ 6" tall. It perturbed him slightly that the president’s daughter was exactly as tall as he was. With the special boots on.

CHAPTER TWO 

So, Samantha began coyly. You got a girlfriend?

Affirmative, luv, Enders replied, sniffling. His nasal membranes were draining again, as they had a tendency to do at odd intervals due to his chronic cocaine use. Go’ three of ‘em.

Really, Samantha stated. Sounds a little high maintenance to me.

It’s two more than any sane bloke ‘ould ‘ave any use fer, if ‘e ‘ad ‘alf a brain in ‘is bleedin’ ‘ead. Enders agreed. It’s bleedin’ bonkers, is wha’ i’ is. Especially now’s the novelty’s worn off. But wha’ can ya do? ‘Ties that bind,’ and all tha’ rubbish, raw-ight?

The president’s daughter seemed shocked. Christ. Do they know about each other?

Oh yeah, Enders replied casually. Ge’ along famously, they do. That is, when ‘ey ain’t pullin’ each other’s freakin’’air out! He broke out in a howl of laughter that doubled him over.

He leaned forward conspiratorially. Oy’m thinkin’ they’re in cahoots. Plottin’ ta murther me fer me fortune, is wha’ oy think.

As quickly as it started, the laughter stopped. Enders seemed to see something across the room and paled visibly.

Never mawind about all tha’ now, he said clearly shaken, an urgency in his voice that hadn’t been there a moment before. Yer tellin’ me ya ‘aven’t noticed them filmy repellent things driftin’ about the place?

In spite of the drugs-or perhaps because of them-his senses were heightened. His skin prickled. There was something clearly not right here, Enders realized. What was worse, there was a certain . familiarity about the feelings the revolting, somehow obscene, cavorting shapes evoked. A memory tickled the edge of his consciousness. But he couldn’t quite manage to coax it into the open. Suddenly, he felt nauseous.

Bloody bleedin’ fockin’ shite on a pike, he said, teetering on his mod boots. Fock, fock, fock.

My God, Samantha whispered harshly, looking around the room to see who was in hearing range. Could you tone down the language just a little? We’ve got half the United Nations here tonight. It’s not that my dad cares what they think. That’s pretty well documented. It’s just that he may need some of these people as allies someday, even if he doesn’t think he does at the moment.

Fockin’ A, Enders said distractedly. Serious concern was now etched on his face. Sweat was forming along his hairline. He cast about himself, groping. Then he found the edge of the table the punchbowl rested on and gripped it for all he was worth to steady himself. Even Samantha began to show evidence of concern. Her normally unwrinkled face was now furrowed above her nose.

What. What is it? she asked, her eyes wide. What’s happening? What are you seeing?

It’s ‘em, Enders said, motioning vaguely. ’Ere all over the bleedin’ place now. They’re lawike fn cockroaches. They’re breedin’, oy swear. ‘Ere’s twice as many now as ‘ere was just a minute ago."

Who? Who are ‘they’? Samantha breathed, close to his face. She grabbed his elbow to help support him. Listen, I know something’s happening here. I’m not getting what you’re seeing. But I know something’s wrong. I can feel it.

Enders blinked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Wha’ is i’, luv? Wha’ are ya feelin’?

Samantha was suddenly self-conscious. Well, she said and stopped. Then her resolve to continue engaged. I’ve never told anyone this, she said. "But it’s like there’s been this cloud hanging over everything and everyone in this town. Everybody’s scared to death. I can see it in their eyes. But there’s no reason for it. It’s not logical. People don’t just get scared for no reason. Especially not politicians or reporters or lobbyists or the myriad others who make the country go. God forbid the president himself is susceptible. But it’s real. It’s colored everything that’s been done here for the last few years. The mistakes. The miscalculations. The political disasters that have been hounding this administration. The secrecy. The paranoia. If I didn’t know better, I’d have to say there’s some kind of curse at work here. It’s been turning everything to—pardon me-shit lately." She stopped abruptly, unwilling to continue. She felt she’d said too much already.

Man, it’s ge’in’ bleedin’ ‘ot in ‘ere, Enders said, tugging at his collar. Oy need a drink.

In Samantha’s view, that was the last thing he needed.

Thick as flies, ‘ey are. Thick as thieves. He laughed maniacally. It’s as if ‘ell itself opened its bleepin’ maw and spewed forth all its undigested carrion. There’s spectres everywhere. Can’t ya see ‘em? There. And there. Shapes.

Something snapped in Enders drug addled brain. Denizens of the dark! he yelled at the top of his lungs.

Conversation froze. Eyes turned in his direction.

Murderous monks! Grim reapers! Bring i’ on then. Oy ain’t afraid o’ you! Buggerall and bring i’ on! You can kiss me pocked and pitted arse! With that he began to fiddle with his belt buckle. All a’ ya! Livin’ dead. Zombies. I don’t give a ferret’s fart. You don’t scare me! Fock you! Fock you all! Bleedin’ fockin’ ell.

With that, Enders collapsed at the foot of the punch bowl as if he’d been brain shot.

CHAPTER THREE 

Wha’ ‘appened?

He had come to in some kind of infirmary. Samantha was still there, in a chair, bedside. Where previously she had been wearing an elegant black dress, she was now in jeans and an oversized wool sweater. Unremarkable in every respect, Enders thought. And yet..

You passed out, she said. They’re running tests.

Oh that’s just ducky, Elvis Enders wailed. He grabbed for his pompadour. It was gone. His hair was sticking out all over the place-like Robert Smith, probably. He hated the idea that he might now resemble another pop star, a living one at that. Bleedin’ brilliant.

Samantha wrinkled her brow. It was kind of endearing, truth be told. Don’t you want to know what you’ve got?

Oy know what oy’ve got! Enders moaned. I’ve got every controlled substance on the face of the earth in me bloodstream, he thought to himself. What could be worse than looking like Robert Smith? Jail time. Listen, oy’ve go’ ‘o get ou’ a’ ‘ere. Things ta do. People ta see. Me public awaits.

Hold on there, pilgrim, Samantha said as Enders whipped back the covers, exposing skinny, pale English gams that poked out from under the unflattering hospital gown like bird legs. Just hold your horses for a minute, would you?

’Ow long ‘ave oy been out? Enders said, slamming his head back against the pillow in resignation.

You’ve been asleep for about fourteen hours. It’s noon. Saturday. I need you to tell me what you saw yesterday. At the gala.

Bleedin’ soul suckers, ‘at’s wha’. ‘Ey was all over the bleedin’ place. It was a full blown infestation is wha’ i’ was. He began to pale again, and Samantha began to regret bringing it up.

What are their names? she asked.

’Scuse mey? Enders looked at her oddly. The bleedin’ soul suckers?

No, silly. Your girlfriends.

Well. Ehem. Oy’m not really sure, tell ya the truff. Bleedin’ ‘opeless wiff names, oy am. Oy know ‘em as Buffy, Fluffy, and Muffy. ‘At’s ‘ow oy keep ‘em straight in me ‘ead. You can guess which one does the ‘eavy liftin’.

Where are they now?

Back ‘ome, oy guess. In me flat in London-one of me flats ‘at is. East End. Listen, oy’ve really go’ ‘o ge’out o’ ‘ere. Get some sun. Some air. What I really need is a fix, he thought. When was this freakin’ wholesome yankee bird going to leave him alone. Shouldn’t you be in school or some bloody thing?

Just graduated, she replied, unperturbed. Summa cum laude. Amherst. Listen, I have an idea. We’ve got a retreat in North Carolina. You could spend some time there. Recuperating. Then you and I can get to the bottom of this, this zombie stuff. What do you say?

Unh, unh. No, luv. No can do. No way. Oy’ve go’ ‘o ge’ ‘ome. Plan the next tour. Cut a new record.

You need to rest. The doctor says so. Besides you just got off your tour. And you’re not due in the studio again until September. I know these things.

Well. Alrawight. Feed the dog, then.

What are Slumsy, Bumsy and Scumsy doing? I’m sure they’ll be looking out for Fido.

It’s Fluffy, Muffy „.oh, hell. She had him by the short and curlies. She probably had it arranged so that they wouldn’t let him out of here without her permission. This wasn’t just any fan he was dealing with here. Her father was a psychopath who also happened to be the leader of the free world. If she wanted him stuffed and added to her bear collection, it could probably be arranged.

We could go right now, Samantha persisted innocently. No need to wait around for any bothersome blood tests.

The sly little minx. He looked her over again. He didn’t know whether it was the angle of the light or some new pharmaceutical they had added to his regimen, but she was looking better all the time. This disturbed him almost as much as anything that had transpired in the last day or so. Spending a little more time with this bird might not be such an ordeal after all, he thought. Damn. He needed to do something to get this troublesome thing he was feeling for her, whatever it was, out of his system.

For a moment,