From the penthouse of his skyscraper, he looked out over downtown Memphis.
The windows ran the length of the building, giving him an unfettered view of the happenings below. This was, quite literally, his only window to the world since he began this self-imposed exile.
From this height the people below appeared to him as little more than ants. He had to remind himself that they were so much more than that. That he did what he did for all of them.
He sighed, and placed a ringed hand on the window. The lightning bolt ring he always wore clinked against the glass.
They’d convinced him that he’d be worth more to the city dead than he was alive. And they’d been right. Millions in tourism, millions more in franchising and merchandising. All of it funneling back into his city.
Faking his death had breathed new life into his home.
While he felt the method of his death had been something of a fiasco, they assured him that no one would question something so normal and so embarrassing as dying mid-crap.
It was an embarrassing death he could live with if it ensured the survival of his Kingdom.
Elvis as the self-sacrificing agent of prosperity for Memphis. The man was generous enough as it was, I bet he might’ve faked his own death if he knew people’s lives would be bettered by it. Maybe this isn’t a fiction at all.