Mr. Mutton Is Not Elvis Presley

It was just after midday when Elvis Mutton drove into the Plymouth Hotel car park on the West Coast of New Zealand in the pink Cadillac with a white roof as personalised number plates, 'MEMPHIS'. Elvis had purchased the wreck from a junkyard in Reefton in the South Island for fifty bucks plus the cost of four new white-wall tyres.

He checked in to the cheapest room and prepared to visit his mum, a resident in a nursing home called 'a healthcare facility for the elderly', showering, trimming his sideburns and looking at his coal-black eyes in admiration. They had been blue eyes but some creep in Westport gave him a couple of foul tasting pills alleged to help him reduce the number of erections he had each day, but all they did was to change the colour of his eyes.

Actually that took care of some of the erections because the coal-black eyes were like magnets to women, turning frigid ones hot and hot ones became a nympho. Now near to burn-out he'd taken to wearing dark sunglasses, thus establishing well-managed sexual equilibrium to his life.

The hotel's night chef took a breather in the car park, took one look at the pink car and its telling number plate and went racing to reception, looking half-deranged.

"The register – the register," she gasped and the 18-year-old receptionist Kate handed it to Mrs Morris.

"Ohmigod," Mrs Morris said, pointing to the name of the new occupant of Room 10, and fainted.

"What's the commotion – and what's Cook doing in reception showing her knickers like that?" asked the night manager (21).

"She looked at this name in Room 10 and fainted."

"What, is it an obscenity?"

"It could be – the signature just says E-L-V-I-S."

"Elvis, what does that mean?" " I don't know, should I ask in the bar, Mr Youngston. Some of that crowd are school teachers who my dad calls big know-alls."

"I'll do it, Sally. You just throw a vase of water over Ma Smith and get her out of reception."

"Attention everyone," Mr Youngston called, and the bar fell silent, everyone expecting the manager to announce a round of free drinks or perhaps even two rounds.

"Does anyone know what Elvis means?"

"Yeah, Elvis Presley" answered everyone over the age of thirtty.

"Why?"

"We've got some guy booked in named Elvis. I was worried it might be the name of a Middle East terrorist leader."

"It can't be," called a woman, bursting into tears. "Elvis died in 1988."

"1977 you silly cow," said another woman, becoming quite hysterical.

"1951," said a drunk.

"1988 said the first woman."

"1977 you silly cow."

Those two began a punch-up.

"Free drinks everyone," called the anxious manager, restoring calm.

"It's just a coincidence but there's a pink Cadillac in the car park," said the drunk, and then quickly downed three of the free drinks. Everyone over the age of thirty turned white-faced and raced to look out into the car park.

"Oh God, he's back," whimpered an ex-Elvis fan, clutching the woman who she'd been fighting with moments earlier.

"Elvis is back – he's here in New Plymouth!"

Newspaper and radio journalists and a 'stringer' working for TV rushed off to break the story to the world media.

Cathie from reception knocked on the door of Room 10.

"Yes?" asked the man, a little annoyed that he'd been interrupted when combing his sideburns.

"People in the bar are saying you're back."

"That's bullshit, I've never been to New Plymouth before."

Pretty Cathie waggled her false eyelids and pushed her tiny breasts forward.

"One of the older women reckons you were the best singers the world has ever seen."

"Well, I do sing a bit when I can find a tune, but they tend to elude me."

"Sing for me, handsome."

"Okay – but just one line... "Baby let me be you lovin' Teddy Bear...dee-dum.bop-bop-oooh---aaaah."

Thirty seconds later Cathie had stripped and was going 'oooh---aaaah' in time with Mr Lamb's steady strumming.

"How can I prove you had me, Mr Lamb?"

Elvis used his eye shadow pen to write on the inside of her left thigh, 'Elvis has been here.' "Thank you Mr Lamb, I'll never be able to wash again if I find out you are as famous as Mrs Crosby seems to think you are."

* * * *

Elvis went to see his mom who didn't recognise him. The charge nurse looked at Elvis sympathetically to tell him this was quite usual when elderly people suffered dementia. The nurse looked into Elvis' eyes and dragged him on to the floor and had her way with him.

They were still locked together, resting, when Mrs Lamb's doctor entered the room, looked horrified and shouted, "Oh really!"

"Oh really what?" asked Nurse Chapman, dreamily.

"Your behaviour, it is disgusting. I hope you used protection and of course I'll have to report this."

"I think there's something about his eyes."

The doctor looked professionally at Elvis' eyes and immediately began tearing off her white coat and panties.

After the two women left Elvis locked the door and spent the next two hours holding his mum's hand and talking to her about the old days. Just before he left she turned to him and said, "Hullo Elvis, where have you been?" That made him so happy.

Returning to the hotel Elvis saw police attempting to control a huge crowd gathered outside the hotel. He diverted and entered the rear entrance to the car park. In the foyer Cathie spotted him before the waiting media did and shepherded him to the office of the general manager who greeted Elvis warmly.

"Welcome to our hotel, son. I know what's going on but nothing I'm going to say to those people is going to change crowd hysteria, so we're going to take advantage of you."

"No sir, I don't mind that but would prefer you to be a woman."

"I'm sorry, son," said Mr Perkins, looking into Elvis's eyes unmoved, I can't be what I'm not. I was speaking as a businessman. We have moved you into the presidential suite and a 9:00 tonight I have arrange for you to speak to the nation, with international link-ups. In the meantime I invite you to dine with me, my wife and our business manager Di Jones, my former daughter-in-law. Di asks that you wear your white suit with bell-bottom trousers – she's unpacked it and had it pressed."

Elvis had a leisurely bath listening to classical music – he can't stand popular music. He stepped into his underpants when there was a knock on the door. Mr Perkins had advised him to open the door to no-one, but if he invited the caller in they would use their security card to enter, thus establishing their authority to access his room.

"Come in" and in came a 6ft foot tall woman poured into a slinky black dress, bulging out nicely two-thirds up between her navel and chin. Her platinum blonde hair hanging midway down her back looked almost natural and she wore six inch heels that did absolute wonders for her legs and thrusting her pelvis forward.

"Good evening Mr Presley, I see that I'm in time to dress you."

"Good evening Di – but just a tiny correction: my name is Elvis Lamb."

"But you are masquerading as Elvis Presley."

"That's not true, Di; I never have and never will. I didn't even like the guy."

"But..."

"Hush, Di – I allow people to believe what they want to believe, now come over here and kiss me; look into my eyes."

"I'm not kissing you and what's wrong with your eyes? Di asked, peering at them.

"I can't see anything wrong with them. My God, is all that your erection?"

Elvis was greatly embarrassed. Di was not interested in him yet his erection was attempting to convince her..

"I'm sorry," he said, hanging his head.

"It's all right, once you've seen one you've seen the lot."

"Come into the bedroom and I'll help you get dressed – try getting that thing under control, will you."

After he was dressed Di said he looked really handsome, and kissed him on the cheek.

"That's not an invitation to sex – that's my appreciation for what you are doing for this hotel and to help restore your confidence. I realise it can't be nice having an erection in front of a woman who has no interest in you."

"My confidence is still flagging."

"Well then, let's try this."

Di moved in full frontal and gave him a very long and sweetest of kisses, breaking off only when she felt something begin to harden against her left thigh.

"Better now?"

"Yes thank you, Di. I feel as if I have been drinking from the fountain of life."

"Oooh. Stop talking to me like that, you naughty man. I have no wish to lose control."

She shaped Elvis' hair over his forehead and he took the opportunity to circle his fingers gently around the outer perimeter of her breasts, finding she was bra-less.

"Hmmmmm. Naughty boy," she cooed.

Something was happening here, thought Elvis. She was slowly melting. He'd heard that some women reacted like this. He regretted thinking too intently about this because he had to turn his toes in and squeeze his thighs together very hard to reduce the blood supply to that unruly fellow down there.

Success.

Much of dinner was taken up joining Mr Perkins in attempting to convince Mrs Perkins that he was not Elvis Presley nor an impersonator; that he was simply Elvis Mutton, who was back in New Zealand touring his home country after an absence of thirteen years working as European agent for Australian and New Zealand flower growers exporting cut flowers to Britain.

At 8:45 the chanting outside grew so loud that the windows of the hotel began to rattle and seismic readings transmitted to Wellington indicated that an minor earthquake rated at a magnitude of 5.6 had struck New Plymouth shortly before 9 pm – 8:45 to be precise. "Elvis, Elvis!" called the crowd.

A police inspector accompanied by a sergeant and two constables entered the dining room.

"Elvis Presley?" called the inspector, receiving no reply.

"Mr Presley?"

Still no reply.

"Elvis?"

Elvis put up his hand.

The inspector hurried over and said, "Elvis, I am arresting you for disturbing the peace, blocking traffic attempting to use an arterial route, causing a street disturbance and causing false reports of an earthquake to be sent to the seismic centre in Wellington."

"Just a minute Bill," said Mr Perkins, who was in the same Rotary Club as Inspector Mulligan. "Elvis has been quietly dining with us for the past ninety minutes and has not left the room. You are out of order in arresting him; it is his presence that is exciting the crowd so you surely are entitled to try to arrest him presence, not blameless Elvis in person."

"But Charlie, there are almost ten thousand citizens out there waiting to see this man."

"Golly, ten thousand – this is bigger than big, Bill."

Di interjected.

"Inspector Mulligan, There are numerous people in this hotel, including myself and Mr Perkins, willing to testify that at no time within our presence has Elvis attempted to pass himself off as Elvis Presley. He has constantly referred to himself as Elvis Mutton, his given name."

"Mutton? Nobody has the surname of Mutton."

"My mother and two brothers and a sisters plus me have the surname of Mutton," chief Iinspector.

"Er, promotion by an uninformed citizen is not required, Elvis – just the title inspector will suffice.

"Sorry to do this to you Charlie and you Mary, Di and Elvis, but under the powers invested in me in the likelihood of a riot occurring, according to The Crimes Act 1961, section V, paragraph 88, I am arresting you all and keeping you in detention for the next three hours until this crisis is over.

"We shall disperse the crowd, with fire hoses if necessary, and inform the media that there will be no unveiling of Elvis Presley to the world because Mr Elvis Mutton, a guest of this hotel, is not Elvis Presley reincarnated.

The four arrested persons were detained in the canteen at the Police Station where Mr Mutton agreed to present a short concert. He sang two operatic pieces very well, but no-one appeared interested, expect Di who was so proud of him attempting to bring culture to the New Zealand Police.

The disgruntled night staff were filing out of the room when Mr Mutton picked up an electric guitar in place ready for the Policemen's Ball the next evening and with a heavily amplified twang of the guitar, launched himself into a fantastic rendition of 'Blue Suede Shoes', and then demonstrating his versatility followed up with 'One Night", 'In the Ghetto' and climaxed with 'Jailhouse Rock.'

"He's Elvis," sobbed a woman sergeant.

"He's better than Elvis," cried a woman canteen worker.

A punch-up occurred and Inspector Mulligan escorted his detainees to safety.

* * * * *

EPILOG: These days Mr Mutton impersonates Elvis Presley professionally at bowling clubs, casino theatres and health care facilities for the elderly and his pink Cadillac is the best-known car in all of Taranaki.

He sings well, and even sounds a bit like Mr Presley, but he never hits the pedal as he did that evening in the canteen of the Police Station when he sang 'better than Elvis' to successfully win the hand of a lady.

Di is now general manager of the hotel and she and Elvis employ a 55-year old widow and Elvis fan to look after the five-year-old twins, both or whom now are in elementary rehearsals with their parents. Di, with her suitable nose and raspy voice, often joins Elvis on stage to take off Barbra Streisand.

THE END