Author: Hillary Lyon

The entire planet watched the otherworldly broadcast of the gyrating bipedal creature. Seeing that when he crooned the females swooned, the males adopted his sartorial style as a mating strategy. It not only worked, it changed everything. For the first time in the planet’s history, its denizens were united; they named themselves the Elvii.

A cult was born and a hierarchy within that cult evolved. Members voted to appoint a High Priest Impersonator, or HPI—the most prestigious honor. He, or she, would hold that title until they were dethroned by a challenger.

* * *

“Hey, man,” the chief astrophysicist sang out as he entered the office of the HPI. “I got gooood news!”

The HPI combed back his glossy black hair and grinned a lopsided grin. “S’up?”

“Our team tracked the broadcast back to Elvis’ home planet!” The HPI gave him a thumbs up. He continued, “Better yet, we’ve pinpointed his favorite city—his preferred performance venue!”

“Cool, man,” the HPI murmured. He snapped his fingers. “Now, daddy-o, when can you send me on my pilgrimage?”

“No time like the present.”

* * *

Wearing his white jumpsuit, the one with the silver studded collar and spangled eagle on the back, the HPI landed on an almost blindingly neon-lit street in Vegas. He made his way through the throngs of people milling about, crowds that parted before him. He smiled crookedly as he heard their “oooohs” and “aaaaahs.” Several women stopped him for selfies; he happily complied. These were his people, indeed, though he was surprised they were dressed in such frumpy, dull clothes, with not one impersonator among them. They must be the peasantry.

He spotted a small group of impersonators standing before closed theater doors. He joined them just as the doors opened. They all walked to a backstage area where a comely young woman with a clip-board counted heads.

“Seems we have one too many contestants,” she said loudly. The Elvises quieted. “Who didn’t sign up?”

The HPI raised his bejeweled hand. As she approached him, a sudden smile bloomed on her face; she was obviously impressed with his appearance. “You’ll have to perform last.”

“S’alright, mama,” The HPI said softly. She blushed and turned away.

* * *

The other contestants surprised the HPI with their appearances. Some were obese, some skinny, some wore wigs, some sported curly hair. But the biggest shock was the low quality of their singing and dancing. How could Elvis’ home world produce such shockingly schlocky impersonators? He knew now why he was driven to come here: to save this world from cheap imitations.

When his turn came, he sauntered onto the stage. The judges assigned him the song, “All Shook Up.”

The HPI gyrated and shimmied, his voice a perfect mimic of the original’s. And when he did his karate-chops blue sparks flew from his fingertips, red sparks from his karate kicks. The audience loved it. The judges did too.

“We have a winner!” the MC announced, pulling the HPI from the line-up. Two show-girls flanked his sides as the MC placed a crown on his head. “Thank you. Thankyouverymuch,” he said, winking.

“What’ll you do next?” the MC asked, pushing a microphone in front of the HPI’s face. Camera phones flashed in the audience.

The HPI grinned his lopsided grin. “TCB, man—take care of business. I promise,” he said circling his hips like a hula dancer, “to be a stern, but benevolent king.” The crowd cheered.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC shouted, “Elvis is IN the building!” The crowd roared.