The year is 1969 and Elvis Presley is the epitome of success. He's obtained a beautiful wife, fathered an adorable daughter, and his career as an entertainer is at its peak.
To increase his good fortune, his manager has procured him a gig opening a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Elvis!" Several men scream at once.
The concerned call of America's superstar turns several heads. Someone yells for help and suddenly the felled entertainer is surrounded by curious people.
"Oh my God!"
"What happened?"
"Is he dead?"
The shrill shrieks of women and concerned mutters of men rise to a distracting roar. Elvis is oblivious to it all, still knocked out cold on the hard floor.
"Step back!" The Colonel commands. "Let the doctor work. Go about your business."
Vernon is impressed that this directive is followed by the fearful crowd, though the Colonel can be an impressive force of his own to contend with. With more space around the famed singer, Elvis' personal physician is able to worm his way through the curious figures and settle himself at Elvis' side.
Vernon, pale and trembling, stares at his unconscious son. While Dr. Nick digs in his bag, Vernon sinks to his knees, patting the cheek of his precious boy. There is no reaction. It reminds him of cradling the lifeless body of Jessie moments after Gladys expelled him.
His heart is breaking all over again.
When the doctor reveals a long needle, primed with more fluids for his already drugged child, Vernon snaps. He recalls the upsetting scene this morning in Elvis' bed, the weak fight his exhausted body put up, the quiet "no" as he protested and thrashed in vain. Someone needs to stand up for Elvis when he cannot.
He won't watch his son fall into another harmful addiction. Not again.
"No," Vernon spits, holding Elvis' arm out of reach. "He needs a hospital."
His portly manager explodes with anger at his refusal. "He needs to get on that stage now! He has a contract to uphold, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the consequences?" Parker threatens, laced with venom.
Vernon's normally easy going manner disappears, as he shows his flaming temper now, rivaling Elvis'. "He's not doin' any show like this! Red, Sonny, help me lift him. Jerry, get the car ready."
The men move to follow Vernon's directive, but the Colonel cements himself immovable in front of Vernon and shoves the fat cigar in his face.
"You listen here, Mr. Presley. If he doesn't do the show, he'll be in breach of contract. We'll be within our rights to sue."
"You can sue if ya want," Red bites, "But if we don't get him to a hospital now, he'll be dead."
"Costello will not be happy about this," Colonel growls, low and foreboding. Yet to the great relief of everyone present, he slinks down the hallway and lets them escort an incoherent Elvis out of the hotel.
The singer's dark head lolls precariously as they carry his limp figure to the car, setting him down lengthways on the backseat.
"Elvis? Can ya hear me?" Vernon mutters, gently nudging his shoulder. Thankfully, the man in question has gained some awareness, mumbling "Becca" repeatedly under his breath.
