Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  Hound Dog

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Copyright

  Hound Dog

  Richard Blandford

  Many thanks to Emily and Dave

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday afternoon, Gay Elvis brings the van round to my place for us to load up the equipment.

  ‘Hi, Gaylord,’ I say. ‘Been hanging round any gay bars lately?’

  He grins awkwardly and opens up the back doors of the van. ‘You going to be getting that new Comeback Special DVD?’ he asks.

  ‘Not fucking likely,’ I say. ‘What would I want with that crap?’

  Gay Elvis isn’t really gay, he’s just effeminate-looking. In fact he’s been married for years and got three kids. But like I say he looks like a fruit, so he’s Gay Elvis. And that’s all he ever wants to talk about, fucking Elvis. Always bloody Elvis this, Elvis that. I’m not remotely interested, but it doesn’t stop him. I mean, what is there to say about Elvis? He was born. He grew up. He drove a truck. He made some records and got famous. He joined the army and went to Germany. He came back and made some shit films. Played Vegas. Got fat. Died. That’s it, that’s all there is. And do I give a stuff about a single bit of it? Not fucking likely, mate. To be absolutely honest with you, I can’t stand the fucker. But you know what, that doesn’t stop me from trying to make a living as an Elvis impersonator, the premier one in fact, of the Cambridgeshire region.

  Now, I’m the top-dog Elvis in this operation, which means I have to do all the actual work, keeping the punters entertained with snappy patter and authentic-sounding Elvis vocal tributes. Meanwhile, Gay Elvis just prances about with Fat Elvis in the background, doing silly dances and occasional backing vocals. The fact I give them a third of the income to split between them is pretty fucking obscene, but that’s me all over, generous to a fault. Fatty’s not helping load up the van today because he’s too fat and lazy. He’s so fucking fat he’s almost too big to be Elvis, and that’s saying something. Anyway, me and Gayboy get the van loaded, get the fuck out of the Fens and drive off to Luton.

  ‘Can I put a tape on?’ asks the Gayster once we’re on the motorway.

  ‘Would it, by any chance, be an Elvis tape?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  I put on Radio 4. Not because I want to listen to it, I just know it will annoy the Gaylord.

  Fatboy is driving himself down there in his fatmobile. He turns the steering wheel with his knees, that’s how fat and lazy he is. My van’s got a great big picture of Elvis on the side, which we thought was a great idea until it kept on getting vandalised by kids nearly everywhere we played. Don’t get me wrong, I think Elvis looks great with a great big giant cock coming out of his trousers, but it’s not very professional.

  So we get to the social club, the usual concrete bunker in the middle of a council estate that we always end up playing in, set up the PA and wait for our soundman, Soundcheck Stu, who’s an arsehole, to turn up. Nearly all he’s got to do is mix my voice with the backing tape, but he can’t even do that. No matter how much I belt it out, it’s too fucking quiet. Or else the backing vocals will be far too loud. He’s a sodding amateur, but the only guy we know who can even half do it. Worse, he’s got a poodle perm that he’s always swishing about and swatting you in the face with. He finally turns up tagging along with Fat Elvis, arriving just in time for the free nosh the social club people have got together for us.

  ‘Awwright, boss,’ says the Fatman, ‘sorry I’m late. Been a bit busy today.’ The head of the organising committee hands me a ploughman’s on a plate. She’s a little woman with a bowl haircut, thick glasses and buck teeth. She makes me think of a giant mole as she scampers away muttering, stressing out about something or other. Mind you, I’d be stressed too if I had to run a dump like this, providing entertainment for the living dead.

  About half-seven, people start shuffling in. It’s our usual mix of the old, the alcoholic and the long-term unemployed. I guess that’s not exactly true, but unless someone reeks of loneliness or desperation, I tend just to phase them out. I’ll be straight with you, from where I’m standing, planet Earth is just one big ball covered in victims and losers. I’m not saying that’s how it is, but it’s the way I see it. One thing I can always spot, though, is a good pair of tits. You don’t get many of the young ’uns in social clubs, but the ones you do get are as common as muck and know how to show off a decent pair.

  ‘All right, lads,’ I say to Fatty and Gayboy, ‘time to disappear.’ Now, I have a policy of never letting the paying public see us without our costumes, so once the doors are open I shove Gaylord and Fatman into the dressing room for us to get changed. It’s all Vegas stuff of course. We don’t wear proper jumpsuits because they remind me too much of being in the nick, but they’re two-piece outfits that look the same, topped off with capes, scarves and big belts, and of course an Elviswig complete with big sideburns. Gay Elvis’s wife Jen made them, and she did a pretty decent job, I reckon.

  Half-eight and we’re nearly on. I tell the Gayster to watch the door while I do a line or two of charlie before, like always. Then we go out and do the act we always do. It’s a tried and tested formula and it usually works. We open with a tape of Also Sprach Zarathustra, or the 2001 music to you and me, just like Elvis did, then I bound in singing ‘See See Rider’. Then, after I’ve been on for a bit, Gayboy and the Fatman come out and dance about like arseholes while I sing some songs from the films. They’re not well known, and no one really likes them, but you’ve got two hours to kill. Tonight, they go down OK. Once I’ve done about twenty minutes of that, I go into the audience and sing some love songs to the ladies, leaning over their shoulders and right into their faces. Their blokes always hate it, but they never do anything about it. If someone did it to a bird of mine, I’d kick the cheeky prick in the bollocks. But that’s just me.

  After that, it’s novelty numbers, with the boys wearing grass skirts and hula dancing to ‘Blue Hawaii’ and stupid stuff like that. There are always some idiots in the audience who you can persuade to join in and put on the skirts, both blokes and birds. Why they subject themselves to it I don’t know. To be honest I don’t understand why people enjoy what we do at all, it’s all fucking shit as far as I’m concerned, but they do. I sometimes look out at all the smiling faces, and I want to ask them, why are you smiling? What the fuck is there happening here that’s even remotely entertaining? I’m not even sure why I do it myself, seeing as I fucking hate Elvis. That’s half the reason I have to do the charlie before I go on.

  It’s the interval and everyone gets up for their ploughman’s. The boys head to the bar while I do a bit more charlie in the dressing room, and I’m just getting my head off the table when some woman walks in. She doesn’t even bother to knock. She’s pushing fifty, but she’s still wearing a skirt the length of Gay Elvis’s cock, with a bright green top that y
ou can see her nipples through. She’s got fake tan, bright red nail polish and lipstick, and smoker’s teeth. She reminds me of a horse for some reason, but not in a bad way. She stands very close, the way slappers like her always do, and of course straight away I’m hard as granite.

  ‘Elvis, love,’ she says, ‘I was wondering, will you be singing “The Wonder of You” tonight?’

  ‘Sure, honey, we always sing that song.’ Right then I’m hoping she doesn’t look down. It’s pretty hard to hide an erection in an Elvis jumpsuit.

  ‘Well then,’ she continues, ‘it’s me and my husband’s twenty-third wedding anniversary this week. Would it be at all possible for you to dedicate it to us? You see, it’s always been our special song. It’s Roy’s favourite, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll, uh, certainly do that for you, honey.’ I call her ‘honey’ because I always try to stay in character when wearing the outfit, and make Gaylord and the Fatboy do the same. It’s weird, I take pride in certain things, even though the whole act’s a total fucking joke as far as I’m concerned. I’ve never been good at impressions, so my Elvis voice consists pretty much of speaking in something almost recognisable as an American accent and trying to fit an ‘uh’ into every sentence, then every so often going ‘welluhthankyouverymuch’. It’s pretty basic, but people accept it. I’ve seen some Elvis acts who do it with an English accent, which is fucking shit in my opinion. Meanwhile, I think I might still have a ring of charlie around my left nostril, not to mention the plank of wood shoved down my trousers. ‘What’s, uh, your name, honey?’ I ask.

  ‘Sheila,’ she says, and smiles at me, flashing her yellow teeth. She leaves the room, her arse wiggling away behind her.

  In the second half of the set we do the hits. ‘Hound Dog’, ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, ‘Suspicious Minds’, ‘American Trilogy’, the lot. When it comes time for us to do ‘The Wonder of You’, I scout the room for those lovely green tits of Sheila’s. I spot them in a corner next to a tiny crab man, balding with a comb-over. Even though he’s a little fella, his arms are workman’s arms, thick with muscle and tattoos. ‘I’d like to, uh, dedicate this song to Roy and Sheila,’ I say, ‘whose, uh, wedding anniversary it is, uh, today, uhthankyouverymuch.’ Then I stride over to them with the radio mike, and I sing right in their faces for the entire song. The boys are doing that ‘Aah-ah-uh-oooh!!’ backing part behind me, and make it sound like they’ve dug up Elvis’s corpse and are having sex with it, which to be honest, is what I suspect they actually spend most of their time thinking about. Meanwhile, Roy and Sheila both have an expression of almost obscene happiness on their faces, with Sheila beginning to cry, and Roy grinning like only the clinically deluded can.

  I reach the climax of the song – ‘That’s the wonder, the wonder of yooooooooou!!!!’ – then I get them to stand up and take a round of applause. ‘Roy and, uh, Sheila, ladies and, uh, gentlemen, childhood sweethearts, married for, uh, nine hundred years, nearly as much in love now as back then, an, uh, example to us all.’ It’s the charlie talking of course, and now that I’ve taken my second hit, I doubt I’ll say anything else that coherent for the rest of the performance. Still, never did Elvis any harm.

  It’s after the show. According to the tape, ‘Elvis has left the building’. Except I haven’t, I’m just in the dressing room taking my gear off while the boys talk to their adoring public. I’m down to my belt and Elvistrousers when the door opens. It’s Sheila. She walks in on her horsey legs, closes the door, and stands an inch away from me. Of course I go hard again instantly and the distance between us is shortened to a quarter of an inch.

  ‘Oh, Elvis,’ she says, putting her arms around me, ‘I just wanted to say, on behalf of Roy and myself, thank you for making our anniversary so special.’ Now, I’m a man of some considerable experience, but even I’m surprised by the force with which she full-on snogs me. Her tongue tickles the roof of my mouth. Then she pushes me into a chair and tries to undo my enormous buckle. ‘Let me do it,’ I say, and while I unbuckle myself she pulls off her green top, unleashing her remarkable tits which shoot towards me like incoming missiles.

  ‘Funny way to celebrate your anniversary,’ I say, as my Elvistrousers gather at my ankles.

  ‘Roy’s hasn’t been interested in sex for years,’ she replies, ‘I’ve celebrated most of our anniversaries like this.’ She doesn’t say much after that, and I’m wondering if this is on behalf of Roy and herself as well.

  Now I’m not saying this sort of thing always happens after our gigs, but it’s not the first time either. Fact is, I have a way with the ladies, a certain magnetism that just compels them to offer their bodies to me. I don’t know what it is, it must just be a gift that I was born with. Only seems to work on the older lady though. Now if I could only compel some of the younger, more attractive ones, I’d be laughing.

  The door opens. Obviously knocking is seen as some bizarre foreign custom that’s treated with suspicion round here. In walks the mole lady. Who looks at us. And we look back at her. She stands there for a second making odd shapes with her mouth and gibbering, before darting out.

  Sheila looks pale. ‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Roy’s going to go mental.’ She pulls her top back on and on her way out, says to me, ‘I’d get out of here if I were you, or you’re going to get fucking killed.’

  I pull up my Elvistrousers while I try and work out what to do. Instantly I shoot my load into them, which makes a big sticky stain on their brilliant white crotch. ‘Fuck!’ I say to myself. I decide to worry about it later.

  I run out to the car park. I have to pass through the bar to get to it, which is taking my life in my hands, but nothing seems amiss, yet. Roy’s standing at the bar laughing with his mates. Big blokes, his mates. When I get out, the boys are loading up the van, still in their Elvis gear because of there being punters about. The Fatman steps out of the social with an amp. ‘Fatboy, I need your car.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the van, boss? You’ve come in your trousers by the way.’

  ‘Never mind that, I’ve just been caught being blown by some guy’s wife and I need your car now!’

  Fatboy sighs. Then he starts to walk off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Where are you fucking going?’ I shout at him. ‘Didn’t you hear anything I just said?’

  ‘Calm down, boss. I’m just going to put this amp in the van, and once I’ve done that I’m going to see if I can find my keys. I think they’re in the dressing room.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I say, ‘I’ll get them my fucking self.’ Useless fatty, he’d be too lazy even to piss on himself if he was on fire. Anyway, I leg it back into the dressing room, grab the keys and shoot back out again. As I make my way out at high speed, I see out of the corner of my eye two figures in the corner of the bar area. One is the mole woman. The other is Roy. He’s looking like he’s just lost World War II. And Sheila’s nowhere to be seen.

  I dive into the car and start up the engine. Over the top of it, I hear a shout – ‘There he is!’ Piling out of the social is Roy, his head purple like a boil, accompanied by his bigger friends. ‘Oi! Elvis, you cunt!’ he shouts, and they charge towards the car. I reverse as fast as I can, and nearly hit some of them. Meanwhile, another one of them manages to give the passenger door a good kick, snarling as he does so. But still, I get out of the car park OK, and I’m bombing it up the road, several miles away, before it occurs to me that the madding crowd might take out some of their anger on Fatboy and Gaylord, or worse still, our equipment. Oh well, I think to myself, that’s another thing I can worry about later.

  It’s the early hours of the morning before I make it back to the Fens and arrive home. There I throw off my Elvistrousers, lie on the sofa and smoke a spliff to cushion the downs from the charlie. I try not to think about the equipment, and instead recall the sight of Sheila’s lovely tits, which I fear I will never be given the opportunity ever to see again. I mourn their loss with a quick fiddle, before putting myself to bed.
/>   Chapter 2

  ‘Well, hello again dear boy,’ says the voice from behind me. ‘Be a good chap and sing “Hound Dog” for me one more time, like you used to in the good old days.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to,’ I reply, as fat, stubby hands massage my shoulders.

  ‘You seem to be under the delusion you have some choice in the matter. Now pull your trousers down and sing it, you sorry little bastard!’

  A door opens at the end of a long hospital corridor in front of me. ‘Quick, this way!’ says my sister Bridget. I slip out of the fat hands’ grip and make a run for it, getting through the door just as Bridget is closing it. She bolts it behind me, and I can hear the sound of panting from the other side.

  ‘All right, shrimp,’ says Bridget. ‘You nearly didn’t make it that time.’

  ‘No, that was close. Thanks.’

  I look around the room. It’s Bridget’s bedroom from when we were growing up. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘you know what I have to do now, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but I don’t understand why.’

  ‘Yes you do. You know why I have to do this.’ She makes a noose out of her school tie and attaches it to the light fitting.

  The phone rings.

  ‘Awwright,’ says the voice from the earpiece, travelling through a haze of sticky sleep as I lift it to my ear.

  ‘Jesus, Fatty, do you have to phone so early?’

  ‘I know it’s only eleven o’clock, boss, but we’ve got a bit of a situation. Ah, after you went, the gentlemen who you managed to get on the wrong side of decided to take their frustration out on the van in your absence. And the equipment. And the Gaylord.’

  ‘Jesus. How bad is it?’

  ‘Well, he’s got a big fat lip, but he’ll live.’

  ‘No, I meant the van and the equipment. Look, tell you what, get yourself and the Gayster down here, we’ll have to sort this mess out.’

  ‘That may be something of a problem, boss. The van’s not exactly roadworthy and Gayboy is sulking. He’s not talking to you right now. For some reason, he blames you for his taking a beating. I can’t imagine why. Anyway, you’ve got my motor.’