With the wisdom that surpasses machismo, the King retreated behind the brewery towers, where only the starlight reflected off the backwater outflow interrupted the dark universe of his fear. The grid was down again, and Elvis’s device remained uncharged while night creatures hunted overhead—the bat, the bear, the buffalo. Elvis himself attempted to hibernate, but with guts bound by meat joy, shuddering visitations plagued him: in shame and pleasure, Elvis broke his vow and used methane against Priscilla in halo. With hands of the serpent, the King resisted Khan’s ninth appeal and demolished Fargo in anger. Then the silent kite of Cleopatra descended from the black moon. Fire returned to the brewery and Elvis drew strength from the gasses. When he peeled away Tiger Suit, Elvis glistened in the methane burn off. Cleopatra’s voice descended from the engines above and her eye shadow followed the bouncing ball to the refrain of supplication: “it’s a small, small town oh give me all your love / it’s a small, small town oh love me in the butt.” Elvis became vulnerable in the groin, and bullets ripped from Cleopatra’s song penetrated the skin of Active Elvis, only to encounter the fat layer we call Triumph and ricochet back at the powerful enchantress. Using slow-motion, Cleopatra savored the agony of the boy who, one tender night in St. Louis, loved her to the orgasm of swan pose. And truly the pain of Elvis swelled in his leopard thong because he knew—oh love to thine own self do these bullets travel! In a thousand thousand years, no sweet loving would match Cleopatra’s sweet loving for the sheer fantasy material that fueled the King’s bold postures. Without her, Infant Elvis would suffer guilty masturbation forever on the distant moon of Jupiter. But as the bullet lines slowly carved rivers of air toward the fully charged halo where the face of Cleopatra appeared in sex hieroglyphics, Elvis observed readiness in her scripts: as bullets punctured her image and her substance followed into the many black holes, gasses exploded onto Red Marquee—“All Living is Elvis”—and grief lifted like the arrow graph of confidence that burned strong across the grid in those happy Vegas years.
In Nixonia, Elvis reclined by the blue pool, and made himself heard: “I’ve installed a million clocks in the sky. This lemonade is everything. My member swings long below the horizon. Wear your goggles.” His voice amplified for a thousand years from the moon of Jupiter, and he paused to appreciate his stocked kit. In another thousand years this instant, the King takes bacon joy, and the captain provides the fresh needle. Brittney sought to pleasure him there, but no one felt the pain of amplification in her broken ears more than she, and as she collapsed into jones on the poolside tile, Elvis struck the pose of a thousand flaming tongues and she shuddered in reversal of orgasm. Elvis had not come to Vegas to be denied singular voice. “I witness spans beyond you, Brittney. I battle in glory with kicks of infinite gravity. This lemonade is amazing. You are many receding points, and I will dominate the sky that opens from your collapse.” Purchase this account directly to your wiki and live in the light of Elvis. We see Brittney in dissolve as Elvis comes inside the new universe of her demise. Subscribe to this posting and receive “The Pleasures of Mother Sun” in ex-dim formatting with the orgasms of a pony and a thousand years this instant of meat joy. Call now. Call out to me.
In St. Louis, Elvis did not believe in time before. Transformation stories were like playing pin the tail on the donkey at the birthday party of a donkey. While others would have been discouraged by constipation and bloating so acute that broken vessels blackened the king’s face and puss congealing in the seams tasted like feces on the tongues of his concubines, Elvis composed the riff that fingered the sun and visualized the attack of tangled agonies. The captain brought diagnoses and medicine enough to satisfy an army of jungle cows, and St. Louis came alive in celebration. With a new vibrator on her rocket pack, Cleopatra discovered Orgasm of a Comet for a thousand years as she split the sky of Dakota, Hotel California as memorized by young singers contained the King’s erection, and they did it all night for another thousand years in this instant. We imagine the men with hoses, wearing rubber suits, who sanitize many acres of their splatter. We boil the crusty sheets in homage to sweet lovin’, and power-wash Stank Ooze of Elvis ™ off the wall paneling. It was right there in St. Louis, straddling the crotch of Nixonia, that Cleopatra won her lifelong battle for Orgasm of Swan Pose, still number one on Red Marquee. And her services to the King became a thousand years of wikis, available now, now, and now. In the end, St. Louis was destroyed, the King earned famous Tiger Suit, and Nixonia closed its constipation world. Soon the truths would come to code in our King. Elvis: leap into Panther Pose upon the aroused nipples of Mother Sun. Cleopatra: curse the rocket pack, but slip it in your chafe-hole and suffer Orgasms of Madness all the way back to Distant Moon of Jupiter.