Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas

       1. All Good Kings Must Come to an End

       Present day, somewhere, South Pacific

      Elvis knew his days were numbered.

      Over the past few hectic weeks he’d noticed a number of disturbing trends – a sharp decline in his ongoing manifestation schedule and a steady increase in his already abundant food allowance. They’d upped the steroid dosage too; he was feeling younger than he had for years. Last Tuesday he’d caught himself gyrating his pelvis while pitch-forking a specially prepared ‘King’-sized sausage from the weekly beach barbie. He hadn’t even known he was doing it. Worse, he’d grabbed John Lennon’s guitar as he led the evening campfire singalong and told him to quit with that hippy shit and play somethin’ rockin’.

      But the implications of what were behind these changes were less palatable that the triple cheese-burger with extra gherkins he’d polished off for breakfast. There was no escaping the conclusion that his time on The Island was coming to an end. He could tell by the way his strange guards watched him that the moment for one last final mission was at hand. And they wouldn’t be bothered about stepping on his blue suede shoes, not even ramming their steel toe-capped jack-boots down his throat for that matter – their dull dead dark eyes held no pity, and no understanding as far as he could tell. Elvis felt certain this would be a come-back tour without an encore. He wouldn’t be returning from this gig – a final deadly road-trip to end them all.

      This knowledge stirred little emotion in his straining drug-drenched heart, apart perhaps from a sense of weary relief. There was only so much of The Island you could take without losing what was left of your sanity – and he’d lounged in this hellishly opulent five-star prison for the best part of thirty years. After the first decade the rejuvenation treatments and brain-washing began to take their toll. So a big part of him – which meant all of him, because all parts of him were big – would look forward to the onset of the warm smothering blackness he knew would accompany his final sortie.

      He didn’t have to look forward for long. As the sun reached its zenith over the crystal-shimmering lagoon the King watched the black triangular craft, all sleek lines and eye-watering inhuman curves, skim towards him with unnatural speed. It didn’t so much glide over the waves as bully them into submission – splicing the whining air-molecules with a low-pitched electromagnetic hum. Then he saw others approach suddenly, right across the horizon, winking out of nothingness. He had seen many different types of such runabouts in his time – ridden in quite a few on his short bewildering trips back to civilization – but he’d never seen such a density of air-traffic as currently hovered over their lush tropical atoll. They were all there; the usual triangles and glowing orbs, plus the ones disguised to look like clouds – even some of the old steam-powered saucers that were crashed on purpose to mislead those Air Force suckers.

      Leading the formation was the black triangle. It had his name on it, he knew. He felt it in his waters. And his waters, though frequent, were never wrong. He was as certain of this fact as he was that Jimmy and Janice should stay off the nose candy – those kids could play when they put their half-fried minds to it. But there was no time for idle speculation. Slowly, the craft set down at the edge of the shallow lapping waves and a black gangway glided across the water and onto the sand.

      He barely had time to finish his drink. As was customary, few of the other inmates who were scattered along the stretch of bone-white sand paid much attention to the diminutive pilots. You kept your profile low as a limbo dancer while these guys were around. Twenty yards away a wider-than-he-was-tall former media mogul lolled on a double deckchair reading a newspaper, occasionally shaking his head with knowing contempt and letting out a subterranean chuckle – standards had obviously dropped since he’d taken his involuntary swan-dive off his yacht. But as the craft’s pilots marched past he buried his sunburnt face in his paper, seemingly enthralled with the small print. If only his former employees had done the same with their pension schemes.

      All too soon the newcomers halted at Elvis’s spot in the sand and reached out their spindly three-fingered hands. The King didn’t wait for them to resort to the lethal force he knew they had at their disposal. With weary resignation he shoe-horned his enormous frame from his badly warped sun-lounger and stooped to kiss his quietly sobbing companion goodbye.

      Norma might have seen better days, but her eyes still held some of their innocent, sultry charm. And now they were filling with tears. Elvis was touched. Involuntarily, his top lip curled back, and his beefy loins set off on a frightening frequency all their own.

      ‘Aha-haau. Don’t cry little chickadee. Say goodbye to mah rebel Jim for me. And tell the Princess I’ll save the last song for her.’

      There was no time for more elaborate goodbyes, not even regrets that he’d turned down Norma’s last offer to ‘love him tender’ – at their age no amount of lubrication could prevent it becoming an all-too painful literal truth. She’d get over him just like she’d got over all the others.

      Sadly,