Elvis roams the interstates in a big white Cadillac. It has to be him. Flywheel-bus and commuter-zep riders see plumes of dust trailing like rocket exhaust behind something too fast and glittery for the naked eye. Squint though, and you might glimpse him behind the wheel, steering with one wrist, fiddling the radio dial, then reaching for that always frosty can of beer. “Thank you, honey,” he tells the blonde next to him as he steps on the accelerator.
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- B. Warnsby