To Die, To Sleep

The King died in California in 1992, in a castle built six miles from the ocean. His son, Zeb, saw it happen, saw outside his window the former King of rock and roll, now a bloated parody of himself, fully ablaze, staggering like a burning haystack with legs. Though his death was a good career move, occurring to a senior citizen who had outlived his youthful 1950-ish, rebel image, Seville’s death has a second act. Shortly after his burial, he appears as a ghost in front of Zeb and says he was set on fire not accidentally—as officially ruled—but deliberately, murdered by person or persons unknown. Oh, and Seville informs Zeb that if he doesn’t find in a short time the cassette tape where Seville made a drunken confession of his sins, the King will be subject to eternal perdition. So, who was Seville’s killer? His mother, remarkably stoic after her husband’s death, the conniving brother, the staff, or the band-mates who did better with a Seville imitator? Or maybe Seville’s own mother, who had hated his music, and though buried near the castle, is rumored to still walk the grounds? The King’s memorial concert is coming up, and Zeb is on the clock.

Reviews

News