“Um, sir, which era of The King should we go with?”
“How should I know, you insufferable buffoon! Who the heck knows what goes through those maniacs’ brains. I’m having a hard time enough trying to figure out the meaning behind all those wacky moves, and that strange, overly dramatic, way of moving about… Just go with that, what’s it called? The ‘70s Presley’-thing.”
“Understood, sir!”
* * *
“So, this is Earth, huh? I’m not sure what the superiors could possibly want with this place…,” the agent quietly murmured, looking out and down the road. Then, with a last glance across the view, and a tug his half-buttoned down shirt, “But! From here on out, I, The King, will rule the–!”
“Shut up!” Someone interrupted the agent’s over dramatic spiel, his hair gel melting in the sweltering heat. “You’re not even doing a good impression, and you’re in the way. Move alrea–“
“Silence, plebeian,” the agent ordered, and his voice tinged with a ruthless ruler’s tone, “can’t you recognise your own King?! Hey!” he ended his act with one leg bent, one arm on the hip and the other high towards the sky.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the man dismissed him. “Would you, please, shut up already, oh King. And, you know, that hairdo really doesn’t suit you face, man.”
“I’ll have you killed on the spot!” he exclaimed, pulling out his high powered, state of the art, plasma gun, when…
““A shooter!””
…the surrounding mass of people yelled. The agent, not having paid much attention to his surroundings, looked around, confused – gun still pointing at the “plebeian’s” head.
* * *
“Sir!”
“What?” the commander asked, clearly annoyed.
“Our agent! He’s dead!”
“What?! How?!” He could barely believe it, how could their best-of-the-best die, just like that? “He’d barely been there for an hour!”
* * *
“Breaking news. After a lengthy shootout by the White House, an unidentified shooter, dressed as Elvis Presley, was killed. It’s as of yet unknown what the shooter’s motive were.”