first into the pavement, forcing his arms behind his back to prepare to handcuff him. His knee was planted firmly in his back. Elvis could hear the rattle of his handcuffs, and he prepared to put them on him.
“What's your name you sick son-of-a-bitch?” He reached for one wrist to put the cuffs on.
Elvis was trying to hold his face up off the hot pavement. Tiny pebbles were stuck to his sweating face. He spit out some dirt that got in his mouth.
“Elvis. Elvis Lee Lewis.”
The Sergeant laughed. “Yeah, right. You're Elvis, and I'm the fucking Easter bunny. You think this is funny? Do you?”
“I didn't do anything wrong!”
In the distance, Elvis could hear the other cop on the radio. He was talking about two hookers that were killed out at the truck stop on the west side of town, only a few blocks from Taylor's Tire and Auto. He knew they thought he killed the girls, but he had never seen them before in his life.
“You got the wrong guy! I didn't kill anyone!” he cried out, wiggling to get free so he could explain that he just got off work and was going camping for the weekend.
As Elvis wiggled, the Sergeant that was on top of him lost his balance and fell toward the squad car, hitting his head hard on the bumper. It knocked him out. Elvis acted on impulse and jumped up while the Sergeant was down on the pavement next to him, and the other was on the radio inside the squad car. It wouldn't be long before he realized Elvis was free. So Elvis ran. He ran as fast as he could, hoping that they would soon realize they had the wrong guy. But how the hell did those two hookers end up in my trunk? Some neighborhood kids who were playing catch with a baseball now stopped to watch the spectacle taking place on the side of the road. One cop was down, the other was a rookie who was stumbling out of the car with his gun and starting to run after the tall skinny guy with the tattoos. They hadn't seen this much excitement all summer, so they watched for as long as they could until the skinny guy ran down Evans Street and into the backyards of the houses that lined the east side of the street.
Elvis darted from yard to yard, hiding behind whatever he could find. Garbage cans, swing sets, barbeques, bushes, flowers and hedges. He was cut up, scraped up, and gasping for air. He hadn't run like that since gym class in high school. Even then he was in terrible shape. His two-pack-a-day habit was definitely catching up to him. The fast food and colas were also not helping matters. Covered in sweat and soaked to the skin, Elvis was now under the porch where this strange story started, wondering what his next move would be. He figured it was close to 6pm. He debated whether he should wait until dark and then try and get away.
Nearly two hours had passed. Elvis was still under the porch. Dusk began to settle in. He thought he would make his move once it was dark. He was lucky that the porch he decided to hide under was at a house where no one was outside in the back yard, or had a dog that would know someone was hiding there. His mind was racing the entire time, not knowing how all this happened. He ran through the events of the day over and over while he hid, waiting for darkness. There was nothing that happened that made any sense. All he did was go into the bathroom at the Freedom and when he came out – BAM! It was 1957. As much as he loved the 50's, Elvis didn't know what would happen to everyone he knew. Would they be the same age like he was? Or would they not exist?
It was just after 8pm, and Elvis decided it was dark enough to crawl out from under the porch. His plan was to make it back to the Freedom gas station and go back into the bathroom. Maybe it would transport him back to 2015? It sounded crazy, but then so did the entire course of events leading up to this moment. He was stiff from being under the porch all that time, and he brushed the dirt off his bare arms and jeans as he stood up and made his way back
“What's your name you sick son-of-a-bitch?” He reached for one wrist to put the cuffs on.
Elvis was trying to hold his face up off the hot pavement. Tiny pebbles were stuck to his sweating face. He spit out some dirt that got in his mouth.
“Elvis. Elvis Lee Lewis.”
The Sergeant laughed. “Yeah, right. You're Elvis, and I'm the fucking Easter bunny. You think this is funny? Do you?”
“I didn't do anything wrong!”
In the distance, Elvis could hear the other cop on the radio. He was talking about two hookers that were killed out at the truck stop on the west side of town, only a few blocks from Taylor's Tire and Auto. He knew they thought he killed the girls, but he had never seen them before in his life.
“You got the wrong guy! I didn't kill anyone!” he cried out, wiggling to get free so he could explain that he just got off work and was going camping for the weekend.
As Elvis wiggled, the Sergeant that was on top of him lost his balance and fell toward the squad car, hitting his head hard on the bumper. It knocked him out. Elvis acted on impulse and jumped up while the Sergeant was down on the pavement next to him, and the other was on the radio inside the squad car. It wouldn't be long before he realized Elvis was free. So Elvis ran. He ran as fast as he could, hoping that they would soon realize they had the wrong guy. But how the hell did those two hookers end up in my trunk? Some neighborhood kids who were playing catch with a baseball now stopped to watch the spectacle taking place on the side of the road. One cop was down, the other was a rookie who was stumbling out of the car with his gun and starting to run after the tall skinny guy with the tattoos. They hadn't seen this much excitement all summer, so they watched for as long as they could until the skinny guy ran down Evans Street and into the backyards of the houses that lined the east side of the street.
Elvis darted from yard to yard, hiding behind whatever he could find. Garbage cans, swing sets, barbeques, bushes, flowers and hedges. He was cut up, scraped up, and gasping for air. He hadn't run like that since gym class in high school. Even then he was in terrible shape. His two-pack-a-day habit was definitely catching up to him. The fast food and colas were also not helping matters. Covered in sweat and soaked to the skin, Elvis was now under the porch where this strange story started, wondering what his next move would be. He figured it was close to 6pm. He debated whether he should wait until dark and then try and get away.
Nearly two hours had passed. Elvis was still under the porch. Dusk began to settle in. He thought he would make his move once it was dark. He was lucky that the porch he decided to hide under was at a house where no one was outside in the back yard, or had a dog that would know someone was hiding there. His mind was racing the entire time, not knowing how all this happened. He ran through the events of the day over and over while he hid, waiting for darkness. There was nothing that happened that made any sense. All he did was go into the bathroom at the Freedom and when he came out – BAM! It was 1957. As much as he loved the 50's, Elvis didn't know what would happen to everyone he knew. Would they be the same age like he was? Or would they not exist?
It was just after 8pm, and Elvis decided it was dark enough to crawl out from under the porch. His plan was to make it back to the Freedom gas station and go back into the bathroom. Maybe it would transport him back to 2015? It sounded crazy, but then so did the entire course of events leading up to this moment. He was stiff from being under the porch all that time, and he brushed the dirt off his bare arms and jeans as he stood up and made his way back
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