It rained...Margaritas in the rain...drinking straws with little hula skirts attached...The New Anti-Elvis arrives at The Compound...a stare-down ensued...it's only Tuesday for Pete's sake!

Good Tuesday morning, everybody! It rained, it rained! Not enough to refill the dry buffalo wallow that is the former Lake Mountebank, but it rained by golly. We got just a hair over .30 inch here at The Compound.

I’m even happier to report that The Cab is watertight. No leaks. Of course, we still have the rain driven by 45 mph winds test to go through, but, hey, I’ll take it.

And, as promised, JB-Hisself, and the entourage showed up yesterday.

Cousin Fred and I were seated in chairs out on the north lawn in front of The Cab, just letting the rain cascade down our faces and enjoying something other than dust falling from the air, when he arrived. I had actually closed The Compound gates in anticipation of new lunacy coming in off the broken pavement of the county road out front. Cousin Fred and I were sipping Margaritas on ice through straws with little hula skirts attached.

Now, I’m not going to mention his real name. In fact, I’m not even going to keep repeating his telegram name of JB-Hisself. My reluctance to name names is mostly because he’s a punk who would likely sue the living beejeezus out of me.

For purposes of this blog, he shall henceforth be known as The New Anti-Elvis. As soon as I saw the entourage unloading from the bus down at the road, I told Cousin Fred to ignore them. He pointed out that if I didn’t open the gate they couldn’t come in.

That didn’t stop The New Anti-Elvis. He and a few others began scaling the gate. Cousin Fred asked if he should get the shotgun under the bar in The Cab. I said no, let’s not have any gunplay here today. Cousin Fred went back to sipping his Margarita through a straw. I hit the remote and the gate began swinging open with the climbers nearly at the top.

The New Anti-Elvis hung on for dear life and screamed like a 12 year old girl. The others fell off the swinging gate and hit the ground with a thud.

Mr. Robin 1. The New Anti-Elvis 0.

When the gate stopped moving, The New Anti-Elvis climbed down from atop the gate. He rolled his head looking our direction and began sauntering up the drive, his lackeys falling in behind him.

He wore a sneer on his face as he walked up to us. Some little squirrelly weasel-faced looking guy came running from the bus with a briefcase in his hand. He ran ahead of The New Anti-Elvis and introduced himself as John Z. Quick, The New Anti-Elvis’ road manager.

The New Anti-Elvis stood about ten feet away from us, he removed his shades and scanned the front of The Cab.

“So, this is it,” he said. “Yes, it looks familiar. I’ve been here before.” He smiled and made a move toward the door.

I leaped from my chair (didn’t spill a drop of Margarita) and in my best Dirty Harry voice said, “Where do you think you’re going?” I then began sipping Margarita through my hula-skirted straw watching him through squinty eyes.

Cousin Fred jumped up and ran inside The Cab. I knew he was going for the shotgun under the bar.

John Z. Quick jumped between us and explained that while on a tour date in Omaha, The New Anti-Elvis had visited a psychic who specialized in figuring out who people had been in a previous life. According to the psychic, The New Anti-Elvis had been Temple Houston in a previous life.

Soon thereafter, The New Anti-Elvis began reading up on his former self. While looking around the internet, he discovered The Cab and broke off two tour dates at that casino in Dodge City so he could visit The Compound.

At that point, my first thought was to burn the damn thing down and be done with all of this. But that would be letting the crazy people win…and, I wasn’t going to do that.
After a lot of staring through squinty eyes at one another, my Margarita was beginning to get watery and his coiffure was beginning to fall down. The entourage headed back to the bus, still parked out on the road.

John Z. Quick handed me a business card and told me that they were going to head into Cosmic City to visit the grave of Temple Houston before it got too late.

He then informed me that they would be back the next day. It was definitely more of a statement than a request. He said that The New Anti-Elvis wants to play some cards inside The Cab. That’s all.

About that time, someone on the bus began blowing the air horn and John Z. Quick made a quick (hahaha) departure. As he ran toward the bus, he hollered over his shoulder, “We’ll be back tomorrow!”

After he was on the bus, I hit the button on the remote and the gate swung shut. Cousin Fred stepped out onto the porch with the shotgun over his shoulder.

“You want I should get the razor wire from the storage shed,” he asked?

“Nah, we’ll see what happens tomorrow,” I replied.

That is all.

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