In a run-down motel on the outskirts of the old Vegas town, Dave stared at his own dour reflection in the bathroom mirror. The harsh light from the fluorescent tube buzzing above revealed a face that looked bad, real bad: his eyes pink-rimmed, his complexion gray, and a chunk of flesh hanging limply from his right cheek.

The taste of ashtray was strong in his mouth, but he needed a cigarette.

He ruffled his unkempt rockabilly locks and curled his upper lip as he reached for the Salems by the sink. Thank you. Thank you, very much, he said, in his best Presley.

Dammit! The packet was empty.

He crumpled it in a gloved fist, then nervously rubbed his face again, tearing away more limp skin. Dave was a wreck, and he knew it.

Back in the main room he continued pacing. How had it gotten to this? Playing such hole-in-the-wall dives off-off-off the Strip... His daily routine had become a cycle of spiraling mental corrosion. For over two decades he'd been the most convincing Elvis since the King himself graced the stage. The toast of the town. He was Dave, he was King!

He looked down at blue suede as he strode the trodden carpet. White sequins lay across a wine-colored bedspread, a honky-tonk guitar nearby. He started scratching again.

It was all that crazy Dutchman's fault. All of it. But he knew he'd been less than nothing before they met: a washed out Elvis-wannabe; a has-been impersonator.

Andreas introduction was grabbing Dave by the hair and lifting his pounding head from beer-stained barroom tabletop. Then the man in black said, Let's make a deal.

As he spoke his sweet words stopped Dave's head from spinning for the moment. They were an offering of hope to the hopeless, and Dave quickly found himself pressing pen to paper, scratching his name across a not-so-dotted line. And somehow it felt good.

Many stars flicker and die the quick death, but that's not for you. And that was Andreas promise. Dave pulled his hand from his face and scowled as he surveyed the dank hotel room. He didn't feel like a star. Sure, things had been good at first. In fact, the day he signed, his phone rang non-stop, with one lavish offer after another.

And yes, the Dutchman's magic seemed to have worked, he couldn't deny. He was suddenly Elvis reborn, booked solid for the next twenty years... And life was good. Until his Mazarati careened off a highway barricade following a night of partying that would put any glam-rocker to shame.

His doctors thought he had died.

I saw a light, Dave said, once he found himself awake in a hospital room.

Of course, came the Dutchman's smug reply.

I thought I was dead.

Ah, yes. Indeed you were... Andreas smile was wicked, yet emotionless, but you have a performance next week... Then he stood, donned his wide brimmed hat, and left.

Funny, Dave's bout with Death left him somehow feeling energized. Indestructible. Why couldn't his career tap that hidden strength?

One of several beer bottles fell off the hotel room nightstand as he pulled open the drawer and retrieved his appointment book. Thumbing its pages, he noted his last performance weeks earlier. The following pages were all blank.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Dave pulled open the door. Andreas.

David.

Where have you been? It's been months.

Business.

Business? I've been stuck rotting in this hell-hole without so much as a phone call. Look, look at my face. Hmm, the Dutchman's expression didn't change. You have looked better.

Better? My skin looks like a leprous rhino's backside! Look at my eyes. And this! Dave pulled off the glove to reveal a three-fingered hand.

Hmm...

I'm literally falling to pieces here. I'd show you more, but I'm afraid to lose a thumb trying to unbutton my shirt. He pulled the glove back on. I'm dying here...

Nonsense.

What?

Our contract. You're mine until you are properly dead and buried, remember?

Huh?

The car crash.

The light?

Oh, you were dead, alright. Don't make like you didn't notice, he continued, But not yet buried. Andreas smiled a wicked grin. Elvis lives. And you still have a spark left too.

But... Nervously, Dave rubbed his face again. Half his nose fell and bounced on the soiled carpet. Aah!

Painful, is it?

I, uh... But it wasn't. He scooped up the nose and hurried to the bathroom.

The Dutchman followed holding out a cigarette which Dave eagerly lit and sucked on. Smoke poured out of the holes in his pasty gray face. So, you're saying I'm still under contract...

Only marriage contracts are until death. But like I said, I've been busy. I've got a new gig lined up for you. Don't you think people are gonna wonder about an Elvis with no nose? ...Not very convincing. How can I perform like this. They'll think I'm some sorta freak or something.

Andreas took off his black hat and smoothed back his thinning hair. Relax. Of course you will continue to work until I release you. And though you may not be quite dead, your Presley is. He placed his hat on Dave's head. From now on we've got a new act, Mr. Jackson.

Dave turned back to the mirror and raised a gloved hand to adjust the brim of the hat. Despite his deformities he couldn't help but smile as he shook his head, You're bad.

Webbie note: Paul writes from a Japanese version of Windows. There are some issues with the different version and the way punctuation is handled between his version and mine. I have tried to recreate the original document but there still might be errors.