Last night I had a dream that I was Elvis. I was the king of rock and roll. I sang my songs of love and rebellion for the downtrodden world.
But the world was not pleased with me. I wasn't wearing a mask while I sang. "You're spreading coronavirus everywhere!" they screeched in anger. I shook my hips to appease their wrath. It didn't help. Not anymore. Karens are above hip shakes.
So I left the building. I went on the run. Through canyons and caves I fled, refusing to jailhouse rock with a muffling mask. But eventually the government caught up to where I was hiding. I was caught in the final scenes from The Sound of Music.
The soldiers were slowly panning their flashlight in my location. I was ducked out under the seat of a pink Cadillac-suburban. The light gleamed before me. I held my breath, and silently fixed the single hair that fell out of place.
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