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Everyone calls me Horrible Harry because I'm not very pretty to look at. I got my left hand burnt off and my face cooked, cause I was in the wrong spot at the right time. It was during the invasion of Iwo Jima, and the damage was done by one of our own flame-throwers.

I've always sorta just hung out. What I mean is that I've never had a job, So now that I'm close to seventy, I don't qualify for Social Security. My total income is my disability pension, So I live in an old bus in a Junk-yard.

I'm not lonely, though. I've got some good friends and roommates. There's Dirty Ernie. He don't smell bad, he just don't believe in soap. He claims to be a naturalist and says that if soap was meant to be used by man, it wouldn't have to be manufactured. It would just be here in a natural state. Anyway, he's never taken a soap bath.

Then there's Rotten Ralph. He hitched out here in the Fifties. He surfed until a Tiger shark almost chewed his legs off. He didn't have any money, so he couldn't afford medical treatment. He got gangrene in both legs and they got so rotten that they had to be amputated. That's where he got his nickname. He gets around on a little four wheel platform.

And there's our money man, Sad Sam. Sam's sort of an all around hustler. He hangs out in Benny's Pool Hall shooting pool, relays some of the action for the local bookmaker, and attends sporting events. Sam has this thing about collecting other people's wallets.

And finally, there's our mascot, Homer. Homer is the lazy old doberman that's supposed to be guarding this here junk yard. Homer's family. He eats with us, drinks with us, and sleeps in the front of the bus with Ralph.

Well, that's my whole gang. Dirty Ernie is the baby of the group. He's only sixty-seven, so he has to do all the heavy work around the Pad. Sam brings in the cash money, when we need it. I do all the shop lifting.

I have an advantage over most boosters. People glance at me and immediately look away. After one look at my puss, they never look back. They look away and I drop a goody into my booster bag. It's a snap.

Oh yes, I forgot, Rotten Ralph is my look-out. If I do get spotted, Ralph will crash into the store Dick and lose his little cart. Then he'll hold on to the guy's legs while he screams for help.

On the day that we met Guitar Dan, I got to the pad first, so I started the fire in the fireplace. As I said before, the pad is a gutted out school bus located near the back row in the 190th Street Auto Salvage yard. The fireplace is a fifty-five gallon drum sitting on some scrap-metal.

I was unloading my bag, as the others arrived. I had managed to bring home a half gallon of Burgundy wine and four tall cans of beef stew. Ernie grinned and pulled a full pint of Irish whisky out of his coat pocket.

"Hot Damn," Ralph clapped his hands, "We're shittin' in tall cotton tonight!"

Sam held up his hands and yelled, "Whoa, Whoa, you guys ain't seen nothin yet. I was pattin' this Dude down, and I thought he had one of those fancy cloth wallets, but when I lifted it..." he paused to torture us, "all it was, was this dumb bag full of grass."

"No shit Sam," we chorused. "Let's see?" Sure enough, when he opened the pouch, it was stuffed full of what smelled like very good weed." Suddenly, we froze because Homer, our faithful lookout, started growling and snarling right outside.

Ernie held his finger to his lips and slipped out the emergency exit. It had to be a stranger or Manny, the owner of the junk-yard. Homer growls and snarls in front of Manny, so he won't lose his job.

With the four of us, he's just a big over-grown puppy. Probably because we are the only ones, who ever feed him or treat him like family. We were starting to get worried, when Ernie returned with a sorry looking stranger in tow.

"Guys, this is Dan, the Guitar Man. He's in pretty bad shape, and he's hungry as hell. 'Sez he'll be glad to play his guitar at our little party tonight in exchange for sumpin to eat and a warm place to sleep."

I was about to tell Dan to grab a seat somewhere, when he started coughing. It didn't take no medical expert to tell that Dan wasn't long for this world. His whole body shook with the force of his choking coughs and the his wheezing as he tried to draw air back into his lungs.

When he paused long enough to hear me, I said, "Sure Dan, bring your gear inside and fix yourself up a place to sleep. Stew will be ready in a few minutes." He stumbled outside and returned with, of all things, a golf-cart and a rather large golf-bag. In the bag was his guitar, (stem down) an umbrella, and a walking stick. In the pockets of the bag were all his worldly possessions.

We found enough cardboard and tarps to make a place to lie down. Sam brought him a five-gallon bucket for his table. I went over to stir the stew, and as I stirred the smell of beef stew began to overpower the eye stinging smell of wood smoke, I checked out our visitor.

He had the face of a fat-man who had been very sick. Under his slightly hooked nose a half inch of grey stubble surrounded a thick-lipped mouth. A mouth that looked like it belonged on a fat, little, unhappy cherub. His body was thin as a rail.

I dished out a steaming scoop of stew for everyone and we all sat down to enjoy the meal. I used our best, junk-yard dishes--- nice clean VW hubcaps. I gave everyone a spoon except Homer, the dog. He just couldn't get the hang of using a spoon.

As Dan sat on the floor, spooning down that stew, he downed two jelly-jars of wine. When he finished, he took his guitar, strummed a couple of chords, and asked, "Now, my Friends, what would you like me to play?"

"Can you sing?" I asked.

"No, I'm sorry. If I try, I'll start coughing and spoil all your fun. You name what you would like to sing, and I'll play it."

"How about `Red River Valley`?" asked Ernie. Dan nodded, started strumming chords, and tuning. Then he started to play. Boy! could he play that thing. We tried to sing in harmony, but it didn't come out too good. Homer howled in agony. We drank some of Ernie's whisky, then we tried, `You are My Sunshine`. Homer got up and left the pad.

We thought we were sounding a little better, so we drank a little more whisky and really sounded great when we sang `Deep in The Heart Of Texas`.

Sam rolled a joint and after everyone had a couple of hits, we sang `Don't Fence Me In`. We did it so great that it brought tears to our eyes, so we did it again.

It musta been close to midnight when I looked around and Sam was passed out, lying flat on his back with the empty whisky bottle on his chest. Ralph had gone to the front of the bus, where he always slept. Ernie had gone outside to throw up and never came back.

I said to Dan, "Play the `Tennessee Waltz` for me then we'll sleep. So I sang the mournful words of the Tennessee Waltz as tears streamed down my cheeks; I passed out cold...

I woke slowly, a section at a time. I was stiff and sore, I was cold, and my head hurt. I didn't really want to wake up and start another day. As I laid there half awake and half asleep, I didn't want him to stop singing. As I lay there listening, I couldn't be sure, "Was I dreaming it or was I really hearing... "Are you lonesome tonight? are you lonesome tonight? are you sorry, we drifted apart?..." That sad voice was so damn familiar.

I sat up, opening my eyes. I quickly looked around to see who had been singing. There was no one, so I must have been dreaming. I looked over at Guitar Dan. He sat on the five-gallon can, his guitar on his lap, staring at me, but I knew he couldn't see me. Death had twisted that petulant little mouth into a lopsided smile, and he sat there as if waiting for applause.

The way he sat and the way he looked reminded me of someone, but I dismissed the idea as being really wacky. I pulled the golf-cart over to where I was sitting.

With Dan sitting there watching, I felt sort of guilty as I rummaged around until I found a shoe box tied with some twine. I really don't know what I was looking for. That's a lie... I'll admit it. I had two motives;

the first was to check for anything of value. He didn't have any use for worldly goods, but we sure as Hell did. The second was to find anything that could identify Dan and maybe get his dead body out of there.

Anyway, when I got the shoe box open, there under a whole lot of photos and old letters was his birth certificate. I unfolded it and read, "Elvis Aron Presley; born January 8, 1935 in Tupelo, Mississippi."

I was stunned, my head hurt, and I didn't know what to do. I woke the others and as we sat looking at the pitiful remains of what had once been the King, I silently handed Sam the birth certificate.

Sam's face slowly changed from sad disbelief to grinning excitement. "Holy Shit! guys," he croaked. "We've finally hit the jackpot. The National Inquirer will pay a fortune for this birth certificate, and first crack at this body.

I sat there thinking and staring into those accusing dead eyes. "Sam, Let me take another look at that there birth certificate." He handed it back to me, grinning like a kid at Christmas. Then he started crying and cussing like a truck driver, as I tore that document into about fifty tiny pieces.

"What're you doing, you crazy bastard? That was our ticket to easy-street."

"Sam," I said sadly, as the wind carried away the pieces. `Elvis the King` died a long time ago. Let's call the meat wagon and let `Old Guitar Dan` go in peace."

I wrapped my arm around Sam's scrawny shoulders and shook him gently, as I gestured around the pad with my other arm. "Sam, do ya mean that you'd give up all this and leave Homer behind, just to go live with those snooty folks on easy-street?"

"No, I guess not," he sobbed, "we probably wouldn't a fit in anyhow."

Homer sniffed the body, sat down, and howled his mournful agreement.