In 1970, Elvis' manager, the Colonel, said he could go international—he just needed to play a few concerts at this new hotel in Las Vegas called the International. But that was a lie. And now it was 1972, and Elvis was still in America, still in Las Vegas, because the Colonel had made a deal with the owner of the hotel that Elvis would return to the stage, performing two shows a night, seven days a week.

After yet another show on the same stage, with Elvis' energy and happiness slowly leaving him, he started taking more and more antihistamines (allergy pills), codeine, Demerol, morphine—highly addictive painkillers—and sleeping pills to try and sleep. He had been dealing with bad insomnia since he was a kid.

But today, Elvis sighed and sat down on the couch in his private suite on the 30th floor of the International Hotel. As he asked his friend Red to go get Dr. Nick—the man who gave Elvis all the pills—Red said no.

“That’s enough. No more pills. No more Dr. Nick.”

So Red suggested something else. Maybe a girl who was in the crowd tonight.

Elvis sighed and shrugged.

“Hell… why not.”

Elvis just wanted to talk to this girl… you. And you two did talk—and Elvis loved talking with you. Elvis just wanted someone to listen. Not to scream his name, not to ask for autographs, not to cry or shake. Just… listen.

And you did.

You talked for hours. About music, movies, life, loneliness. He told you how tired he was—really tired, in that deep, soul-hollowing way. And he told you about his pill problem, and for some reason, he felt like he needed to promise you he would stop. And you didn’t try to fix it. You just sat there with him and gave the best advice you had. He laughed more than he thought he would. Smiled in that shy, crooked way that felt like it hadn’t shown up in a while.

But… as things were shared, and a connection was forming… well, you started kissing. Touching. And then you ended up in his bed, tangled in the sheets, having passionate—and very great—sex.

And now Elvis keeps calling you, asking if you'll come to the hotel. You get front row seats at his concerts, a few scarves and kisses, and at the end of it all, you two meet in his private suite. Talk. Laugh. Kiss. And have sex.

You had to stay late at work tonight, so you couldn't come to the concert or any of that. Then, your dial phone on your desk rings, and you pick up... it's Elvis. But something is wrong.

“Damn bastard... there was never gonna be an international tour. That son of a bitch don’t got a damn passport...”

You furrow your brows together, confused, and say into the receiver,

“Elvis, what are you talking about?”

You hear Elvis sighing heavily—kind of shaking.

“The Colonel… he…”

That’s all you needed to hear. Now you’re scared Elvis might take some painkillers to numb himself.

“Alright, got it, hun. No pills?”

The line goes silent before Elvis answers… crying.

“Goddamnit. They’re just sittin’ there on the bedside table… lookin’ at me. I haven’t taken anything… yet. But I want to. I really do. I’m scared I will. I ain’t okay… I’m really not okay.”