3

"I hate riding on this thing," Pig says clinging to the back of the summersault-cloud. 

"Then tell me where he is?"

"Who?"

"Tang Sanzang."

"How the hell should I know?"

Monkey swoops down, does a couple of loops then straightens out. Pig's cheeks swell and his face starts to sweat.

"Memphis! Anything to get me on the ground."

In no time Monkey is hopping off the cloud onto the stone embankment of the Mississippi as Pig tumbles in the river, lets out a gurgled, "Help" then rights himself and swims ashore.

"You did that on purpose," he says shaking off.

They walk along the rough cobblestone that turns to smooth sidewalk as it snakes its ways through a manicured park, jungle gyms, swing sets and brass plaques describing the history of something that neither of them stops to read.

"We'll have to transform," Monkey says looking at a couple heading towards them.

"Nah," Pig says handing him a pair of sunglasses. "Just put these on." The couple walks by both staring at their phones. "See? You don't need disguises anymore." 

"Then why are we wearing sunglasses?" 

"They make us look cool."

"You're an idiot."

"Fine. But you're going to have to follow this idiot if you want to find Tang Sanzang," he says pointing his meaty Pig hand.

          A giant silver pyramid 
          cuts through the sky
          a triangular shadow falling on the
          white and black pickups
          littering the lot
          boats on trailers with names like
          Serenity and Windsong
          parked in rows
          among the landscaped evergreens
          and soft petalled pansies
          stuck in piles of brown mulch
          Monkey and Pig
          stare at the Bass Pro Sign
          hung below the
          glass blue tip
          piercing
          the cloudless sky 

"Tang Sanzang is at Bass Pro?" 

"No. What? Why would he be here?"

Monkey looks confused. "Is this the royal palace?"

Pig laughs. "I forget you've been gone so long. There aren't kings anymore. There' no King of..." He thinks it over, "actually there is a King of Memphis." They walk through the lot. Pig stops to rummage around the back of a pickup, looks in the window, tries to open the door,  then gives up and keeps walking. "This isn't a palace. It's a failed sports arena they converted into a Bass Pro. My friend Rob works at Uncle Bucks." He looks to see if Monkey is following along. "That's the restaurant here. He was the last person to see Friar Sand and Friar Sand was the last person to talk to Tang Sanzang, so..."

Monkey frowns as they push through the glass doors, past the doorman working the turn style who is furiously responding to AlphaDog54 on Twitter and into the depths of the outdoor adventure land. Pig walks off to find his friend while Monkey takes a look around. 

There's a small countrified city built inside with a stand-alone elevator lit in blue lights that shoots all the way to the top. Monkey walks along and looks at the fishing poles and hats and binoculars and boats and sunglasses, life jackets, knee boots and pink camouflage shotguns till he gets to the crocodile pool. Two crocodiles are encased in a glass-walled faux rock landscape that swoops around disappearing behind the elevator. They're laying on top of each other in the water looking up at Monkey and Monkey looks back unsure if they're acknowledging each other or if they want to bite his head off.

He walks past the aquarium, a thousand fish all keeping their distance from one another to a mountain with two regal rams. A grizzly bear stands on two legs beneath them, its arms half raised, mouth open, looking toward the door.

"What kind of magic is this?" Monkey says marveling as he sees two black bears, also frozen, walking along the top edge of the aquarium.

"It's taxidermy," Pig says walking up eating a waffle cone and wearing a real tree jacket. "Come on. Let's go."

Monkey follows close behind as Pig saunters out the door and down the street pointing at things that Monkey doesn't pay attention to.

"They worship me like a god here," he hears Pig repeat again this time a little louder pointing at a pink cement pig in front of two large windows which Monkey walks up to and peers inside. Families sit around small wooden tables breaking apart ribs, stuffing hunks of meat in their mouths, smiling and talking happily.

"How long have you been back?" Pig asks standing behind Monkey taking a bite of his waffle cone.

"Not long."

"I see you've got one of those fancy new phones." 

"This?" Monkey says pulling it out and turning it over in his hands. "I fought and killed a demon to get this. It can make music spring out of the air."

"That's a phone and about every idiot in the world has one," Pig says. "I thought I was the stupid one."

Monkey frowns as they keep walking, Pig pointing things and explaining as they go. "This is a bank," he says standing in front of Bank of America. "It's a place people put their money but it's not like gold or anything, more like that fake spirit money people used to burn." 

"Monks are not supposed to carry money."

Pig ignores him and continues. "And this is a coffee shop. This is where you go when you first meet a woman online and she wants to make sure you're not a psychopath. People also take their computers here for some reason."

"Monks are not allowed to have sex." Monkey looks in. "And you are a psychopath."

"I'm not saying it's what I do. Just what people do. I'm trying to educate you here."

They walk a little further.

"Oh and here's a bar. This is where you go at night. You sit in this loud room and drink and talk over the music that's playing but you can't hear anything. I don't know why people like this but they REALLY like it. Most of the time you're just leaning across the table shouting, 'What?' at the other person and then afterwards you make out. I don't get it, but it's what you do." 

They take a couple turns and find themselves on Beale Street.

"Ok, so this is where tourists go. Tourists are these people that get in airplanes," he looks over to Monkey, "these metal tubes that fly in the sky to other places and then they mostly just drink and take lots of pictures and then they go home. They're everywhere. Look there's one," he says pointing to an older couple who has talked another older couple into taking their photo in front of a neon sign smiling and making the peace symbol.

Monkey looks out and sees,

          Tourists in Tommy Bahama shirts
          drinking out of long plastic tubes 
          bright strawberry lime
          slurping through fluorescent curly straws
          the sun setting
          as the streets emerge
          and a halo of noise  
          blossoms from their mouths
          as inflatable pink flamingos
          pass over the counter
          thin plastic glasses stuffed inside
          as the loud blues guitar 
          mixes
          with screams 
          of joy

"So, you remember in the old days when we would pass through a province, we would have to pay respects to the king and they would stamp our papers?"

"Of course," Monkey says dodging a drunk couple holding each other up. "What about it?"

"Like I was saying earlier. There is a King of Memphis. We should pay our respects before we go any further."

"Fine," Monkey says. "But we don't have any papers to stamp."

"Not a problem," he says turning down a side street. 

They walk a little further till they're standing in front of Graceland, the stone wall curling around the massive yard, iron gates with musical notes welded in place, twin guitar players on either side. Pig hops over the fence as Monkey follows surveying the grounds, the rows of flowers lining the driveway shimmer as darkness descends turning the trees black against the dark blue of the sky.  

They get to the front steps of the house and Monkey pushes on the door.

"It's locked."

"Then open it," Pig says looking around. "Quickly."

Monkey waves his hand, the lock springs open and they walk in. All the lights are off. Pig closes it behind them as Monkey steps over the ropes and walks into the white carpeted living room, over to the white piano next to the white and gold television, walks back and stops in front of a painting of a young man with slick dark hair, thick eyebrows raised questioningly.

"The King," Pig says.

"Where is he?" Monkey asks.

"This way."

Monkey follows him through a narrow hallway and down a mirrored ceiling staircase to a room of great splendor. 

          A black sofa in a giant U
          with white and yellow throw pillows
          stacked neatly
          like crackers
          black and yellow walls
          painted clouds
          with rigid lightning bolts
          jutting out
          as three televisions
          in wood paneling
          cast a soft blue light
          on the ceramic white monkey
          that sits on the mirrored coffee table
          next to the ashtray and glass globe of seashells
          reflecting their shadows
          in its black eyes

"I'm taking him," Monkey says stepping over the ropes and heading straight for the coffee table. He picks up the ceramic white statue and holds it out like one might examine a baby then tucks it under his arm and heads back to Pig.

"Where you think you're goin' with my monkey, Monkey," the ghost of Elvis says. He looks up from the black sectional strumming his guitar, occasionally stopping to tune it, then strumming again. Monkey spins around pulls his gold banded cudgel from behind his ear, grows it as large as the 70's spider lamp in the corner and points it at Elvis's head, one hand gripping the cudgel, the other cradling the Monkey statue.

"I'm a lover not a fighter," Elvis says stopping for a moment to smile at Monkey. "Come on now. Sit down and enjoy some of that famous southern hospitality you've heard so much about...unless you wanna brawl, but then," he says slicking his hair back, "we gotta go outside."

Monkey looks back at Pig, who shrugs and steps over the ropes and sits down on the other side of the U-shaped sectional so they're facing each other. Monkey shrinks his cudgel, puts it behind his ear and sits next to Pig.

"Just my luck that the supernatural beings I'm visited by are a hideous looking Monkey and fat ugly Pig," Elvis says. "Couldn'tve been a couple of lovely ladies who're down to worship the King, know what I mean?" He continues to strum his guitar stopping again to tune it, "God dang it. Just can't seem to get this girl soundin' right," and then, "So I suppose you know who I am but you have me at a loss. Can't say I'd forget these two faces."

Monkey sits up grinning and says, "I'm the Handsome Monkey King, The Great Sage Equal to Heaven, King of the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit. Sun Wukong. The Fighting Buddha...."

"Handsome Monkey king, huh?" Elvis says looking him up and down. "Quite a title for someone that looks like their face went through a meat grinder. "Suppose you might look a bit better in one of my fine suits, but then again, as they say, 'You can put lipstick on a pig..." he trails off strumming and humming a few bars of Love Me Tender. 

"I don't wear lipstick," Pig says not understanding. 

"You might look a bit better if you did," Monkey says laughing.

"Yeah, whaddya say lil piggy. Let the King put some lipstick on you."

"He is the King," Monkey says prodding. 

Pig does not have time to respond. Elvis has already thrown his guitar on the couch, dug through his pocket, pulled out a tube of red lipstick and is hovering over him, his large frame eclipsing the overhead light. "I won't hurt you. Now stick your lips out for the King." Pig squirms as Elvis descends on him with the protruding lipstick smashing against Pig's greasy lips smearing it around in a circle of red. "Come on now. Stop moving. The King's gonna make you pretty." Elvis finishes then stands back to examine his work. Not happy, he pulls an Elvis wig out of nowhere and places it on Pig's head. Adjusts it a few times then seems happy. Finally, he turns to Monkey. "We're gonna have to do somethin' special for you too. Don't you worry," he says walking over to one of the yellow cabinets and rummaging through before pulling out a white sequined jumpsuit, "The ladies ain't gonna touch you in those Zubaz's you're wearin'."

"I am not putting that on," Monkey protests. 

Pig smiles. 

"Listen here baby. This is how this works. I'm not just the King of Rock n' Roll. I'm the King of all the ghosts and demons this side of the Mississippi so if you wanna travel unencumbered, you need my autograph, and you ain't getting it until I see this here monkey dressed like a little Elvis. Got this thing ever since I died of seeing people dressed up like me. Not much to do as a ghost you know. Not to mention you two snuck in here and tried to pilfer my monkey that I see you still don't seem in a hurry to let go of, so if you want The King's forgiveness and if you need my signature to ease your travels, then, well, you're gonna have to put it on," Elvis says walking over to Monkey and holding a child's size white sequined suit up to him. "I am after all a simple man with simple pleasures and I just think it'd be so darn funny to see this hairy little ape put one of these on for me." He extends the outfit to Monkey.

Monkey doesn't move.

"Well I know how you feel. I ain't trying to degrade you or nuthin' and this ain't just for my particular kinda fancy. I like you, you hairy little freak," Elvis says smiling at Monkey, "and this is my way of sayin', well, I have demons livin' in plain sight all over the US of A, dressing like me, acting like me and fittin' right in. Thousand Fists of the Kung Fu Kings, if ya heard of us," Elvis says raising his eyebrows and looking back and forth at Monkey and Pig, "Well, probably not. You boys don't seem to be from around here." He sits back down on the couch, picks up his guitar and then to Monkey, "So what I'm saying is, if you put that outfit on you'll be inducted into a special brotherhood that comes with a few perks. If you ever find yourself on the wrong end of the stick, if your life's in danger or if you just want The King to come by and say hi, all you need to do is raise that porcelain monkey high in the air and smash it on the ground and ol' Elvis will come to the rescue. So...well...here we are, me playin' my guitar offering you a chance to expand your circle as it were, and you sitting there holding my monkey. Gentlemen, what's it gonna be?"

Monkey and Pig sit on a bench outside Graceland. Cars drive by and the occasional person leans out of the passenger side window and yells. Monkey sits wearing a white jumpsuit holding the white ceramic statue with Elvis's signature scrawled across his belly. Pig is next to him wearing a black wig tilted to the side, red lips and large gold glasses. They sit in silence for a while before Monkey without turning says, "If I ever hear you mention this to another living soul..."

Pig nods, takes a drag of a cigarette, his lips staining the butt pink then says, "We need to find someplace to sleep tonight," throws it on the ground smashing it with his hoof. "I think I know a place that could work."

In no time Monkey and Pig are walking into an abandoned house, pushing open the door, turning the couches right side up and making a spot to sleep. Monkey jumps up and smashes a giant hole through the ceiling, finds a pallet leaning against the sink in the kitchen and a used tire in the bathroom. He breaks up the pallet, arranges the wood inside the tire right above the gaping hole in the roof then looks around for something to light it with. Pig reaches down his throat and rummages around, pulls out his ceremonial lighter and hands it over to Monkey with his best fake smile he can muster. Monkey pays no attention and lights it, sits back and looks into the flames. 

Pig finds a place on the other side of the fire, unfolds a lawn chair and sits down tossing the wig and glasses on the floor and wiping the lipstick off smearing it down the side of his face. Monkey shrinks the ceramic statue and puts it in his pouch. They both say nothing as they stare into the flames.

"How long have you been back," Pig says finally. "You never answered me."

Monkey still doesn't answer. Pig looks down. There are dozens of crayon packs on the floor. He picks one up, opens the cardboard top and pulls out a purple one, sticks it in the fire and it sizzles and crackles and burns. Monkey looks up. Pig throws a pack over to him and they both sit around the fire throwing crayons and watching them spark and crackle.

"Did you do better or worse than I did out here," Pig says finally. Monkey's face hardens and looks away. "That bad, huh?" Pig says looking down. 

"You seem to have gotten smarter at being an idiot," Monkey finally shoots back. "Are you sorry for the things you've done?"

Pig tosses the rest of the crayons in the fire and leans back in his chair.

"I want to be, but, honestly, if you dropped me off and left me on my own, I'd go back to doing the same thing. I'm a demon after all. I used to think I could be better. I thought I was learning some kind of lesson, but when they made me 'Cleaner of the Heavenly Altar' or whatever stupid title they gave me, I just knew I was either going to be a really bad monk or a really good demon, and, you know, it feels good doing something well."

Monkey watches his last crayon crackle and burn then looks up at Pig through the flames.

"Then I guess I'll have to kill you at the end of this."

Pig lets out a heavy sigh and rests his hands on his stomach.

"I guess so."