Once upon a time in an alternate universe there was a popular musician named Charlie. He could swivel his hips like it was nobody’s business and croon his way to the moon. Everybody called him The King. Later in life, with longer hair, a paunchier mid-section, and wearing robes more fit for a Jedi than rock n’ roll royalty, he went one day to the White House to visit The President.
“It would be a honor, sir,” Charlie said with humble dignity, shaking the President’s hand, “if I could wash your feet.”
Around the same time, there was this guy, a real snake charmer named Elvis. Girls thought he was handsome, and he could sing and play the guitar.
He wanted to be a star.
He became the leader of a cult instead. They killed a bunch of innocent people. Called themselves a family. It’s a shame, really. All that, just for a bit of fame.