Dear Dead Elvis,
You've probably heard of me, seen me, and know something of my fame, or ill-fame, whichever. I'm the one who melted away in front of millions on the big screen and on TV screens in homes around the world. Most everyone was thrilled to see me go, although those from home were speechless at first. (Yes, you guessed it. My home is that curiously American bardo-space called Oz.)
Now, I've heard about the Celebrity Protection Program, and I know it's been in business under a variety of guises for centuries or more. Usually, no one suspects of its existence at all, least of all many of the hapless celebrities!
Let me tell you what they did for me:
After I melted down in Oz, and after that demure gingham-checked miss and her weirdo friends stole my broomstick--which is sort of like stealing a person's car, which is a felony--not to mention murder, first-degree murder plus conspiracy--I drifted for awhile, eventually realizing I was tired of my old life, anyway. Oz was a silly place, very invisible most of the time and sort of laid out square like a map. The people there were ridiculous people. You've seen them. Dreamers, all of them. Very fantasy-oriented, except for that loyal nationalistic streak that makes them want to stick to their place on the map and paint all their homes the proper colors. Imagine. I was stuck with the yellow-minded Winkies. (I think that was what they were called.)