I've gone to Graceland.

Biographer's note: I received the following message from Bare Rump earlier today, heavily encrypted and partly degraded. For all I know, this may be Rump's last message to our people. I include it here, incomplete as it is, to demonstrate the spirit of amitié which Bare Rump brought to our land. Ultimately, all she wanted was to be our friend.

The data packet she sent consists of the raw notes she takes between computer sessions. Her forelegs are equipped with a wide variety of nanoreceptors and nanoprocessors, including vibration and light sensors. Thus, she can tap messages to herself, 'take snapshots' with her forelegs, record this information digitally, encrypt it, and upload it to me via a stealthed Grith Lyssome orbital satellite.

If she's still alive -- and I hope to God she is -- she may yet be able to get messages to me using these devices.

***

3734 Elvis Presley Boulevard: corporate headquarters for Elvis Presley Enterprises. The pretty young black human female behind the glass desk has a name tag: Carlee Kravitz, Central Receiving. Marge holds a large canvas satchel in her hands. From inside the bag, she pulls out a paper and slams it down on Carlee's desk.

"Check the damn invoice if you don't believe me," she says.

I can see Tiffini straining to read Carlee' s name tag. (Fortunately, my forelegs' visual mapping ability has reached the point where I can 'read' English. Things keep getting better all the time!) Marlee's flustered -- I don't think she has accepted Marge's explanation about me, and an angry Marge is nothing to sniff at, either.

After more hollering, the door behind Carlee opens, and a male comes out.

"What's this?" he says.

"She says she has a shipment --"

"No. What's this?"

Meaning me.

Carlee rolls her eyes. "Animatronic spider for the new interactive wing."

His forehead wrinkles. "Animatronic --"

"You know," says Marge, "For the Harum Scarum exhibit."

"There weren't any giant spiders in Harum Scarum."

"Okay," says Marge. "I'll grant you that. How's this: I'll take the spider back, but you gotta take delivery on my shipment, just like it says in the invoice."

He picks up the paper and reads it slowly. With my legs up, I can see his lips moving. After a very long time, he says, "'Ten gross of lawn elves.' What would we want with lawn elves?"

Marge opens the satchel, pulls out a statue, and places it on the desk.

"Lawn Elvises," she says.

"Who you trying to kid?" says Carlee. "I've seen Lord of the Rings. That's no elf. He's too damned short, his ears are round, and he's not blonde --"

"Carlee Kravitz!" says Tiffini, finally managing to sound out Carlee's name tag. "Would you be related to Mr. Lenny Kravitz? Cuz my daddy says Mr. Lenny Kravitz, why, he's one hell of an American, a real patriot, even if he is half-black-half-Jew --"

"Ex-cuse me?" says Carlee.

All of this is making me tense. It seems like Carlee is about to strike Tiffini, and I can't have that. True, the girl can be annoying, but she is my best friend on Earth.

"Lawn Elvises," Marge repeats. "You know, like your Lord and Master? Haven't you noticed the sunglasses and the sideburns and the chubby cheeks?"

Tiffini, meanwhile, is jumping up and down, hands pursed together: "-- cuz if he is, like, your half-brother or something, do you think you could get him to sign something for me, like my --"

"Mr. Gruen," says Carlee, "do I gotta take this from a punk-ass kid --"

Marge rises to her full height and glares down at Carlee. "JUST WHO ARE YOU CALLING PUNK-ASS?"

"The problem," the man is saying to Marge, "is this signature is illegible. We've had a good deal of turnover in recent weeks. Perhaps if you took this down to Human Resources, someone there might be able to figure out who authorized purchase of your elves --"

"ELVISES --"

"Cuz some little miss needs her ass whupped yesterday --"

It's all getting too loud, too confusing. The rasper doesn't know quite what to make of it and neither do I. On a practical level, the important thing is, this Mr. Gruen has placed himself between Carlee and Tiffini, and I don't think Marge will let any harm come to her niece, either. Time for me to slink away and let these humans settle their differences amongst themselves.

Out here in the main secretary pool, the young females are oohing and aahing about me, the amazing animatronic spider. I wonder how they'd feel if I asked them for directions to the little girls' room? Oh, well. Best not tempt fate. I think I can find it for myself anyway.

Wait. That's not a young female human by the water cooler. He's holding something long and delicate in his hands --

"You're . . . you're the Rabbit?"

Transmission ends here.