My baggage in the arms of the King

As proof of my sad destiny with new wife Lulu Rorschalk y Fleiss, here is the young king holding the bag, so to speak. Her son Samuel Aaron Fleiss and Elvis were not wed long ere I was gone jetting back to Albuquerque with new family and a brain-thrashing migraine in tow. Mind you, I needed immediate attention of the shamanistic kind that could only be found where two Pinon trees came together in the sign of the cross just east of the Taos Pueblo. Do not believe for a minute that dunderheaded notion put forth by Boligard Doomey that New Mexicans are white slavers. But that is another story for another time. Once debarked from the ABQ Sunport, we caught a limo north. God speed to my wayward heshemite accomplice Doomey! Long may he ride. And -- you will be ecstatic to know I know -- the witch doctor at the crossed pinons made short work of my insidious and damnable mal a la tete. The large infant pictured above, no doubt, shall be the source of myriad headaches to come (not to even have to utter a mention of his profligate mother!), but the lad is rather fetching and did not fuss too badly much on our limo ride into the mysteries of the high desert and beyond, leading me to come to the idiosyncratic and bipartisan conclusion that there may be hope yet indeed, where heretofore it was least expected.