"I had met him on a few occasions, but we hadn't spent any time together. One night in 1971 after a show at the International, I went backstage, where he was with a group of his buddies discussing where they were going to eat. He spotted me and called me over. 'Hey, man, you ever have a peanut butter and banana sandwich, on white bread?' "I thought he was putting me on, so I played along. 'Love 'em,' I said." 'Great, man! You're coming with us!'"'Where we going?' I asked. "'San Francisco, brother" So we flew out of McCarran Airport on Elvis's private jet, landing there about an hour later. There were eight of us, and he did the ordering. An initial round of sixteen sandwiches was sucked up in minutes, washed down by gallons of lemonade. I had one. After the meal, we got back on the plane and flew back to Vegas. Once we were in his suite, he decided he wanted to watch a Western movie. A projector was set up and a 1930s oater with Hoot Gibson began. As i saw it, Elvis and his crew were whooping it up like real cowboys, and I wondered what the hell I was doing there. Then the guns came out. Elvis packed a 1942 Beretta 9 mm pistol given to him by General Omar Bradley, with the others having revolvers. He fired the first shot into a wall, and everyone followed suit as if mimmickimg the action in the movie, where Gibson was chasing a bunch of bad guys and trading shots with them. I thought a couple of live rounds would've been it, but then Elvis started overturning furniture, and the guys divided up into two sides. I ducked behind a couch as everyone hid behind cover and traded shots. They aimed high, but bullets can travel through walls, and who knows where they could've wound up. Within a minute, the "Gunfight in Suite 3000" was over and every­one repaired to the bar to get loaded, pun intended. I stayed a while, but I couldn't hear a damn thing because I was temporarily deaf from the gunfire. But I love Elvis. He was unique for what he was, he was statuesque""