August 16th, 1977. 4:47 p.m. Beverly Hills, California. Dean Martin was sitting in his living room when the phone rang. He was watching a baseball game. The Dodgers were playing the Reds. He had a glass of scotch in his hand and nowhere to be for the rest of the day. The afternoon sun was streaming through the windows, making patterns on the carpet.
Everything was peaceful. Everything was exactly as it should be. It was a perfect afternoon. The kind of afternoon that Dean had earned after 40 years in show business. The kind of afternoon where nothing bad could possibly happen. The kind of afternoon that would be shattered in exactly 30 seconds. The phone kept ringing.
That insistent shrill sound that cut through the quiet like a knife. Dean ignored it. He had people for that. Assistants, managers, people whose job it was to handle the endless stream of calls that came with being Dean Martin. Someone would pick it up. Someone always did. But the phone wouldn’t stop. It rang and rang and rang.
Five times, six times, seven. Nobody was answering. Dean’s staff must have stepped out. Must have thought he wouldn’t need them on this quiet Tuesday afternoon. Dean set down his scotch with an annoyed sigh and walked to the phone. He picked it up himself, irritated at whoever had let it go this long. What, Dean? It’s Frank.
Frank Sinatra’s voice sounded wrong. Tight, strained, like he was fighting to keep control of something that didn’t want to be controlled. Frank, what’s the matter? You sound like someone died. The silence on the other end of the line lasted 3 seconds. 3 seconds that stretched into eternity. 3 seconds that Dean would remember for the rest of his life.
Someone did die. Dean Elvis. Elvis Presley. They found him a few hours ago. He’s gone. The glass slipped from Dean’s hand. Shattered on the hardwood floor. Scotch spreading across the wood like blood from a wound. Dean didn’t move to clean it up. Didn’t move at all. Just sat there with the phone pressed to his ear, trying to make sense of words that refuse to make sense.
That’s not possible. Dean heard himself say he’s 42 years old. People don’t die at 42. He did. Heart attack. Found him on the bathroom floor at Graceland. It’s all over the news. I thought you should hear it from me before you saw it on television. Dean’s hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking. Something was happening inside his chest.
Something that felt like breaking. Something that felt like dying. I have to go. Dean said. Dean, wait. Are you okay? Do you need me to come over? I have to go. Dean hung up the phone. Sat in the silence of his living room. Stared at the television where the baseball game was still playing. Where life was still going on like nothing had happened.
like the world hadn’t just ended. And then Dean Martin, the coolest man in show business, the man who never showed emotion, the man who had built his entire career on being unflapable and effortless and in control of everything, put his face in his hands and started to cry. If you’re already hooked by this story, hit that subscribe button right now because what Dean Martin confesses after 3 hours of crying is going to change everything you think you know about him and Elvis.
And I promise you, nobody has ever told this story the way I’m about to tell it. The tears came like a flood, like something had been building behind a dam for years, and the dam had finally broken. Dean couldn’t stop them, couldn’t control them, couldn’t do anything except sit there and sob like a child who had just lost his best friend, which in a way he had.
The world didn’t know it. The press didn’t know it. Even most of the people in Dean’s inner circle didn’t know the truth about his relationship with Elvis Presley. They thought they were rivals, competitors, representatives of two different generations who barely tolerated each other. But that was a lie, a carefully constructed lie that Dean and Elvis had maintained for almost 20 years.
The truth was something else entirely. The truth was that Dean Martin and Elvis Presley had been friends. Real friends. The kind of friends who called each other at 3:00 in the morning when they couldn’t sleep. The kind of friends who knew each other’s secrets and fears and failures. The kind of friends who had created something beautiful together and then watched it be destroyed by forces beyond their control.
And now Elvis was dead. And Dean was alone with a secret that had been eating him alive for two decades. A secret about what he had done. What he had failed to do. What he could have prevented if he had just been brave enough to try. Dean cried for three hours. Three hours of grief and guilt and memories that wouldn’t stop coming.
Three hours of replaying every moment, every conversation, every missed opportunity. Three hours of wishing he could go back and change things. By the time the tears finally stopped, the sun had gone down. The living room was dark except for the glow of the television, which was now showing news coverage of Elvis’s death.
Graceland, the crowds gathering outside, the ambulance, the end of an era. Dean watched the coverage with empty eyes. Watch the reporters talk about Elvis’s legacy. Watch the clips of Elvis performing. Watch the whole world mourn a man they thought they knew, but they didn’t know. Nobody knew the real Elvis. Nobody except Dean.
And now Dean was the only one left who could tell the truth. The only one left who knew what had really happened between them. The only one left who could confess. Dean picked up the phone, dialed a number he hadn’t called in years. A number he had memorized but never used because using it would mean facing things he didn’t want to face.
The phone rang three times before someone answered. Hello, it’s Dean. Dean Martin. I need to see you tonight. There’s something I have to tell you. Something about Elvis. Something I should have told someone a long time ago. Smash that like button if you can feel the weight of what Dean is about to confess because the secret he’s been carrying is going to break your heart.
Chapter 2. Two hours later, Dean was sitting in a booth at a diner in Hollywood. Across from him sat a woman he hadn’t seen in almost 15 years. Priscilla Presley, Elvis’s ex-wife, the mother of his only child. The woman who had loved Elvis more than anyone except maybe his mother. She looked older than Dean remembered.
Tired. the kind of tired that comes from years of watching someone you love destroy themselves and being powerless to stop it. But her eyes were the same. Those beautiful eyes that had captivated Elvis when she was just a teenager. Those eyes that had seen everything and understood more than anyone gave her credit for.
Thank you for coming, Dean said. I know this is a strange time to reach out with everything that’s happening. You said you had something to tell me about Elvis, something important. Priscilla’s voice was steady, but Dean could see the effort it took to keep it that way. I do something I should have told someone years ago.
Something that might have, I don’t know, changed things, saved him, something. Dean, Elvis is dead. Nothing you tell me now is going to change that. I know. But you deserve to know the truth. His daughter deserves to know. The world deserves to know what really happened between us and why I’ll never forgive myself for what I did.
Priscilla studied his face, looking for the angle, looking for the manipulation. Dean didn’t blame her. Hollywood had taught her to be suspicious of everyone, especially men who claim to have pure motives. Okay, she finally said, “Tell me.” Dean took a deep breath. This was the moment.
After 20 years of silence, he was finally going to say the words out loud. Finally going to confess what he had done. Finally going to face the guilt that had been destroying him from the inside out. In 1960, Elvis and I became friends. Real friends. Not the fake Hollywood kind. The real kind. The kind where you tell each other things you’ve never told anyone else.
The kind where you trust someone with your life. I didn’t know that. Elvis never mentioned it. Nobody knew. We kept it secret for a lot of reasons. Our managers didn’t want us associated with each other. the press would have turned it into a circus. And honestly, I think we both liked having something that was just ours, something private in lives that had no privacy.
Priscilla nodded slowly. She understood private. She had fought for every scrap of privacy she ever had. How did it start? He came to one of my shows at the Sands. This was right after he got back from the army. I was on stage having the best night of my career and Elvis walked in the door and everyone in that room forgot I existed. They all turned to look at him.
Every single person. It was like I had become invisible. That sounds like Elvis. I was furious. Walked off stage in the middle of my performance. most unprofessional thing I’d ever done. I went back to my dressing room and sat there, hating him, hating everything he represented, hating that the world I had built was being taken over by a kid from Memphis who wiggled his hips.
But something changed. He came to my dressing room, knocked on the door, and instead of gloating or rubbing it in, he apologized, said he was sorry for taking attention away from my show. Said he was actually a fan of mine, had been since he was a kid. Said he wanted to learn from me, not compete with me. Dean’s voice cracked.
The memory still hurt after all these years. Nobody had ever talked to me like that. Not Frank, not Sammy, not anyone in Hollywood. Everyone in this business is always looking for an angle. Always trying to get something from you. But Elvis just wanted to connect, just wanted to be real with someone who understood what it was like to be famous.
So, you became friends. More than friends. He was like the little brother I never had. We talked on the phone every week, sometimes every day. We’d meet up whenever we were in the same city. We even performed together once. One show at the Sands. Dean Martin and Elvis Presley sharing a stage.
It was the most magical night of my life. Priscilla’s eyes widened. I never heard about that. There’s no record of you two ever performing together because there isn’t one. The Colonel made sure of that. Hit that subscribe button right now if you want to know what the Colonel did because the betrayal Dean is about to describe is going to make you furious.
Chapter 3. Dean told Priscilla everything about the show they had planned together. about the rehearsals where they had found something neither could create alone. About the night when 2,000 people had witnessed the impossible, Dean Martin and Elvis Presley, rivals no more, creating music that transcended their differences.
He told her about the standing ovations, the tears in the audience, the feeling that they were doing something important, something that mattered, something that proved music could bring people together instead of tearing them apart. And then he told her about the Colonel. Tom Parker was a con man, Dean said.
Everyone in the industry knew it. He controlled Elvis completely. decided what movies he made, what songs he sang, what interviews he gave. Elvis couldn’t make a decision without the colonel’s approval. I know. I lived it for years. The colonel saw our friendship as a threat, saw our collaboration as a danger to his control.
If Elvis started making his own decisions, started choosing projects based on artistic merit instead of financial return, the Colonel’s power would weaken, and power was the only thing Tom Parker cared about. Dean’s hands were shaking as he continued, so he destroyed it. Made a deal with the Sands Hotel.
Elvis would do an exclusive residency there. Six months of shows, the biggest deal in Vegas history. But there was a condition. What condition? I could never perform at the Sands again. The Colonel told them that Elvis’s brand needed to be protected. That audiences who came to see Elvis shouldn’t be confused by seeing Dean Martin in the same venue.
It was all nonsense. Of course, the real reason was that the colonel wanted to separate us, wanted to make sure we never collaborated again. Priscilla looked stunned. They banned you from the Sands. You were one of their biggest stars. Didn’t matter. Elvis was bigger. And the Colonel made it clear that it was a package deal.
They could have Elvis, but only if they got rid of me. The owners did the math. It wasn’t even close. Did Elvis know about this? Dean was quiet for a long moment. This was the part he had been dreading. The part where the confession got worse. The part where his own guilt became undeniable. That’s what I have to confess.
That’s what I’ve been carrying for 20 years. That’s what I need you to understand. He looked Priscilla in the eyes. Elvis didn’t know. Not at first. The colonel told him that I had asked to be released from my contract. That I didn’t want to perform at the Sands anymore. That I had found a better deal somewhere else and didn’t even have the decency to tell Elvis myself.
That’s a lie. You would never Of course it was a lie. But Elvis believed it. Why wouldn’t he? The colonel was like a father to him. The colonel had been managing his career since he was a teenager. Elvis trusted him completely. So Elvis thought you abandoned him. Yes. He thought I chose money over our friendship.
Thought I walked away without even a phone call. Thought I didn’t care enough to say goodbye. Priscilla’s eyes were filling with tears. That would have devastated him. Elvis was so sensitive about abandonment. After his mother died, he was terrified of everyone leaving him. I know. I know that now. But at the time, I didn’t understand what had happened.
I just knew that Elvis had stopped returning my calls, stopped responding to my messages, stopped wanting anything to do with me. I thought he was the one who had ended our friendship. I thought he had chosen the colonel over me. You both thought the other one had betrayed you for 17 years. 17 years of silence. 17 years of anger and resentment and wondering what went wrong.
17 years of watching from a distance while the man who had been like a brother to me slowly destroyed himself. Dean’s voice broke completely. The tears were coming again. And I did nothing. I could have fought harder. Could have found a way to reach him. Could have shown up at Graceland and demanded to talk to him, but I let my pride stop me.
Let my anger convince me that Elvis wasn’t worth fighting for. let 17 years pass without ever trying to fix what was broken. Dean, don’t you see? I could have saved him if I had been there. If I had been his friend, if I had helped him stand up to the colonel, maybe things would have been different. Maybe he wouldn’t have spent his last years surrounded by sick offense who enabled his destruction.
Maybe he would have found the strength to get help. Maybe he would still be alive. Dean put his head in his hands. The guilt was crushing him. The weight of 17 wasted years. The weight of knowing that his pride might have contributed to Elvis’s death. That’s my confession. That’s what I did.
I let the colonel win. I let anger replace friendship. I let the best relationship of my life die because I was too proud to fight for it. And now Elvis is dead. And I’ll never get the chance to tell him I’m sorry. I’ll never get the chance to explain what really happened. I’ll never get the chance to be his friend again.
Share this video with someone who needs to understand the danger of pride. Because Dean’s confession is only half the story. What happens next is going to change everything. Chapter 4. Priscilla sat in silence for a long time after Dean finished speaking, processing everything, fitting together pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t even known existed.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost gentle. Dean, there’s something you need to know. What? Elvis talked about you. Not often, not openly, but sometimes late at night when he couldn’t sleep and the pills weren’t working and everything felt hopeless. He would talk about the people he missed, the people he wished he could see again.
And your name came up more than almost anyone else’s. Dean looked up, his eyes read, his face wet with tears. He talked about me. He never stopped caring about you. Never stopped wondering what had happened. Never stopped hoping that maybe someday you would call. He used to say that you were the only person in show business who had ever treated him like a real person instead of a product.
The only one who didn’t want something from him. But he believed I abandoned him. He believed the colonel’s lies. Part of him did, but another part always doubted it. He used to say, “That’s not like Dean. Dean wouldn’t do that.” But then the colonel would reinforce the lie, would show Elvis fake evidence, would manipulate him into believing that everyone who tried to get close was just using him.
Priscilla reached across the table and took Dean’s hand. You’re not the only one who’s been carrying guilt. I’ve been carrying it, too. I watched Elvis deteriorate for years. Watch the colonel isolate him from everyone who really cared. Watched the drugs and the food and the loneliness slowly kill him.
And I couldn’t stop it. Nobody could stop it. The colonel had built walls around Elvis so high that nobody could climb them. But I could have tried harder. I could have No. Priscilla’s voice was firm. Now you don’t get to take all the blame. The Colonel destroyed a lot of relationships. Yours, mine.
Elvis’s relationship with his own father by the end. The Colonel was the cancer at the center of Elvis’s life. And nothing any of us did was going to change that. Then why do I feel so guilty? Because you loved him. And when we lose someone we love, we always wonder if we could have done more. That’s just human nature. But Dean, you have to understand something.
Elvis made choices, too. He chose to stay with the Colonel. He chose to believe the lies. He chose to push people away instead of fighting to keep them. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. Dean wiped his eyes. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. No, it doesn’t. But maybe it can help you forgive yourself.
Eventually, they sat in silence again. Two people bound together by love for a man who was gone. Two people who had spent years blaming themselves for things that weren’t entirely their fault. two people who were just beginning to understand that grief and guilt were not the same thing. “There’s something else,” Priscilla said.
“Something I think you should see.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. Old, yellowed, unopened. Elvis wrote this about a month before he died. He asked me to hold on to it. said it was for someone he owed an apology to, someone he had wronged a long time ago. He never told me who it was for, just said I would know when the time was right to deliver it.
She slid the envelope across the table. On the front in Elvis’s handwriting was a single word, Dean. Drop a comment right now telling me what you think Elvis wrote in that letter because the words inside are going to destroy you. Chapter 5. Dean stared at the envelope like it was a bomb that might explode. His name and Elvis’s handwriting.
A letter that had been waiting for him. A message from beyond the grave. The ink was blue. The handwriting was shaky but unmistakably Elvis’s. that distinctive slant, that particular way of forming the letter D. Dean had seen Elvis’s handwriting before years ago when they used to leave notes for each other during rehearsals.
He would recognize it anywhere. He wrote this a month ago, about a month, maybe five weeks. He had been in a strange mood, reflective, talking about the past more than usual. calling people he hadn’t spoken to in years. I think he knew on some level that he didn’t have much time left. The body knows things the mind refuses to accept.
He was trying to make peace with things. Trying to say the things he should have said years ago. And he wanted to say something to me. He must have. I didn’t open it. It wasn’t addressed to me. But I’ve been carrying it around ever since he gave it to me. Waiting for the right moment. When you called tonight, I knew.
I knew this was what he wanted. For you to have this, for you to finally know the truth. Dean picked up the envelope with trembling hands. It felt impossibly heavy. Like it contained not just paper, but 17 years of silence. 17 years of missed opportunities. 17 years of love that had never been expressed. I don’t know if I can read this.
You have to. He wanted you to. Whatever’s in that letter, Elvis wrote it for you. It’s his last gift. His final words to a friend he never stopped loving. Dean took a deep breath, slid his finger under the envelope flap, opened it slowly, carefully like he was performing surgery on something precious. Inside was a single sheet of paper, lined, torn from a notebook.
The handwriting was shaky, nothing like the smooth penmanship Elvis had been known for. The drugs had taken their toll on everything, including his fine motor control. But the words were clear, and they broke Dean’s heart completely. Dean, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if Priscilla will be able to find you when the time comes, but I have to write it anyway.
I have to say the things I should have said years ago. I know the truth now about the colonel, about what he did to separate us, about the lies he told both of us to keep us apart. I figured it out a few years ago when some of his old paperwork got mixed up and I saw things I wasn’t supposed to see. Letters you had written me that I never received.
Messages you had left that were never passed along. evidence of a conspiracy to destroy the only real friendship I ever had. I wanted to call you then. Wanted to pick up the phone and say, “I’m sorry for ever doubting you.” But I was ashamed. Ashamed of how easily I had believed the lies. Ashamed of how quickly I had given up on us.
Ashamed of the man I had become in the years since we stopped being friends. I’m not the person you knew, Dean. That person is gone. The drugs took him. The loneliness took him. The years of being controlled and manipulated and treated like a commodity instead of a human being took him. What’s left is just a shell, a ghost wearing Elvis’s face.
You deserved better than what I gave you. You deserved a friend who would have fought for you. Who would have questioned the colonel’s lies? Who would have shown up at your door and demanded answers instead of just accepting the narrative that was fed to him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have known you would never abandon me.
I should have trusted our friendship more than I trusted the colonel. I should have been braver. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I want you to know that you were the best friend I ever had. The only person in this whole crazy world who saw me as Elvis, not as the king. The only person who made me feel like I was enough just as I was.
If I had any courage left, I would call you. I would fly to wherever you are and say these things to your face. But I don’t have courage anymore. I barely have anything anymore. So, I’m writing this letter instead and hoping that somehow someday it finds its way to you. I love you, Dean. I always did.
And I’m sorry for everything. Your friend always. Elvis Dean read the letter three times. Each time the tears came harder. By the third reading, he could barely see the words through the blur. He knew, Dean whispered. He figured out what the colonel had done. He knew I hadn’t abandoned him. He knew. And he still couldn’t call me.
Still couldn’t reach out. Still couldn’t. Dean’s voice broke completely. The weight of it was too much. Elvis had spent years knowing the truth and being too ashamed to act on it. Had spent years watching from a distance just like Dean had. Had spent years wishing he could fix things but being too broken to try. They had both been waiting for the other to make the first move.
Both been paralyzed by guilt and shame and fear. both been wasting time that they didn’t have. And now it was too late for Elvis. It was too late forever. Hit that subscribe button right now because Dean’s confession isn’t over yet. There’s one more secret he’s been carrying, and it’s the one that will haunt him until the day he dies.
Chapter 6. Dean folded the letter carefully, put it in his pocket close to his heart where he would carry it for the rest of his life. There’s something else I have to tell you, he said to Priscilla. Something I haven’t told anyone. Something that happened about 6 months ago. What? I almost called him in February.
I picked up the phone and dialed Graceland. I was going to say everything. Say I was sorry. Say I knew about the colonel. Say I wanted to fix things before it was too late. Priscilla leaned forward. What happened? Someone answered. One of his people. I asked to speak to Elvis. Said it was important. Said I was an old friend. And you know what they said? What? They said Elvis wasn’t taking calls from anyone outside his immediate circle.
Said he was resting. Said they would pass along the message. But I knew I knew from the way they said it that the message would never get to him. That the walls the colonel had built were still standing. That nothing had changed in 17 years. Dean’s voice was barely a whisper now. I hung up. I told myself I would try again later, find another way to reach him, show up at Graceland in person if I had to. But I didn’t.
I let another 6 months go by. I let life get in the way. I let my fear of rejection stop me from doing the one thing that might have made a difference. Dean, you couldn’t have known. I knew he was sick. Everyone knew it was all over the tabloids. Elvis Presley gaining weight. Elvis Presley cancing shows. Elvis Presley looking like a ghost of his former self. I knew he was dying.
We all knew. And I still didn’t find a way to reach him. The guilt was pouring out of Dean now. The confession he had been holding back. the part he hadn’t even admitted to himself until this moment. Six months. He had six months left. And I wasted them. I wasted them because I was afraid.
Afraid he wouldn’t want to hear from me. Afraid he would reject me. Afraid that 17 years of silence had killed our friendship completely. But the letter proves he still loved you. He wanted to reconnect, too. I know that now, but I didn’t know it then. All I knew was that I had tried once and been turned away. And instead of trying again, I gave up, just like I gave up 17 years ago.
Dean looked at Priscilla with eyes full of anguish. That’s my real confession. Not just that I let the Colonel win. Not just that I let pride destroy our friendship, but that I had a chance six months ago to fix everything, to say goodbye, to tell Elvis that I loved him and forgave him and wanted him back in my life. And I blew it.
I was too scared to try again. And now he’s dead. And I’ll never get another chance. Dean, you have to stop blaming yourself. Elvis was surrounded by people who kept him isolated. Even if you had gotten through, the colonel would have found a way to interfere. You can’t torture yourself over something that was never really in your control.
But that’s just it. Maybe it wasn’t in my control. Or maybe it was. Maybe if I had shown up at Graceland in person. Maybe if I had refused to take no for an answer. Maybe if I had been brave enough to fight through the walls that the colonel built. Maybe I could have reached him. Maybe I could have reminded him of who he used to be.
Maybe I could have saved his life. Or maybe nothing would have changed. Maybe Elvis was too far gone. Maybe the drugs had too strong a hold. Maybe there was nothing anyone could have done. Maybe. But I’ll never know. And that’s the hardest part. I’ll never know if I could have made a difference. I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I had just tried one more time.
Share this video with someone who has lost touch with a friend. Because Dean’s confession is a warning. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t let pride or fear or the chaos of life keep you from the people you love. Pick up the phone. Show up at their door. Fight through whatever walls have been built between you.
Because once they’re gone, they’re gone forever. And the guilt of wondering what might have been will haunt you until the day you die. Chapter 7. Dean and Priscilla talked until 3 in the morning. They shared memories of Elvis, the good times and the bad, the man behind the legend, the friend behind the fame.
Priscilla told Dean things he had never known. About Elvis’s final years, about the loneliness that consumed him. about the nights when he would stay up until dawn watching his old performances on television, trying to remember when he had been happy. About the pills that were the only thing that made him feel normal anymore. About the entourage that had grown around him like a tumor, feeding off his wealth while enabling his destruction.
Dean told Priscilla things she had never known, too. about those three weeks in 1960 when he and Elvis had been inseparable. About the rehearsals for their legendary show, about the feeling of pure joy when they performed together, when they forgot about competition and jealousy and just made music. About the plans they had made for a tour that would have changed the entertainment industry forever.
They cried together, laughed together, mourned together. And by the time the sun came up, something had shifted. The guilt Dean had been carrying felt a little lighter. Not gone. It would never be completely gone, but shared now, distributed between two people who understood what it meant to love Elvis Presley and lose him.
What are you going to do now? Priscilla asked as they stood outside the diner, blinking in the early morning light. I don’t know. Go to the funeral. I suppose if they’ll have me. I haven’t been part of Elvis’s world for a long time. They’ll have you. Elvis would have wanted you there. Whatever happened between you, whatever the Colonel did, Elvis never stopped loving you. The letter proves that.
I know. But it doesn’t make it easier. Walking into Graceland after all these years. Seeing the body, facing the reality that he’s really gone. Nothing about this is going to be easy. But you need to do it for closure, for peace, for the chance to say goodbye that you never got while he was alive. Dean nodded slowly. She was right.
He knew she was right. Running from the pain wouldn’t make it go away. The only way through grief was through. There’s something else I’m going to do. Dean said something I should have done a long time ago. What? I’m going to tell the truth about me and Elvis. about the colonel, about what really happened between us.
The world deserves to know that we weren’t rivals, that we were friends, that the separation between us was manufactured by a con man who cared more about money than about the people he supposedly represented. That’s going to make a lot of enemies. The colonel still has power, still has lawyers, still has connections that can make your life difficult.
I don’t care. I’m 70 years old. I’ve had more success than I ever dreamed of. I’ve got enough money to last 10 lifetimes. What else can they do to me? What else can anyone do to me that’s worse than what I’ve already done to myself? You’ve been too hard on yourself, Dean. You need to remember that. Maybe.
But I also need to make things right. I owe it to Elvis. I owe it to our friendship. I owe it to everyone who ever believed the lie that we hated each other. Priscilla reached out and hugged him. A real hug, the kind that said more than words ever could. Elvis was lucky to have you as a friend. Even if it was only for a little while, even if the colonel stole most of it, what you had was real.
And nothing can take that away. Dean hugged her back. Let himself feel the comfort of human connection. Something he had been denying himself for too long. Thank you, he whispered, for listening, for understanding, for giving me the letter, for everything. Thank you for telling me the truth. I spent years not understanding parts of Elvis’s life.
Now, at least I understand this part, and that matters. They separated. Two people bound together forever by the man they had both loved. two people who would carry the weight of that love for the rest of their lives. Dean walked to his car, got in, sat there for a long moment, holding Elvis’s letter in his hands, reading it one more time, memorizing every word.
Then he started the engine and drove toward the airport. He had a funeral to attend and a truth to tell and a friend to say goodbye to. 20 years too late. Hit that subscribe button right now because the funeral is going to be the most emotional moment of this entire story. And what Dean does there is going to change how the world remembers Elvis Presley forever.
Chapter 8. August 18th, 1977. Memphis, Tennessee. The heat was suffocating. 95° with humidity that made the air feel like soup. The kind of southern summer day that Elvis had grown up with but never really gotten used to. Even after all those years, Graceland was surrounded by thousands of people. Fans from every state in America and every country in the world.
They had traveled through the night to be there. Had driven, flown, hitchhiked, done whatever it took to reach Memphis before the funeral. Some of them had been camping outside the gates for two days, waiting for this moment to say goodbye to the man who had changed their lives with his music. The crowd was eerily quiet.
50,000 people, maybe more, and barely a sound, just the occasional sob, the shuffle of feet, the flutter of flowers being laid against the iron gates. It was nothing like the chaos of Elvis’s concerts. This was reverent, sacred, the silence of people who understood that something precious had been lost and would never return.
Dean’s car pulled up to the gates. The security guards looked at him with suspicion. He wasn’t on any list. Hadn’t been part of Elvis’s inner circle for 17 years. For all they knew, he was just another celebrity looking for a photo opportunity. I’m here for the funeral, Dean said. I was a friend of Elvis’s. A lot of people are saying that today, sir.
Do you have an invitation? I have something better. Dean pulled out Elvis’s letter, showed it to the guard without letting him touch it. Let him see his own name written in Elvis’s handwriting. The guard’s eyes widened. Wait here, sir. I need to make a call. 10 minutes later, the gates opened. Dean drove up the long driveway to the mansion where Elvis had lived and died.
Where the greatest entertainer of all time had spent his final years in isolation and despair. Where the walls the colonel had built had finally become a tomb. Priscilla met him at the door. She looked exhausted. The past two days had been a whirlwind of arrangements and decisions and the endless stream of people wanting a piece of Elvis even in death.
You came. She said I had to. I told you I would. I know. But talking about it and doing it are different things. It takes courage to face this. I’m done running from difficult things. It’s time to face all of it. Priscilla led him inside through the famous rooms that Dean had only seen in photographs, past the gold records and the awards and the memorabilia of a career that had burned so bright it had consumed the man at its center.
And finally into the living room where Elvis’s casket was displayed. The casket was open. Elvis looked peaceful. The bloating and the damage of his final years had been disguised by the mortician’s art. He almost looked like the young man who had walked into the Sands Hotel 17 years ago. Almost, but not quite.
Dean approached the casket slowly. Each step heavier than the last. each step, bringing him closer to the reality he had been avoiding since Frank’s phone call. Elvis was really dead, really gone, really never coming back. Dean stood at the edge of the casket and looked down at his friend, the friend he had loved, the friend he had lost, the friend he had spent 17 years missing without ever doing anything about it.
Hey, Elvis. Dean whispered. It’s me, Dean. I know it’s been a while. I know I should have come sooner. I know I should have fought harder, but I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth, the tears were coming again. Dean didn’t try to stop them. I got your letter. Priscilla gave it to me.
I read it about 50 times already. And I want you to know that I forgive you for believing the Colonel’s lies, for not fighting harder, for all of it. I forgive you completely, and I hope wherever you are, you can forgive me, too. Dean reached into his pocket, pulled out a photograph, the same photograph he had carried for 17 years, the only photograph of him and Elvis together, taken backstage at the Sands Hotel on the night of their legendary show.
Two men, two kings, two friends who had found each other against all odds. Dean tucked the photograph into the casket, slid it under Elvis’s folded hands. I want you to have this. I’ve been carrying it around for 17 years, looking at it whenever I missed you. But you should have it now. Proof that what we had was real.
Proof that the Colonel couldn’t destroy everything. Proof that somewhere in some other timeline, we stayed friends forever. He bent down and kissed Elvis’s forehead. A final goodbye. A final act of love. A final acknowledgement that some relationships transcend death and time and all the stupid mistakes we make along the way.
I love you, brother. Always did, always will. And I’ll see you again someday on the other side where there are no kernels, no lies, no walls between friends, just music and laughter and all the things we should have had in this life. Dean straightened up, wiped his eyes, turned to face the room full of mourers who had been watching him without saying a word.
My name is Dean Martin,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. And I was Elvis Presley’s best friend. The world didn’t know it. The colonel made sure of that, but it was true. And I’m here to tell you that the man in that casket was the most genuine, most loving, most talented person I ever knew.
and I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure people know the truth about who he really was. The room was silent. Then slowly someone started to applaud. Then another person, then another, until the whole room was applauding Dean’s confession, his courage, his love for a friend he had lost and finally reclaimed. Priscilla caught his eye across the room.
She was crying too, but she was smiling because Dean had done what she had hoped he would do. He had told the truth, and the truth, as painful as it was, was the only thing that could set any of them free. Chapter nine. The funeral made headlines around the world. Elvis Presley laid to rest. The end of an era, the death of the king.
Every newspaper on Earth carried the story on its front page. Every television station interrupted regular programming. Every radio station played nothing but Elvis’s music for days. It was the biggest celebrity death in American history. Maybe the biggest in world history. But there was another story that emerged from that day. A smaller story at first.
A whisper that started at the funeral and spread through the crowd like wildfire. Dean Martin’s confession. The truth about his friendship with Elvis. The Colonel’s betrayal. The 17 years of separation that should never have happened. At first, people didn’t believe it. Dean Martin and Elvis Presley, friends, the kuner and the rocker, the old guard and the new generation.
It seemed impossible. It contradicted everything the public thought they knew about both men. But the evidence was undeniable. Dean gave interviews to everyone who asked, told the story over and over again. Showed Elvis’s letter to journalists who couldn’t believe what they were seeing.
provided details that could be verified, dates, locations, witnesses who could confirm that the legendary show at the Sands had actually happened. The colonel denied everything, of course, called Dean a liar, threatened lawsuits, tried to use his remaining power to suppress the story, but it was too late. The truth was out and too many people had already seen the evidence.
The entertainment industry was rocked by the revelations. People who had worked with the colonel came forward with their own stories of manipulation and control. A picture emerged of a man who had systematically isolated Elvis from everyone who might have helped him, who had surrounded him with enablers instead of friends, who had prioritized profit over the health and well-being of the most valuable asset in show business.
By the time it was over, the colonel’s reputation was destroyed. The man who had claimed credit for making Elvis a star was now seen as the villain who had contributed to his death. He died in 1997 alone and unmorned. His legacy reduced to a cautionary tale about the dangers of unchecked power in the entertainment industry.
But Dean didn’t take any satisfaction in the colonel’s downfall. It didn’t bring Elvis back. didn’t undo the 17 years they had lost. Didn’t fill the hole in Dean’s heart that would never fully heal. What it did do was set the record straight. Now the world knew that Dean Martin and Elvis Presley had been friends, that their rivalry had been manufactured, that the separation between them had been engineered by a con man who cared about nothing except money.
Now people understood a part of Elvis’s story that had been hidden for decades. The friendship that had meant so much to him. The betrayal that had broken his heart. The isolation that had contributed to his decline. Dean had given Elvis one final gift. The truth. The only gift that still mattered. Chapter 10.
Dean Martin lived another 18 years after Elvis died. 18 years that felt like a lifetime and an instant at the same time. 18 years of carrying the weight of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t. He performed less and less as the years went by. The joy had gone out of it. The ease that had defined his career felt impossible now.
Every stage reminded him of the show he had done with Elvis. Every song reminded him of the music they had made together. Every audience reminded him of those 2,000 people at the Sands who had witnessed something magical and never knew they would never see it again. His television show ended in 1974. The movies became fewer and farther between.
The Vegas residencies that had once been the highlight of his year became obligations he fulfilled without enthusiasm. People noticed the change. The press wrote about it. What happened to Dean Martin? They asked. Where did the sparkle go? They blamed age, blamed changing tastes. Blamed the inevitable decline that comes to every entertainer eventually.
They didn’t know about Elvis. didn’t know about the guilt. Didn’t know that Dean was carrying a weight that no amount of applause could lift. He spent more and more time alone in his house in Beverly Hills, watching old movies, listening to old records, thinking about the people he had lost.
His parents, his friends, his son who died in a plane crash in 1987. Elvis, always Elvis. The letter stayed with him everywhere, worn and faded from being read so many times. The edges soft from being handled. The words memorized but still powerful every time he looked at them. I love you, Dean. I always did. Those words sustained him through the darkest nights.
When the loneliness felt unbearable. When the guilt threatened to overwhelm him. when he wondered if anything in his life had really mattered. Elvis had loved him. Despite everything, despite the years of silence, despite the Colonel’s lies, despite all the pain and misunderstanding that had kept them apart, Elvis had loved him until the very end. That was worth something.
That was worth everything. Dean found himself talking to Elvis sometimes late at night when the house was quiet and the memories were loud. He would sit in his chair with a glass of scotch and have conversations with a man who had been dead for years. I told the truth, Elvis, just like I said I would. The whole world knows now.
They know what we had. They know what the colonel did. They know that you weren’t alone. that someone out there loved you for who you really were. Sometimes he imagined Elvis responding, that famous voice, that Memphis draw, the humor and the warmth and the vulnerability that had made him so special. I know, Dean.
I heard you and I’m grateful, more grateful than you’ll ever know. I miss you, brother. Every day, every single day. I miss you, too. But we’ll see each other again someday on the other side where there’s nothing but music and friendship and all the time in the world. You promise? I promise. Dean would smile then. A real smile.
The kind that had become rare in his final years. Because even though Elvis was gone, he wasn’t really gone. He was still there in the music, in the memories, in the letter that Dean carried close to his heart, in the photograph that was buried with Elvis at Graceland. They were still connected, still friends, still bound together by something stronger than death.
Dean Martin died on Christmas Day 1995, 78 years old. Respiratory failure, alone in his bedroom, just like Elvis had been. They say he was holding something when they found him. A piece of paper, old and worn, folded so many times the creases had become permanent. Elvis’s letter.
The last words Elvis had ever written to him. I love you, Dean. I always did. and I’m sorry for everything. Your friend always, Elvis Dean, had carried that letter for 18 years, had read it thousands of times, had let it comfort him through the longest, loneliest nights of his life, and when it was finally time to go, he held on to it like a lifeline, like a promise, like proof that he was about to see his friend again.
The newspapers called it the end of an era, the death of the last great Kuner, the final curtain call for a man who had defined cool for an entire generation. But for the people who knew the real story, it was something else. It was a reunion. Dean and Elvis together again. Finally, after 18 years of separation, after all the pain and guilt and loneliness, after all the years of wondering what might have been, they were together now in whatever came next and nothing would ever separate them again.
Hit that subscribe button right now because this story proves something that everyone needs to understand. The friendships we make are the most precious things in our lives. More precious than fame, more precious than money, more precious than all the success in the world. Dean Martin had everything. He was one of the most famous entertainers who ever lived.
He had money, power, agilation. He had achieved more than most people dare to dream. But none of it mattered as much as his friendship with Elvis. None of it filled the hole that was left when that friendship was destroyed. He spent 17 years living with regret, wondering what might have been, wishing he had fought harder, wishing he had been braver, wishing he had picked up the phone one more time.
Don’t make the same mistake. Don’t let pride or fear or the chaos of life keep you from the people you love. Don’t wait until it’s too late to say the things that need to be said. Pick up the phone. Write the letter. Show up at their door. Fight through whatever walls have been built between you. Because once they’re gone, they’re gone forever.
And no amount of success or fame or money will ever fill the hole they leave behind. Dean Martin heard Elvis died. He cried for three hours. Then he confessed what he had done and he spent the rest of his life trying to make it right. But some things can never be made right. Some wounds never heal. Some regrets last forever.
The only thing we can do is learn from them and try not to make the same mistakes ourselves. Rest in peace. Dean Martin, 1917 to 1995. The man who loved Elvis Presley. The man who lost him. The man who told the truth. Rest in peace, Elvis Presley. 1935 to 1977. The man who loved Dean Martin. The man who forgave him.
The man whose letter kept his friend alive for 18 more years. Two legends, one friendship. Destroyed by a con man. Reclaimed in death. Together forever now. The way it always should have been. The way it would have been if not for the Colonel’s greed and their own pride. The way it will be for all eternity now that the barriers of flesh and time and misunderstanding have finally fallen away.
If there’s a heaven for entertainers, Dean and Elvis are there now, sitting together in some eternal green room, laughing about the old days, singing songs that no audience will ever hear. making up for all the years they lost. And if you listen closely late at night when the world is a quiet and the stars are bright, maybe you can hear them.
Two voices blending together in perfect harmony. The kuner and the rocker. The king of cool and the king of rock and roll. Friends again, brothers again. together again forever.
