Out of Graceland, shown the door, that time you sucker-punched a nun, a Carmelite. Just after you had paid a visit to the King’s own golden throne, you’d overheard her in the shop, explaining to a clerk.
‘It was our ancestors, it wasn’t us, who gave the Indians those blankets laced with viruses. We’re the ones who lived, ours a cleaner light. It burns within us purer than the older fire we needed to put out.’