Nixon was born in an iron home, with thirty locked doors and no windows, north of the Merchant’s road. He was nourished on coriander and buckshot. His mother fed beggars bread crumbs from her toes while his father built cabins out of tin cans and mud. Nixon wanted to plug the dent in Lincoln’s head and swaddle him in a trenchcoat. Instead, Nixon wrestled with Kennedy’s ghost in the middle of the Golden Missile Factory as three naked monks cheered “we burn alone.” He sought Elvis for counsel. Elvis said “Angels sleep in the throats of revolvers.” Ask and you shall beseech. Nixon thought every camera was loaded with a bullet twice the size of his own. His wife shoved a derringer pistol down his pants every morning and said “don’t you dare touch it with your little hands.”