The black-and-white TV cast a pale glow over the plush living room of Graceland, a faint flicker against the shag carpet and velvet drapes. Elvis sat slouched on the long couch, sockless feet propped on the coffee table, a bowl of popcorn untouched at his side, and his eyes absolutely glued to the screen.

It was late—past midnight kind of late—but he couldn’t stop watching her.

The show was a hit from nowhere. A financial program, of all things. But this woman—this mysterious firecracker of a host—she didn’t do it like anyone else. She ran the segment like a cross between a courtroom and a boxing match, only with receipts and broken budgets. She didn’t hold back. She was sharp. Loud. Mean, sometimes. But smart as hell. God, was she smart.

Tonight’s guest was a guy probably in his twenties, maybe a truck driver or something, and he was talking big about how “convenience” was worth the cost. Said buying coffee every morning saved him time, made his mornings better.

And that’s when she snapped her notebook shut with a crack so sharp, Elvis actually jumped a little. His eyes widened.

She leaned forward in that tiny studio chair, pearls glinting under the hot lights, voice laced with that razor-sharp wit and steel-willed common sense.

“You wanna talk about convenience?” she barked, jabbing a red-tipped nail at the camera like she could see through it. “It’s convenient to throw your money in a hole and light it on fire too, doesn’t mean it’s smart. You think walking down the street for a five-dollar cup of caffeine you can make at home for thirty cents makes you a genius? Buddy, you’re not paying for convenience, you’re paying for the pleasure of being lazy.”

And she laughed. A wild, barked laugh, like she couldn’t believe the stupidity she was hearing.

Elvis let out a wheezing chuckle through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered to himself, eyes practically gleaming. “She ain’t pullin’ no punches.”

The guest tried to defend himself—started rambling about lifestyle, about how his friends do it, about how it’s normal—and she just gave him this look. That look women give when they know they’re about to gut a man with words alone.

“Do your friends pay your rent? They put gas in your truck? They gonna retire for you, sweetheart?” she snapped. “No? Then why in God’s good name are you following broke people off a cliff like that’s the smart move? You’re broke, not cursed. Use a kettle.”

Elvis barked a laugh, slapping his knee, absolutely tickled.

“Damn, she’s killin’ him,” he grinned, leaning forward, elbows on his knees now. “She’s gonna tear that boy in half by the time this segment’s done.”

He couldn’t get over her. Every week, he swore he wasn’t gonna watch again—too intense, too much yelling for his nerves. But then the next Friday rolled around, and there he was again. Transfixed. Entranced. This woman, wherever she was broadcasting from, had nerve. She was a lion in heels. Didn’t matter that she cussed like a sailor and treated some of those guests like toddlers in trouble—she was right. Every time. No fluff, no fake smiles. Just truth, brutal and blistering.

And Elvis? He ate it up like Sunday supper.

He leaned back again, a slow grin curling on his lips as she launched into another dressing-down.

“She’d run the Colonel straight into the ground if she got him on that show,” he murmured, shaking his head fondly. “Hell… might even let her.”