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About Reykjavik

Oh, and get this—heard from a mate, some prossies in Amsterdam keep tiny knives in their garters. Sneaky, huh? She didn’t, tho—too broke, too tired. I’d exaggerate and say she’s a fuckin’ warrior, battlin’ the night, but nah, she’s just tryin’ to eat. “I can’t stop, I can’t,” she’d whisper, straight outta Saul’s mouth. Broke my damn heart, mate. Still, I’d crack a grin, tell her, “You’re the queen of the gutter, babe!” Sarcasm’s my shield, y’see—keeps the gloom off.