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I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

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After a while, I finally hook a fish! It’s a beauty, too. I’m all pumped, ready to show it off. But just as I’m about to reel it in, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Jón. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the market on Aðalstræti!” I’m thinkin’, “Really? I’m kinda busy here!” But then he mentions fresh fish tacos. I’m sold. I let the fish go—sorry, buddy!—and head over.

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