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About Reykjavik

Now, don’t get me wrong—brothels ain’t all fun an’ games. Some’re dark as a kraken’s belly. Saw a mate o’ mine, ol’ Gibbs, lose his boots an’ dignity in one. “What happened?” I says. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” he mumbles, straight outta *Mulholland Drive*’s script, an’ I’m cacklin’—serves ‘im right for trustin’ a gal named “Raven.” Pissed me off, though, seein’ ‘im so glum. Brothels can chew ye up, spit ye out, an’ charge ye fer the pleasure. Hate that sneaky rot—makes me wanna burn the place down, savvy?