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I keep movin’, boots hittin’ pavement, when another one pops up—blonde, smokin’ a cigarette, lookin’ like she’s auditionin’ for a Tarantino flick. “You look lonely, sugar,” she says. Lonely? I’m happier than a pig in mud alone, ya harpy. “I’m gonna scalp ya if ya don’t scram,” I mutter, channelin’ Aldo. She blinks, confused. Good. Hate when they don’t get it. Did ya know, in old France, they branded prostitutes with a fleur-de-lis? Marked ‘em like cattle. Brutal, but kinda badass.

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In the midst of this tumultuous environment, the secretary, now residing in her hometown, confronted an aggressive crowd. Find a prostitute Reykjanesbaer Ada.

After the food, we stroll around the Reykjanesbær harbor. It’s so peaceful, and I’m just soaking it all in. But then, I trip over a rock. Classic me, right? I’m laughing at myself, and Jón’s like, “You good?” I’m like, “Yeah, just testing the ground!”

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