There could've been many reasons why I, Thinker St. James, had ended up in the capital of Iceland one brisk winter's eve in 1998. Perhaps it was the way the snow gently covered the trees, or how the streets twinkled with a beautiful sheen of ice. Maybe it was the twelve kilos of cocaine I was smuggling. Thinking on it now, I'm fairly certain it was the cocaine.
Attributes | Values |
---|
rdfs:label
| - UnBooks:The Night I Slept with Björk
|
rdfs:comment
| - There could've been many reasons why I, Thinker St. James, had ended up in the capital of Iceland one brisk winter's eve in 1998. Perhaps it was the way the snow gently covered the trees, or how the streets twinkled with a beautiful sheen of ice. Maybe it was the twelve kilos of cocaine I was smuggling. Thinking on it now, I'm fairly certain it was the cocaine.
|
dcterms:subject
| |
dbkwik:uncyclopedi...iPageUsesTemplate
| |
Revision
| |
Date
| |
abstract
| - There could've been many reasons why I, Thinker St. James, had ended up in the capital of Iceland one brisk winter's eve in 1998. Perhaps it was the way the snow gently covered the trees, or how the streets twinkled with a beautiful sheen of ice. Maybe it was the twelve kilos of cocaine I was smuggling. Thinking on it now, I'm fairly certain it was the cocaine. Regardless of the why, all I could think about was my reality: there I was, trotting about the streets of Reykjavík, so insanely cold that my testicles had long since ascended into the fleeting warmth of my body. But what could I do? I was in the middle of a strange city filled with strange people, carrying a dufflebag filled with 25 pounds of pure Bogotá bullion. Nearly three newborn babies-worth of nose candy. I decided to play it safe; I found the nearest go-go bar with a mission to get hammered. As I entered the Fá Drukkinn Hér Drinkery, I noticed a pale lady at the end of the bar who appeared to be making drunken birdcalls. Forgetting about the drugs altogether, I made a beeline for (what I thought was) the most inebriated woman in the room.
|