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Oh honey, lemme tell ya—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—being a Cargo Transportation Manager’s wild, but findin a prostitute? That’s a whole diff game! I’m sittin here, thinkin bout Dogville, that twisted flick I adore—ya know, “The beautiful fugitive… hiding!”—and it hits me. Findin a prossie’s like that, sneaky, gritty, real underworld vibes. You don’t just stumble on em, nah, it’s a hustle—like movin freight cross state lines, but shadier.

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I head out to the sheep pen on Hrafnseyri. Man, those little fluffballs are a handful. One of ‘em, I swear, thinks it’s a dog. Keeps tryin’ to follow me around. I name him Fluffy McFluffface. Classic, right?

Figure 2. South-east flank of the Eyrarfjall mountain above the town of...