 | --Excerpt from Issue 1035 It's the wee hours of a Monday night in London, and inside Stringfellows strip club, about a dozen scantily clad women form a rough semicircle around Kanye West and his small entourage. The girls let him know that for just one twenty-pound note (about forty dollars), they will drop their knickers and gyrate in his face for the length of one song, and while I contemplate how low the U.S. dollar has plummeted, West scans the room and kicks back on a couch, armed with a stack of bills. Over... |
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