In no time the Fosshotel apartment looked like an asylum for psychotic slobs. At the start the cleaning women had still been able to plow a path with their large black vacuum cleaners through our things, but soon they couldn't even get the tools of their trade through the door. For a few days these friendly Icelandic ladies battled to save apartment number 23. But after five days at the most they surrendered the terrain as lost. We agreed to an armistice and began swapping shopping bags full of trash for fresh towels and toilet paper.Nice rendition of hacker cliches, sans Red Bull, black tshirts and sun-phobic kiddies.
None of us cooked or even bought anything sensible to eat. Half-empty bags of potato chips began to collect amid our dirty laundry. A pile of stinky dried fish that someone had bought but no one thought was edible lay rotting away on some surface. Things were getting worse by the hour. We should have patented the smell of old socks, pizza crusts, dried fish and sulfur as a means of torture.
16 February 2011
From Daniel Domscheit-Berg's Inside WikiLeaks: My Time with Julian Assange at the World’s Most Dangerous Website (Scribe, 2011) 144 -