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In this week's Formula Oats, mercenary knights recount their journeys and explain how a handful of coins allowed them to attain a status as noble as royalty.
Banco Felipe has invested a lot of money in Sans-Bière, but he is one of the few mercenary drivers who deserves his place thanks to his undeniable talent. Marcus Personne was also hired by Sans-Bière because of his fortune, but he brings no merit. Roberto Scorie is eager to make his debut at Malaria, even though he is 120 seconds behind the leaders. Abbot Booth-en-train, rector of Malaria, is also fighting to keep his team afloat, even though it is twenty thousand leagues under the sea. Tata Monica is the only female rector in Formula Oats. She is overwhelmed by Sans-Bière's finances and is now focusing on recruiting drivers who lack talent but bring in money.
Banco Felipe—my beautiful bank, oh my steering wheel—have we spent enough among the wealthy Swiss? Have we financed enough for a bucket madly in love? Pastor Le Fol sang his knowledge last year without knowing that Luthus, in disguise, would die tonight; tomorrow would echo his grievances.
Roberto Scorie remembers a night of drinking in London, when a beggar resembling Father Booth approached him, arousing pity that made him believe a charming story.
Banco Felipe—my beautiful bank, oh my steering wheel—have we spent enough among the rich Swiss? Have we financed enough for a wildly… Roberto Scorie followed a sad tramp who whistled while crying; the scene resembled a detective novel, two bloody vagabonds, he as Saint Francis, I as Caesar.
Tata Monica describes her bourgeois money, her Dior underwear on her bare ass, fast as a squash ball, rich and opulent, stealing her heart. Marcus Ericsson. I was leaving Ikea when I met a miserable woman begging on her knees under the gaze of her accountant, signing her gibberish.
Banco Felipe—my beautiful bank, oh my steering wheel—have we spent enough among the wealthy Swiss? Have we financed enough for a wildly expensive bucket… Oh my sponsor, you who are luminous, green trees of the Amazon and white bodies of the Guarani, dead hunters, farewell. Look where our ancestors are going; the season is coming, Marcus, go for a walk in Malaysia. Should I have known that this season smelled of trouble? Let's go back to the Angelus. Money (in Despote) – the dark years are back, embracing gloomy times, darkness, locked in constraints, green bills hidden in the shadows. The Count of Moncet – I who know the fate of the Helots, the lamentations of our years, the hymns of slaves to coyotes, the breakups of the unloved, and the songs for the Despot. The Oats are dying; I tremble, I adore these beautiful idols, the memories that resemble them, the parades and the buried farandoles. I am faithful and imploring. Banco Felipe—my beautiful bank, oh my wheel—have we spent enough among the abundant Swiss? Have we financed enough for a madly loving bathtub?
