First we pummel some statues of saintly mercenaries. Then we meet your security system and dislocate its shoulder. We’re driving a big, bad, heavy, hollow horse whose coat is painted mustard-yellow. Creeping up on the scene and commanding attention. It’s built like a tank, with a blade in front and thick spikes on the tread. I ram it into the private central bank and cruise away with money and women: Some begged to ride along, others simply stowed away. We’re now in front of the holy mount with our motor revving, smashing it flat. A live drummer occupies the excavator that is attached as a sidecar.
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