I grew up in a black place of crude oil, one of the very few enclaves inside the inner pits of Brooklyn, NY where men still drilled for oil. Sometimes when the drills would break, they’d send small boys into the pits to dig with their hands, scratch and claw for that black gold. As a boy, I always walked upon the black earth of the Brooklyn oil fields, with petrol on my face and gold in my pockets.
Not much has changed from then until now. I speak to you today a proud and boisterous individual, long the black gold and the gold gold. I would provide you, the reader class, with my picks; but quite frankly, you wouldn’t know what to do with them if I did.
See, picks are exclusive for Exodus — the sort of thing that is shared between men of property and leisure. Sure, you have a few bucks in the market and you’ve had some ancillary success. But who hasn’t? We’re in a never-ending climb to death here, bunch of Eddie Barzoons running around shooting rockets at people from ships, borrowing money until our eyes bleed — fucking the poor every which way but loose.
As founder of this fine establishment, I do not require your money, only your understanding — to know that Le Fly is, and always has been, an oil man — ever since birth.
Where is oil heading next?
War, gentlemen. War.