I was flying my trusty Sopwith Camel across the English channel, as I am wont to do from time to time, in this jaded, post 1914 world, when I got bounced by a red Fokker triplane. I executed a quick Immelman Maneuver, but when I looked back, he was still on my tail.
Firery tracers flicked past the cloth covered wings of my trusty biplane, like so many angry lightning bugs from hell. I shoved the stick in the opposite direction, and mowed through a sea gull. This provided a brief smoke screen to hide my next manuever, which caused the guy wires in my wings to creak, the wood groaned under the stress. These sounds were loud over the roar of my engine. They had to be, if any part of the rigging failed, I could die, or pay hefty repair costs to that jerk repair guy back at the aerodrome.
I clamped the cigar in my teeth, and held on as I dove upside down yet again. The wind rushed past, the engine screaming, and the scent of oil strong. I must be leaking somewhere again.
The red Fokker was on my tail, still I could not shake him! I had lost so much altitude that salty brine was spraying off the whitecaps from the sea below onto my oily googles. I anxiously smeared my flying glove across the lenses, but that made it worse. The world was now streaky, blurry, and whirling around me, out of control. I was losing it, I couldn't dive any lower. I can't shake him! I can't shake him!
My engine sputtered, greasy feathers flew out. Stupid gull really mucked up the works. Repairs are really gonna add up when I get back! I took a quick glance behind me, and he was gone.
Damn you, Red Baron! Damn you and your delicious pizza!
No comments:
Post a Comment