Originally posted by SkyRock
I usually chop throttle, hard rudder, intentional stall-right, let sights fall on target, and Blammmo!
Muppets OWN!
Then a certain guy in a p51D who happened to be in the area ambushes your beatifully slow F4U-a as it hoses down the hapless noob. You crash moments after the burning stick stirrer splashes into the ocean. The two of you share a raft in the shark infested waters. You proceed to tell the noob how stick stirring is for dweebs and how you own the guy in the 51.
Then you tell them the noob all about yourself, the Great Skyrock.
The two of you drift for hours in the hot sun, but time passes quickly, at least for Skyrock, for you regale the noob with tales of your uberness, speckled with occasional rants about how the 51 pilot is the Lord of all that is Dweeby; the very worst of all dweebs. You endlessly speak on about great kills you've had and how the way you fly is the only non-dweeb way to fight. You remember all your great kills, and you are sure to tell the noob about every one. If anyone can cure this noob of dweebery, it is the Great Skyrock.
Some hours later, after you have hardly paused to take a breath in your efforts to de-dweeb the noob and to bring him onto the enlightened path of Skyrockery, the noob screams the scream of the tormented and begins pulling his own hair out of his head. The noob stands up and screams maniacally: " Do you ever shut up?!" You begin to explain that you are the Great Skyrock, and you own everyone. The noob whimpers, sobs quietly, then hurls himself overboard, into the waiting maws of very hungry sharks.
You float alone now, and drift off to sleep as the sun sets.
You awake to the sounds of lapping waves, the distant drone of fighter engines and gunfire, and the unexpected and musical laughter of young women.
As you open your eyes you are looking straight up. Lo and behold, you see the same P51 that shot you down the day before. The pony is in a vertical spiral above you with an La7 right on it's 6! You cheer for the unknown La7 pilot as you see the sparkle of its' guns in the cowl.
The pony rolls over in a stall and you are horrifed to see the La7's nose fall, then wallow helplessly as it struggles to nose down.
The laughter again. You look around for the source. You realize only then that you have washed up on a flawless, white sand, tropical beach. Beyond the beach rises a a beautiful resort complex with a huge banner hanging from the eaves which reads: "The Nubile Resort Welcomes the students of St. Anastacia's All Girl Modeling College.. spring break '07!"
You locate the source of the laughter. It's the girls of Saint Anastacia All Girl Modeling College. You are left breathless as you take in the site of the girls at breakfast on the outdoor veranda. Even the resort staff is all female. They are giggling amongst themselves as the gesture at you. Obviously you, the great and handsome Skyrock, are the source of their excitement. It dawns on you then that you are the sole male on this secluded island! Yes!!!! Skyrock owns!
You snicker in the back of your mind about the 51 pilot up in the virtual skies, risking his life as you, the Great Skyrock, see the girls of St. Anastacia's All Girls Modeling College beckon for you to join them.
That same snickering part of your mind notes the change in the fighter's engine sounds above; you push that out of your head as you stride up the beach towards the waiting beauties. You hear but ignore the all too familiar sound of 6 .50 caliber machinge guns hammering the life out of another airplane. The shredding of Russian metal is not your problem, you reason. You are the great Skyrock! You own the girls of St. Anatasia's All Girl Modeling College!
The engines are roaring close now above you. You notice with some annoyance that you can no longer hear the girls but that's OK. You can tell the girls are getting more anxious to meet you as they are now beckoning furiously toward you. you smile and wave at the girls but then a shadow blots out the sun above you. Before you can look up the flaming hulk of an La7 slams you flat into the sand. As you lay crushed on the beach you see, out of your dying eyes, the pony taxiing up next to you and shutting down; the girls of St. Anastacia's All Girl College gathered around it.
The last conscious thought you have is the vision of the 51 pilot, that familiar cheesey grin on his face, as he is embraced by all the girls.
End
