And then, of course, no Halloween would be complete without the story of the Great Brewster...
The Legend of the Great Brewster
Hie thee close, little ones, and pulleth thee thy very goggles down o'er thy eyes, for a frightening tale it ist...
Yea, long ago it was, when the arena wert yet formless and void. And mere double digits didst compriseth yon Holy Version Number. And many were the Dweebish who floundereth and nose bounceth about the not-yet-haunteth-by-Dora skies. And yea, even NIGHT didst falleth...from time to time, and wispy wraiths didst flit about, and knoweth thee thy foe only by ephemeral icon couldst thou, and from nowhere couldst thy very entrails be ripped asunder, and littereth the not-yet-Rolling-Terrain (tm) with thine aircraft bits wouldst thou.
And it wast on such a night that IT didst appear. No ordinary Warbird it wert, for nowhere on thy Holy List Of Selectable Rides didst it appear. Nay, even those who hadst deciphereth the Holy Dot Codes of Antioch couldst not make it appeareth, for ".fly 56" bringeth only foul error messages, but not the vile Plane of the Dark One.
And it wast blue...and ugly. And yea, tho it looketh like yon ale barrel with wings, and remindeth all of it's historical namesake, yet flyeth it like yon demons of Billgatezebub. For tho mere peashooters SHOULDST it have, HUGE fangs of 30mm DIDST it have. And streaketh it through yon darkened WB skies it didst, with the speed of yon Wurgers of the Apocalypse, and flip-turneth it couldst, and when yon Magical Flaps did it extendeth, turneth inside all manner of Spitdweeb it couldst, and rend asunder many dweebs it didst, and many were the Dweebish screams that splitteth the night.
And only when the vile Kill Messages didst scroll across Dweebish text buffers, did the nature of The Beast becometh evident to all. Yea, when the first "Kill of -wulf- awarded to Hitech" scrolleth across yon screen, knoweth didst the dweebs what had arriveth. For it was the vile Brewster of Gyre Banor, and all who see-eth it didst perish in fiery conflagration.
And yet, after one foul night of "online testing," didst the Brewster Beast vanish, like the Komet to follow it years later, never to return...or so THINKETH the Dweebs.
For but a year later, to the day, didst ANOTHER shadowy beast appear. And the countenance of a Zeke didst it possesseth, but the speed of the winged horse PegaMustang didst it wield, and the sword of Rheinmetall didst it wield, and catcheth it all before it, and sweepeth them into fiery destruction it didst. And yea, tho the dweebs hopeth that it would disappeareth like the vile Brewster before it, yet did it persist. And gathereth in legion didst the Dweebish masses. And petitioneth to the Godz they didst, and die-eth in drove didst they, until finally, the Demon-Zeke wert made mortal again. And, with yon dweebish sigh of relief, wast all back to normal. Or so the Dweebs thinketh...
For on another night, but a year hence, didst the Beast appeareth again. And tho cloaketh in the silvery tones of the Godsteed Lightning it wert, behaveth as the whirling dervish it didst. And stoppeth on a dime it didst. And switcheth from up-goingeth to down-comingeth it didst, in but the blinketh of lo thy very eyes, and poundeth thee upon they face and cylinder heads with its mighty Hammer of Hispano it wouldst. And yea, again didst the Dweebs formeth a mighty Crusade, and in supplication and dweebishness didst they "reasoneth" with the Godz. And tho LONG was the struggle, at last was the vile Magical Beast vanquisheth, and lo wast it afflicted with the dreaded "flap drag" and again wast the Lightning but another Warbird.
And so it was, that upon the Hallow's Eve, in the wee hours, when neither Euro nor Ami didst yet stir, and only whacky Aussies didst frolic in the Holy Arena, if thou watcheth carefully, wouldst thou see the Great Brewster flitting about, near pumpkin patches and vulchfests, and picketh he out one Warbird, and PORKETH it royally he wouldst. And thus, each year haveth we a Magical Beast with which to contendeth.
And if thou believest not, look thou only to yon magical Spitfire, steed of no drag and Genie missiles. And keepeth thou watch upon Hallow's Eve, and perchance THY favorite steed wilt receiveth The Gift of the Great Brewster. And shall it be good? None can yet tell.
Sleepeth thou well, friend Linus.
--jedi
