Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: DiabloTX on August 01, 2003, 07:11:20 PM
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He seemed to hesitate at first, not sure of his skills. The ground crew removed the chocks surrounding his landing gear and quickly walked out of the way. With a signal and a loud whine the engine of the great beast puffed, banged, and came to life the large propeller waking with a slow turn. "The MA is slow tonight." he thought to himself. After allowing the engine to warmup for a few seconds Plt. Off. Ian Newbbe eased the throttle forward and climbed is mighty Spit V into the heavens.
"My machine is an extension of my conscience self." he thought, "I am one with the Spit. We are one." Climbing through dense cloud layers he immediately came out and saw...
(ok, the next reply has to come up with something to move the story on)
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A big mountain. Boom.
The end.
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Suddenly our pile-it finds himself standing at the foot of some pearly gates.
Nice try Urchin :)
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Coming face to face with Shane is, at first, a shock but it is nothing like the tirade he gets from St. Joystick.
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but after reaching the Gates the pilot meets St. Hitech with a gaping grin.
"I'm sorry son now is not your time, relive your life the right way" says St. Hitech
and poof Ian Newbee has respawned on the runway in a Jug. Rolling down the runway he spots a 190 approaching headon. Lifting up and icharging his guns Newbee grasps for another chance at glory and.....
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Originally posted by GScholz
... Übersturmobergefreiterhaupmannoberstführer Karl von Pingenheim
LMFAO!!!! :D :D :D
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... when suddenly a lone typhoon swoops onto his 12 o'clock and proceeds to shoot his teutonic bellybutton into small pieces. The cockpit disintegrates around him, and within seconds he is falling towards a very unforgiving Earth. The parachute ripcord is in his hand and he gives it a good yank and suddenly all is calm. He reflects on what just happened...
"Damn those backwards firing typhoons!!!!"
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the calmness is short lived however, the p-47 notices Übersturmobergefreiterhaupmannoberstführer Karl von Pingenheim in his chute and turns for him, as he brings his guns to bear he slams into the ground.
SYSTEM: You have killed 92848473727171834
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But not to worry listeners, for one of the valiant FDB's is swooping down out of the sky, heat from friction building up on the leading edge of this foul looking pilot's wings. BaBOOOM! Übersturmobergefreiterhaupmannoberstführer Karl von Pingenheim had TNT in his pockets. What an amazing turn of events! Wait a sec...BaBOOOOOOM part II...that Fat Drunk Bastard seems to have mated with Mother Earth, horny bugger...
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...and across the pizza map the ground doth shudder, an upheaval of biblical proportions. And upon that sacred ground the seed of an FDB spoilt the holy soil bringing forth evil and salamanderly plants and mutated beasts. The air stank of feces unleashed and permeated the nostril like some foul growth. On the bish's ran. On the knights fled. The rooks hath propagated their own diaspira. The MA would never be the same. Pt. Off. Ian Newbbe quickly gathered his wits, gazed over his right shoulder and lo, glowing with the light of Lord Dweeb, an LA-7 sat, ready to be mounted. Strapping himself in, Newbbe juiced the throttle and the LA-7 slipped the surly bonds of Earth. But it was not to be his day, again. For the Lord hath played an evil hand of cards on our hero for out of the air sprang forth...
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Meanwhile in a shaded restaurant on the south bank, frequented by American expatriates before the war, agent Simms awaited his contact from the underground.
His eyes scanning the entrance from behind dark glasses, suddenly stopped. In she walked, a tall, long haired brunette, wearing a sundress that seemed light for the temperature that October afternoon, revealing her svelte, athletic figure in silhouette.
She walked over to him, boldly sat down, her skirt slightly rising up her supple thigh. Her hand, concealed by the checkered tablecloth, slowly traveled up his leg as she cooed, 'Buy the girl a drink?'
Simms swallowed hard, inhaled deeply, and strained hard to keep his professionalism. Simms, for the first time since the war began, felt a raging....
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and a perfectly normal 20 year old american sits down at his computer, reads the above posts, and slaps himself across the face at some of the things some say. Grabs his flight bag and headset...and goes to the airport where there are no simulated LA7's to give chase to his trusty P-51 Mustang aka Cessna 172.
GScholz...Great name for you pilot im still laughing!