Folks,

Dux:

As always your screen shots are lovely to look upon. They always inspire me to weave a little mind story around them. In mine today I was the great ace Heinie Von Krashanburndem. Unbeknownst to me and the hungover pilots of my squadron flying brilliantly painted Albatrosses; we were several thousand feet right above you.

Holding the stick between my knees I finished my light breakfast of bratwurst and black bread. Then I folded the greasy butcher paper that it had been wrapped in neatly and I dropped it to the floor of the cockpit. Finally I drained my rather ordinary but icy cold bottle of Spillit&Blott gewurztraminer. After the last drop had fallen upon my outstretched tongue I threw the empty bottle out of the cockpit at an angle calculated to just miss my lower starboard wing. Lowering a wing and looking down I noticed my wingman Otto Coffinfilla was giving me a very dirty look as my empty bottle had sailed right past his plane, just missing his prop.

Far below and completely unaware of our existence you and your flight were plodding along on escort duty. Suddenly and without warning an unidentified projectile hit your port wing Dux. It passed right through the wing and took out a strut before crashing through the lower wing.

On your way down to what surly must be a very bumpy landing in no man's land; you had the unenviable opportunity to look up through the large, jagged hole in your Camel's wing to see us waving bye bye as we rushed down to greet your friends.