A bullet lodged in the flyboy’s brain

while his grey matter was shooting out of him, like a bathtub

with the septic tank overflowing.

The Red Baron was cunning. He didn’t open-up his machine guns.

He took careful aim in the sky. “I bet he wanted to be a doctor,” the Red Baron said to himself in German. He enjoyed speaking the language of the Superman.

The boy’s flesh was falling on the field below like leaves, but it wasn’t beautiful.

There were wheat fields under them, with the wind moving through the harvest like a mysterious language, choosing souls, by the breath of God.

Then a Fokker went down in flames, erupting, like a volcano, bringing one solitary sinner straight to hell, screaming. He was trapped, like a fly in a jar, and nobody could hear him begging God for his life, while his skin melted off his face, and his lungs burned up like tissue paper.

The Red Baron laughed. He did a loop-d-loop, just to stretch-out his wooden wings for the next kill.

Lieutenant Johnson stared at the scene in the sky through his aviator goggles.

“Get me up there,” he said.

A dumb-looking auto-mechanic with long hair and scrubby clothes walked over to his propeller blade and pulled on it. It moved and shuddered, like an alcoholic woken up after a 3-day drunk. Pete pulled on it again. The engine groaned. Then it sputtered. Then it threw-up.

“See, I got it going!” Pete said. His hands flew up into the victory pose and got chopped off.

There was no time to help him collect himself. Johnson pushed the throttle forward and cruised down the runway, gaining speed, with one thought in his head, to kill the Red Baron.

Manfred Von Richthofen was an ace, meaning, he had killed too many pilots to count, but that didn’t stop him from scratching their dead bodies on his red bird like Indian Scalps. He lived to kill. Any man with a bayonet can do it on the ground, but it takes skill to shoot somebody out of the sky.

Johnson’s plane lifted-off into the red sun, like a needle, preparing to draw blood.

A Fokker was puking oil and spewing smoke up ahead, like a nicotine addict. Johnson flew next to him.

The pilot was already out of his cockpit, choking on the smoke. He ran across his wooden wing and jumped. He landed on Johnson’s aircraft and tied himself to the top.

There was no time to drop the pilot off. Johnson had to go after the Red Baron.

Richthofen shot some mother’s son in the back, and laughed. He loved the Fatherland and hated his mother.

Down below, Dora was airing out her bed sheets. When the pilots finished killing each other, the survivors went to the whore house or to the church.

Those with faith enjoyed the uncomfortable pews, while they prayed that God would help them kill their fellow man.

Those who had given up on an unresponsive God, enjoyed the responsive female, and the booze helped to numb their pain from seeing their buddy’s brains falling through the sky like bird droppings.

Lieutenant Johnson closed on the Red Barron, but Richthofen banked. He was trying to get behind him.

Johnson took his Fokker down between two farm houses, and the Baron followed.

Lieutenant Johnson flew through a red barn. Then he went vertical. Machine gun fire tore through his wooden wings and the pilot he had saved. Blood was dripping into his hair and face.

Johnson looked like a savage. He was crazy to kill the man who was going to kill him. He pushed the stick forward, and plummeted to the earth. The Red Baron followed with machine gun fire. There was a train tunnel up ahead.

Lieutenant Johnson flew inside and landed softly. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. When he walked through it, he was in heaven. There was no war. There was no church. Only the whore house.

The End

3 thoughts on “Dog Fight with the Red Barron

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