Bryan hissed and shook his now-burning right

Bryan hissed and shook his now-burning right hand before sticking his fingers in his mouth. He glared for a moment at the offending door handle, trying to assess the best method

to take it off its hinges & destroy it with maximum possible pain for the door. It should be made to suffer like hiis finger had suffered. Stupid door! He looked for implements of

mass destruction & settled for a flame thrower. He aimed it at the lousy door & fired away: "Here's for making a booboo on my finger!" The door was soon toast, but his house was on

quicksand and marshmallow cream (the standard foundation for low-income housing in those days), so it wasn't a surprise when a house or two would just slip into the sea one afterno

on. However one day in May 15 low income houses were swallowed by their foundations in the span of 12 hours, prompting the authorities to at least pretend and investigate the issue

ng a net GDP of 666 dollops per capita per capita per capita the straining engine spit out but it kept running. That last dogfight had almost bought him the farm. It still might.

So he screwed down his helmet and tied his white satin scarf so tight his eyes popped out from their sockets on stalks, and boldly flew back on a kamikaze mission from Heck. in his

breast pocket was his prized possession: the phone number of the whore he last visited while on liberty. “This one’s for you, slut!” he said, diving his plane to engage the enemy.

The enemy was on him quick. He got shot up pretty badly but managed to keep her flying. He shot down three bogeys. But he'd lost most of a wing. A new set of bogeys appeared.