!!0ZviLFh59My 02/05/12(Sun)01:19 No.17811868|
File1328422793.jpg-(43 KB, 423x477, deal with it nerd.jpg)
Tilting the chair as far back as it will go, and taking a firm grip on the brakes, you launch yourself down the stairs. It bounces and bucks like a fucking wild mustang, but you hang on as tight as possible, riding the jounces and jolts like a pro as you careen down the staircase at high speed. You're about halfway down when the folks below notice you and look up. The generals seem bemused, but Minna just stares at you in utter astonishment.
Jouncebouncing down the last few steps, you stick the landing, roll over to Minna, glare daggers and dirks at her, and thrust your finger up at her face.
"You. Are. Smalltime."
"Ah-" she says, taken aback for a second. She clears her throat. "And you, pilot, are not an ace, and thus don't meet the minimum standards for inclusion in-"
"Crew kills count for all," you interrupt her. "Gunners, radar operators, pilots all share credit for the kill."
You spin the chair around swiftly to one of the brass hats, who turns out to be Patton. "Isn't that right, sir?"
Patton, who doesn't know jack-fucking-shit about Air Force scoring rules, nods. "Damn straight."
You spin the chair back. "Oh, and even if you leaned on Perrine to disremember to confirm my rocket-bomb kill from yesterday, Ian and I make two witnesses, and Fighter Command had nobody else who could've claimed that wreckage, so nyah nyah, sweetheart."