My fighter was kicking ass.
I was flying a P-40 Kittyhawk plane with six 0.5 cal machine guns letting loose. I zoomed though the overcast sky dispersing all the ammo I could muster, the battleground of a city thousands of feet below.
My fingers danced along the throttle of my plane, temporarily ceasing fire until I saw another German fighter entering my field of view.
Despite my confidence in my flying abilities, a shred of doubt momentarily creased along my brow. I always felt a gnawing pit in my stomach when I knew the Nazis were going send their secret weapon after me.
I had defeated their best in the past, multiple times actually, thus I found it odd that my reassurance wavered in this instance.
Trying to block out any negative thoughts, I deeply concentrated on my foes – arrogant Nazi punks who wanted to make a name or themselves by blasting my aircraft to bits.
I had already downed the majority of the amateurs and then as anticipated, they sent the Baron after me.
My palms got sweaty as I focused my gunsights on all-red Fokker Dr.1 plane he was infamous for.
He was sleek and alert, expertly dodging my flurry of lethal shots. He naturally retaliated with a set of own as graceful as a ballerina as his engine roared through the sky.
His bullets soon struck my right wing and I felt my stomach do a flip. My altitude dropped furiously and in no time I spiraled downwards to my death in a dazzling explosion.
Swearing revenge, I smashed the Wii-mote on the ground, causing the batteries to roll uselessly on the carpet and went to go make myself a Smoothie.