dirt

captain magnus eriksson.king of the skies.
Thats what they would have called him.
If only they knew.
World war two had been fun.
Hed flown in europe for all three powers,the yanks,the british,and the krauts,blown through the ranks of each at different times,under different aliases.
He had no problems with language.
He was born a total orphan,with a silver spoon in his mouth.
Imperial,extensive schooling had made him a man,an inherited collection of airplanes and a flying manual had made him a man of the sky.
He felt no love for any being.
He lived for the thrill of flight.
Killing was an acquired taste for him.
But it never left him either.
There was no safe way to fly in a civilian airplane those days,and he gave up plainclothes for his one true love,albeit after nearly being shot down once before.
He was a natural pilot.,out of years of exercise,but he had been combat-trained by the best of the RAF,the luftwaffe,and the USAF.
He had flown all their best birds,and had stolen his favourite three-the messerschmidt,the hellcat,and the spitfire.
After the war,he forged an amalgam of the three.
An indominitable machine,with all their strengths,but flying this beast was something only he mastered at a great price.
But it paid off.
The only thing was that no one knew.
Rather no one alive knew.
He had shot down over three hundred craft in a hundred and six sorties,all in the years of the war.
Novice or ace,soon all were just burning wrecks in the sky.
But the bloodlust remained even after the truce.
In his beast,he shot down every aircraft that dared to fly in european skies.
He was unknown to all,except for those he shot down.
He always passed by them as they tumbled.
He looked into their eyes as they went down.
He tried to understand people by the emotion they showed in their terminal moments.
After the first hundred,he decided he was nt much of a people person.
April 12,1956
Flying above the alps,he looked far and wide,but the skies were clear.
He had cleared them.
It had been three weeks since his last kill.
It had been easy.
A light plane.
No more dogfights.
No more breakneck spirals with guns blazing.
Only novices with civilian planes these days.
He tried to make them squirm to get away,to get some little kick out of his day.
These kids always let him down.
No wonder,as hed already shot down any instructor skilled enough to take off.
There was no sport here.
No thrill,no pleasure,and goddammit no kill!!
No one else.Nothing.
The realisation hit him hard.
He planted himself in a forty-five degree dive,switched off the engine,and for the first time,felt pure silence.
He was deaf.
His love for it grew uncontrollably as he passed 30,000 feet.
He didnt want anything more.
Didnt need anything at 5,000 feet either.
Neither at a thousand.
Nor at 15.
The end.