Twenty One Blind Shots

At somebody-big’s gravesite, on a thick as bad latte day, twenty one blind shots are all it takes to bring down everything on air; three infidel birds in mid-air love, five rusty leaves as remnants of spring, twelve bullets muffled by gravity and one smashes a monocle off a weary flight commander, two thirds asleep, flying to anywhere on auto-pilot. As intelligent as its flier, the machine wheezes sudden activity, sprouts sudden razorblade wing things and a machine gun with oxidized cartridges like your honor’s wig, pops boxed jack from beneath of our dreamy gentleman. The light around him, suddenly tinted red, blinks and beeps “Attack”, as he is already lucidly out of his canned fat body, swimming with a naked Marilyn Monroe. Unaware, he benignly takes turns in squeezing her front, as she giggles and thinks insurance. A happy day.
The machine, upon enough inactivity in the midst of an attack, assumes the death of its martyr pilot and swings around in fury, as the ground commanders hear of this solemn event and uncork a bottle of what only smells like alcohol but nobody knows what rotted.

‘Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest!’
‘Alright men; Jimmy’s kicked it.’
‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!’
‘Alright men; Jimmy’s kicked it.’

Thirteen knots a minute, flies the brave machine! Fifteen! Eighteen! Spotting the group of sods that shot our man, it flies over their heads, as they run around in circles like in a silent mime show.

Breaking fire on the silent bums, go twenty one blind shots.

‘I drink to thee, Uncle!’

Machine-bird, just as much brained, realizes that its just murdered twenty one men on its own side. Flushing with robotic innocence and self-disgust, it rams its head into the ground and goes down in history.

On base three with Marilyn Monroe.

‘Alright men; Jimmy’s kicked it.’‘Who died in that bottle?!’
‘Alright men; Jimmy’s kicked it.’