The tiny green propeller of your plastic KB-21 “Bargain Bin” interceptor fighter plane falls spinning to the ground. After sixteen combats missions, twelve in the playroom, three in the back yard, and one in the bathtub, those tan bastards finally got you.
You pull the ejection switch but nothing happens.
Oh, god, you think, all the ways I could have gone in this pointless war and I’m going to be done in by some lowest-bidder malfunction bullshit. Perfect.
You never thought you’d be the type, but you begin to pray to any god that will have you. “No atheists in a fox hole” is right. Guess you could add crashing planes to that list.
As if in answer to your prayers, a giant, stubby hand rips the canopy off your plane and rips you out.
“What the hell?” you scream at the top of your lungs, but your cries are lost in the chopping winds of the frigid air rushing around your plummeting body.
Your chute deploys, but some joker seems to have replaced it with a cheap piece of garbage bag plastic.
That’ll never hold.
Again, in response to your complaint, the hand returns. It pinches the chute between its thumb and forefinger and lowers you gently to the ground.
After a week behind enemy lines, you’re picked up by a friendly Green Guy patrol. You tell them about the dogfight, and about the Tan Guy plane that shot you down. They pat you on the back and all tell you how lucky you are.
You never speak of the hand. No one must ever know.