It was a cold February evening when I arrived in the Misfits base of operation after a long arduous journey. There was a fine mist in the air, the kind that causes the glow from distant light to appear ghostly. I could hear the faint sound of laughter and music coming from a sparsely lit solitary building on the edge of the airfield.
Instinctively I approached until I stood in front of what could only be best described as a wooden shack held together with tacks and tape, above the eave it read ACEHOLE. I reached for the tattered rope handle and pulled the wooden door, which had seen better days as ordinance crates and entered. Directly across the small room in large print read, "Welcome to the Misfits everyone else can catch our lead".
Four pilots sat at the make shift bar, which was made from the remnants of the top wing of a downed enemy Spad, bullet holes included. Drinking spirits, although it smelled more of piss and vinegar from some home made brew in the dark corner of some tent. In unison, they all turned and stared directly into my eyes, each having the same cold hard as steel glare. What have I gotten myself into? I thought. As if rehearsed, they raised their mugs one by one until each held them above their heads and announced, "welcome to the Misfits".