Inspired by American Charlie Daniels' songs, "Uneasy Rider" and "Uneasy Rider '88". There are two songs so there are going to be two chapters. UK is the main character so maybe I should've rewritten the title to say, "Poor England, but You Asked for it". Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia. If you see anything; grammatical, spelling, history, and/or OOC errors, please correct me.
Half Empty: Bloody Bulgarians
Arthur was taking a trip back to England in a Peugeot 807. If you shuddered just after reading that line, either you are French or you know your cars. You may want to know why Arthur is driving a Peugeot. In which he would reply, "Bloody if I know! All cars look the fucking same these days!" While he didn't know his cars, he knew he was driving a shitty one after five minutes of driving.
"This is shit." He told himself every time he attempted to make a turn on the highway. "I should've denied his offer, I can barely drive this bugger." Speaking of Francis, it doesn't matter what country you're from, slang words are weird. Take bugger, for example. It originated years back from the Catholic Church to describe what they thought of the East Orthodox Church. They used to call them buggers, translate, a Bulgarian homosexual.
In America, bugger basically translates to fuck.
So Arthur was fucking a gay Bulgarian back to the UK.
Go Bulgaria!
After a few more minutes of annoying highway background sound, a sound similar to a gunshot was heard. In shock Arthur jumped, hitting his head on the ceiling. Steering getting steadily worse, it only took a few moments for him to realize that his tire blew out.
"Bloody! Fuck- AUGH!" He screamed and against better judgment, he slammed his head against the steering wheel before properly stopping the car.
He had no spare so he stood in front of his car, wondering what to do with it. Hot air blowing against his face, the thoughts of blowing the car up came to mind. But he realized that if he did that, he wouldn't have the satisfaction of driving the worthless vehicle up Francis' ass. Oh, decisions decisions. Realizing that he literally was in the middle of nowhere, he decided to keep the car. More literally for you readers, who have no idea where I set this story.
"I saw a bar not too long ago, I could call for a cab." He might have been talking to a fairy, or a unicorn, but since you can't see them Arthur only appeared to be talking to himself. You could ask what happened to Arthur's cellphone. And boy, can I ever come up with reasons to why he doesn't. He may have forgotten it, lost it, or broke it while talking to (read: screaming at) Alfred. Why, the possibilities are endless!
You might also ask if the person he was talking to was a unicorn, why couldn't he ride that instead? Actually, you are probably wondering why I'm asking myself all of these questions. Like I don't trust myself or something.
Alas.
Driving back to the previously seen bar, Arthur tried to ignore the noise the hubcap was making on the ground. But to effectively ignore that sound one must be deaf. Arthur isn't deaf, so he lost the game. Parking right up front, Arthur gave a glance up to see the name of the bar.
"Dew Drop Inn? Really? I'm not in the mood for puns right now." Not that Arthur was in the mood for anything, ever. But given the look of the place, he felt it safe to hide his eyebrows under a cap before walking on in. "Excuse me, but can I use your phone?" He asked the bartender who, coincidentally, was Bulgarian. The Bulgarian gave Arthur a glare as if he had reading this story thus far and just pointed towards the telephone. Placing a few coins into the phone, he heard the dial tone. Sighing, he pressed the numbers of all knowing, epic regret. In short, he called Alfred.
"Hello!"
"Um, 'ello. Alfred-"
"I'm not hear at the moment, so if you would leave a message-"
"God dammit!"
"Kidding!" Arthur clenched the phone as he heard laughter on the receiver. "What do ya need, Arthur?"
"I got talked into driving a lousy car, and now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere!"
"Really? I reckon I can get there in about ten minuets or so."
"But... but I didn't tell you where I am!"
"GPS doll, look it up." Alfred laughed as he heard Arthur sputter on the other side of the phone. "Now, you just stay where you are-"
"You idiot! Like I have anywhere else to go!" Arthur barked before slamming the phone down. Still blushing, he made his way to the bar table and ordered himself a beer. "Stupid Alfred, stupid...." Arthur wasn't aloud to vent for long, however. As he heard the front doors swing open he heard the words,
"Who's the fool that owns the atrocious French car outside?" The Austrian said as he crossed his arms. It didn't take him long to scan the bar for the right owner as at this particular time, the only people in the bar was Arthur and the bartender. Feeling the glare penetrating his back, Arthur decided to down the beer he had and make a speedy getaway. Waiting outside for Alfred seemed safer.
A few steps towards the door and two more people walked in. A tall German and a drunk Italian. Seeing that his situation was steadily worsening, Arthur gulped. He had no time nor interest in getting into a fight. Especially on the weekend (More especially because there were two of them and only one of him (the Italian doesn't count, for obvious reasons)). As Arthur attempted to maneuver around them, he still bumped into the Italian (who seemed to be walking all over the place) causing both to crash to the floor. Arthur's hat flew off, reveling his large and ungodly eyebrows.
"Ow! Owww!" Whined the Italian. "Ludwig, that meanie just hit me!" While the newly named German didn't look like he believed what the Italian said, he still seemed offended at his injury.
"Hey, you Englishman, apologize!"
The Austrian looked like he was going to say something too as he passed a handkerchief to the Italian, but he was too busy snickering at Arthur's amazing eyebrows to care. Arthur thought that was amazingly rude, especially for someone who possesses a mole. Seeing that this was going very wrong very fast Arthur attempted to pull a quick one. Standing up, he swiftly kicked Ludwig in the knee before bringing out his fists.
"Watch out everyone, because the real culprit is right behind you!" Arthur moved himself behind a table. "You don't know it but this man is a spy! He's working for the Neo-Nazis and he's been sent here to put a stop to pasta!" Ludwig was still bent over holding on to his knee, but everyone else had Arthur's attention as he purposely starting shouting more bullshit. "He's a friend of those stiff stuck ups!" Arthur gave a glare over to the Austrian "I bet he has a picture of Hitler tacked up in his garage! He's a snake in the grass! He may look stupid, but that's just a disguise, he's a master in the ways of espionage!" Taking in a deep breath, Arthur let loose his final insult. "And he voted for Berlusconi for Prime Minister!" The Austrian looked like he was going to burst out laughing, but the drunk Italian on the other hand,
"No!" He cried. "Please Ludwig! It can't be true!"
"Of course it's not true!" Growled Ludwig. Boy, if he wasn't pissed before, Arthur just signed his death warrant. Dead man walking or not, the Italian began crying and so Ludwig tried explaining to him, that there was no possible way for him to vote for Berlusconi, not that he wanted to. "In Germany it's illegal to own anything promoting Nazi!" Standing up he clenched his fist. "Stupid prejudice bastard! I'm going to-" But he was shouting at no one as Arthur had long gone left the bar.
"Alfred! Alfred!" He cried, waving madly at bright red truck driving into the parking lot. Alfred brought down the window and stuck his head out.
"Yo, Arthur!" He waved back. "Hey, do you know who owns the loser Peu-"
"Just shut up and let me in!" Arthur ran to the passenger seat, swinging the door open and jumping inside. That was about the time Ludwig came walking out of the bar. "Oh god." Mumbled Arthur as he looked down to apply his seatbelt.
"What? What's the matter?" Alfred rose an eyebrow. "Did that guy give you any trouble?"
"Yes, but it doesn't matter." He rubbed his temples. "Let's get out of here."
"Sure." Alfred said narrowing his eyes before pressing down on the gas. Arthur swallowed a scream as the car screamed into action, kicking a cloud of dust in the air.
"Yeehaw!" Whooped Alfred as he drove the car in Ludwig's direction. Poor Ludwig, who was preparing to punch the face of an Englishman just noticed the American car headed towards him (I think the right word for that is backpfeifengesicht. Which means in German, 'A face that is in need of a fist').
"What are you doing?" Arthur found himself squealing.
"Just something I call good ol' revenge!" Laughed Alfred. "Take that, grease head!" Ludwig however, was not going to give the crazy driver the pleasure of chasing him around the parking lot and jumped back into the bar. "Aw! Pity!" Whined Alfred.
"You idiot!" Arthur hit Alfred's shoulder. "They're gonna call the cops on us!"
"They'll have ta get my license plate number first!" Alfred drove out of the parking lot. "Don't you worry, Arthur!"
"Too late, I'm worrying." He closed his eyes and groaned.
Meanwhile, inside the bar,
"...yes, a bright, horrible red." The Austrian leaned his head onto his cellphone as he tapped his fingers against the window, watching the car drive out of sight. "The license is, USA #1. It has a few eagle stickers on the back. They are poorly drawn..."
"Veeh!" The Italian wept into Ludwig's chest while hugging him tightly. "Ludwig, I was sure they were going to get you!"
"Well, they didn't." He sighed. "You can stop crying now."
"That English guy really scared me!" Ludwig rolled his eyes as he patted the shorter man's head.
"Yes."
"Saying that you voted for Berlusconi~"
"Augh! Feliciano, I can't vote for him!"
Sorry I didn't put this up earlier, I hope this covers everything in this chapter!
Top Gear sums up the Peugeot 807 pretty well, "A real tumbleweed moment for the Peugeot/Citroen partnership, this recently face lifted version of the least exciting car on sale, the Peugeot 807, continues to engender a stony silence from everyone who steps within. It's not awful, it's just… nothing." Ouch. Maybe I should've made a comparison to Canada with that...
"Eh?" Matthew starts tearing up.
"Hey!" Francis hugs him around the neck. "I'm trying you know!" He then shakes a fist at Arthur, who properly flips him off.
I was raised being told that real cursing comes from the misuse of words in sentences. So when I was younger I was allowed to speak as I wished, as long as used it in the proper sentence. Like moron, the original meaning is an adult who has the mental capacity of a thirteen year old or younger and has been arrested more than once. ...South Italy?
"What? I'm not a kid!" Lovino growls, also shaking his fist. "And I've never been arrested!"
"Correction, you have never been caught." Antonio giggles as he gives a few light tugs on Lovino's curly strand, leaving the angry Italian helpless and less angry. But in only correcting the that part of Lovino's sentence, that means Antonio still considers him a kid... and he's fondling him...
GPS (Global Positioning System) which is short for GNSS (Global Navigation Satellite System). Way to go America, why not just call it that? Yes, the American invented it, not the Japanese. Shock! The only one in function was developed by the United States Department of Defense and is managed by the United States Air Force 50th Space Wing (there is no abbreviated term for that one) and it's been orbiting around us since 1993.
"I'm watching you." Alfred delivers his best spooky voice as he wiggled his fingers in a magical coot like fashion. "I'm watching all of you!"
Have fun trying to sleep knowing that.
Neo-Nazi (Neo-Nazi) like to call themselves National Socialist so they sound a little less evil. Obviously, they are trying to bring Nazism back and their favorite pastime is pretending that the Holocaust never happened. What I find really weird however, is since Germany has banned everything pro-Nazi, where do these guys get their stuff? Amazingly, America, Scandinavia, the Czech Republic, Hungary, and Italy do smuggling. Canada doesn't smuggle, but gives Internet servers.
Seriously guys? Holy crap.
Yes, backpfeifengesicht is a word. I would love it if someone would tell me how to pronounce that. Right now I'm guessing, back-fi-fin-gi-shyt. But I don't trust myself, my German is atrocious.
For anyone who loves and/or knows how birds are built, would be appalled at how America shows their love of their national bird. I think about 90 percent of all I've seen have had broken wings, legs and necks as they attempt to put the bird in showy, cool poses that are physically impossible for the bird to do. Further irony hits because their national bird is endangered. I wouldn't mind if the bird was drawn in a cartoony way, but no, they are all drawn realistically. Well, as realistic as a dead bird with a broken body goes.
The fastest way for me to sum up Silvio Berlusconi is to say he's the Italian version of George W. Bush, with Mafia ties and everything. Ludwig can't vote, because he is not Italian. Feliciano is trying, but he still hasn't converted him yet.
"Come Ludwig," Feliciano says in a deep voice, "come to the pasta side!"
