I wasn't thinking about writing this but it just came over to me and so I just wrote this. AMERICANS! DON'T GIVE UP AND BRAVE THROUGH THIS SHITSTORM TOGETHER WITH ALFRED! JUST FOUR YEARS AND IT'LL BE OVER! Over in a flash! Zoooooom~
America gripped Tony, beads of sweat pouring down the sides of his face as he pinched his bottom lip between his teeth.
The anchorwoman on the TV opened her mouth, and America heard the words that he had never guessed that he would ever hear in his entire fucking life.
"Donald Trump has been elected as the 45th President of the United States..."
Shock barrelled through America, his brain exploded into tiny fireworks, each spark landing and lighting up another burst of white shock—his organs ceased to function, his muscles locked and froze in place, he couldn't see anything through the flash of pure horror in front of his eyes—
"Tony."
Bulbous red eyes turned to the statue named America in question. "Fuck..?" Yeah?
"Can you... bring me back to your home planet?"
America slapped himself for that thought, the alien beside him jumping a little at the loud sound of flesh upon flesh. HE was America—and it was cowardly for him—A HERO—to run from this situation, to run from his own government. He respected his people's decision, but really, sometimes, he wanted to fucking strangle some of them.
STAGE 1: DENIAL
America turned the TV off, stumbling into his bedroom—his brain still in a puddle of 'not making any sense' — and he switched on his laptop instead.
Maybe, just maybe, he was dreaming all of these...and after a few rounds of zombie games, he would find himself and all of America back in the moment when Bernie Sanders was still running.
The laptop screen darkened with a grisly image of the game character being devoured by the zombies—kind of like America right now— with a large 'GAME OVER' written across the screen.
He shivered, trying to not let his eyes wander to the bottom right of the screen where the time and date is written. Slamming the laptop screen down, America picked up his phone with trembling hands, pressing open his Twitter feed.
'DONALD TRUMP WON'
'TRUMP IS THE NEXT PRESIDENT'
'ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK'
'AMERICA IS DYING'
'HOW DO I EMIGRATE TO CANADA'
"No...no!"
America dialled Japan's phone number.
The ominous 'ring ring ring' was all America could hear as he hugged his pillows in the dark room.
"Hello America-san? This is Japan speaking."
"JAPAN! JAPAN, PLEASE! LEND ME DORAEMON!"
"W-what? Ameri—"
"HE HAS A POCKET RIGHT?! HE HAS A TIME MACHINE IN THAT POCKET RIGHT?! I REALLY NEED THIS TIME MACHINE! PLEASE! LEND IT TO ME!"
"Am—"
"JAPAN! TRUMP WON! HE FUCKING WON!"
"America-san!" Japan finally could form a full word without the screaming country butting in. "Doraemon does not exist in real life!"
America's thumb found the red ' End Call' button.
Ring..ring...ring..
"What do you want, you—"
"ENGLAND! LEND ME THE DOCTOR! HIS POLICE BOX! HIS WHATEVER I DON'T KNOW CAN TRAVEL THROUGH TIME RIGHT?!"
"Are you kidding me—"
"I REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY—"
"STOP SCREAMING IN MY FUCKING EAR YOU FUCKING WANKER!"
America stared desolately at his phone as England hanged up on him.
The phone slid from his sweaty grasp.
America started laughing uncontrollably, doubling over as the image of Trump sitting in the oval office surfaced in his mind. Twisting the bedsheets in his hands, he scanned the room with teary eyes (from laughing).
Tony opened the door just as America dived from his bed into the trashcan beside his table.
"Fucking...bitch...?" What are you doing?
"I just need...to...find a time machine...right? HahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHhahaHaHAha!"
Tony exited the room in the next milisecond, leaving America's legs waving wildly in the air as he realised he was stuck in the tiny trashcan.
STAGE 2: ANGER
"AAAAAAAARRRRGH!"
America did a 360 no-scope 420 BLAZE IT WOW SUCH ACCURACY MUCH COOL— his bullets driving itself into the bullseyes of each target with proficient accuracy.
America didn't forget his ending heroic pose as the computerized sound effect of bombs exploding in the background and the amazing CG of an explosion lit up the screen behind him.
America reloaded his shotguns, and selected 'EXTREME' on the difficulty screen panel.
It was time to show off his fucking skills.
America stepped out of the shower. It felt good to set an new record with an insanely high score—but the king of all problems hadn't made itself disappear yet.
The plastic bottle of mineral water crumpled into dust in his fist.
Canada opened the door to see his brother's dark stormy expression.
"Oh, Alfred. I heard the news, I was about to call you..."
"MATTIE!" America bawled, crushing the shorter country into his chest, "W-WHA AM I GONNA DOOO!"
Canada patted his brother's back comfortingly as he dissolved into sobs and clinged to him like a koala, suffocating Kumajiro between.
Kumajiro pushed the two countries apart with his bear strength, allowing a small gap for him to breathe. Canada wriggled Kumajiro out from between and let him free before America squeezed them in his arms again.
"It's just four years, Alfred...you'll be fine..."
"UWAAAAAAAA"
"A-Alfie...I can't...breathe..."
Kumajiro dragged America away by his ankle, and Canada pried America's limbs off him. "MATTIE! I FEEL SO GUILTY FOR WANTING MY PEOPLE TO DIE BECAUSE THEY WENT AND VOTED FOR TRUMP BUT I KNOW THAT I SHOULDN'T BE CURSING AT THEM BECAUSE THIS IS A FREE COUNTRY AND EVERYONE HAS THEIR OPINIONS AND THIS IS THE RESULTS OF A DEMOCRATIC ELECTION AND I SHOULD JUST ACCEPT IT BUT TRUMP! WHY IS TRUMP PRESIDENT MEXICO ALREADY HATES ME AND CHINA HAS BEEN GIVING ME GLARES RECENTLY AND HE'S BEEN ASKING ME TO RETURN HIS MONEY MORE OFTEN AND HOW THE HELL DID THE CANDIDATES GET NARROWED DOWN INTO ONLY HILLARY AND TRUMP WHAT HAPPENED TO AMERICA?!"
Finishing his rant in a single breath, America gasped for air and endless tears started erupting out from his eyeballs again, drowning the Canadian in a flood of salty water.
Kumajiro silently wiped up the ponds of tears forming on the floor with towels.
STAGE 3: BARGAINING
"Mr Jones—"
America shook off the flustered hands of bodyguards, ploughing his way through to the Oval Office.
"Mr Jones! The President—no Mr Jones! Please—"
The door to the Oval Office banged open, slamming into the wall with such force that the plaster cracked.
Barack Obama raised his eyebrow at the falling pieces of plaster, and that one painting of the First Lady which crashed to the floor.
The bodyguards fussed over the wall and the painting, apologizing to the President profusely, and tried their best to drag the personified country out of the room.
They couldn't move him one bit.
America fixed his glasses under the intense stare of his President, bowing politely. "Sorry Sir, for barging in like this."
Just when Obama thought America was going to continue the conversation in a prim and proper manner, he practically shot to the large wooden desk, cupping his face with both hands in earnest—puppy eyes in full force.
"Sir, please, could you stay for another four years? Ya know, just tweak the Constitution a little? C'mon Brackie, you can do it right?"
"Alfie, you know I can't do it—"
"Sir, please?"
Obama stared at the pouting anthropomorphic personification of America who was blinking with all his might—trying to look as cute as possible.
"No."
"Why? Come on, man, I'm America!"
"That does not justify anything, Alfred. Plus I wouldn't want to serve another term with you around—eight years is quite enough, thank you."
A bodyguard still in the office whistled under his breath. "Sick burn." Another more experienced bodyguard smacked him on the head, ordering him to get the painting and out of the office quietly.
America deflated, sprawling across the table and messing up the President's papers. Obama sighed, "Alfred, remember to sort my papers after your trip to Macdonalds."
"How did you know I was going to Macs?" America mumbled into the papers.
"It's been eight years and you think I still can't get a grasp on how you function?" Obama chuckled, plucking the sad, depressed ball of America off his desk. "Now shoo. I still have a lot of work to do. Especially with Mr Trump coming in. Oh, that reminds me, you'll be introduced to him tomorrow."
America crumpled to the floor as cruel reality stabbed him in the heart.
STAGE 4: DEPRESSION
America ordered a truck of hamburgers and soft drinks, holing up under his warm blanket as he scrolled through the internet listlessly.
He threw his 78th wrapper away into the overflowing trashcan, sucking on the straw for the sweet carbonated Mountain Dew.
The door to his bedroom was kicked open by none other than the posh gentlemanly England.
"AMERICA! GET UP! We have a World Conference today!"
America threw the empty cup of Mountain Dew at the British country with a poker face.
England cursed at him, smacking the Macdonald cup away.
"France! Get in here! We're going to drag his sorry arse to the meeting!" England popped his head back out, calling for the Frenchman admiring a vase of exquisite flowers.
America was drawing circles on the carpet in the corner, a dark aura on par with Russia's hanging over him.
Germany stood at the head of the table, resting his forehead in his palm. "Iz he going to be okay?"
Canada spoke up for once, and the countries finally noticed him for once. "He'll get over it by tomorrow morning...I guess..."
"Oh, Canada! When did you get here?" Denmark grinned at Canada from across the table.
"I've been here since the start..."
"America~do you want some pasta? It'll cheer you up!" Italy conjured a plate of steaming pasta out of nowhere, offering it to the depressed country.
America continued drawing circles.
"No pasta? Or do you want some fettuccini? Or..." Italy produced all his cuisine out of thin air, placing them one by one in front of the curled-up American.
"Vell, let's start the conference vithout America today." Germany sighed, launching into his presentation as the screen flickered to life with his slides.
"America-san. The Conference is over. You should go home and take a rest." It was Japan's turn to persuade him.
America only continued munching on a burger in reply.
"He's too deep in his own mind to even hear us anymore. Just leave him be." England sipped on his tea, glancing up occasionally.
China even did an awesome set of kung-fu to try and get America out of his depression, but America didn't even look up from the carpeted floor.
"Oh...right..." America muttered, startling the countries as he finally raised his head. "I have to sort Brackie's papers..."
America proceeded to float out of the room like a ghost, the dark cloud of doom and gloom following after him.
"Looks like Amérique will be fine after all, if he can still remember his paperwork." France shrugged his shoulders, copping a feel of Germany's firm butt as he blew goodbye kisses to the countries, exiting the room.
Germany jumped at France's roving hands and Italy rushed over to help smack away France's kiss.
STAGE 5: ACCEPTANCE
America awoke to a new state of mind.
Donald Trump will be his next President.
And for this four years, he will do his ultimate best to prevent the country from crumbling under the reign of Trump, and protect it with all his might.
America suited up, fixing his tie up smartly, and flexed his muscles in the mirror.
His eyes narrowed on his biceps. Hmm. His muscles are not intimidating enough.
America decided to go to the gym right after the meeting with Trump—he needed to get rid of the calories he acquired from all those burgers and soft drinks yesterday, plus he needed to buff himself up more so he can threaten Trump more effectively if Trump ever decides to release a stupid policy.
He was going to meet the man in 50 minutes.
"Morning Sir!" America chirped, giving the President a greeting pat on the back—which made the President stumble and almost face-plant into the floor.
"Oops, sorry." America grinned, "Sometimes I forget about my strength."
"You seem to be in better sprits, Alfred." Obama smiled, giving a lighter pat on the back to the personified country. "Finally in the acceptance stage?"
"Hell yeah." America gave his President a thumbs-up, "I'm gonna give Donald Duckie the shock of his life."
"Mr President, Mr Trump is here." A bodyguard opened the door, announcing the President-elect's arrival.
Obama nodded, warning America silently with a gaze to not call Trump a 'Donald Duck' as he smoothed out his suit.
"Welcome to the White House, Mr Trump."
BONUS
During the interview after Trump met Obama
"The meeting was supposed to be...around 10 to 15 minutes...we were going to get to know each other—we had never met each other—uh..I have great respect...the meeting lasted for almost an hour and a half and could have gone on for longer...uh...we discussed many many things—like the high flying assets and uh...some of the difficulties..."
(A/N: these are the exact words Trump said in the interview)
Inside Obama's mind:
Oh yeah? The meeting went on for an hour and a half thanks to dear Alfred.
Inside Trump's mind:
Holy motherfucking gods! There was an anthropomorphic personifed America?! Obviously the meeting could go on for longer!
THE END.
Should I write Trump and Alfred's meeting? Hmmmmm...it's a little hard to write though...since I really can't tell how Trump would react—not that I already can't tell what the heck is going on in his tiny brain already.