Day 1
Authors note: I really like the idea of Hetalia. The principle is cool, and the characters are great. But I actually think the show really sucks. It's historically inaccurate, the costumes, hairstyles and language are completely out of time, the plots of most episodes are cheesy and the vast majority of characters come off as gay! In my opinion, the wonderful fandom is what really makes Hetalia click. Stories and art by people who really know and care about the way things were and still are. I hope I am one of those people - so here I am to contribute to our based fandom with one of MY stories about (comically exaggerated) life in ole' Russia's mansion.
Enjoy, non-weeaboos! (like myself.)
I woke up at 6.30 in the morning to the sound of Russia yellling his face off and cracking his ugly old whip. Nothing unusual here – just a typical late autumn day working for the communist creep we all hate. Once we all got up, Russia started handing out our jobs. Even though Lithuania got up instantly, Russia still gave him 10 belts cos' he felt like it. ''OKAY YOU WORTHLESS ASSSHOLES!LET US GET WORKING HERE!'' boomed Russia.
''Who's us?'' I whispered to Serbia.
'' baltics, scrub the trenches! ''
All three baltics groaned.
„SHUDDUP!" Russia said. „Be thankful you're not cleaning...THE OUTHOUSE!" *cue lightning sounds*.
All three baltics cringed at the mere thought of it. He had really lousy aim, and he ate a ton (way, way more than them in any case) and he always created a miniature mountain of shit.
„That grand honour goes to Ukraine," Russia beamed. Ukraine gave a squeal of horror and instantly fainted. I had to catch her before she fell and hurt herself. I swiftly grabbed a bucket of ice-cold water (which, believe me, isn't very hard to find in Russia), and just as I was about to dump it all on her head, Russia violently shoved me in the chest and I flew all the way to the fireplace (luckily the fire wasn't on, but I still got soot all over my lovely cloooooooothes. :,( )
„Step aside, amateur, and watch how an expert does it!" Russia happily crooned. Russia bent down until his mouth was at the level of Ukraine's tiny, rounded, cute little ear, and whispered those six words of death, destruction and horror:
„BECOME ONE WITH MOTHER RUSSIA, DA?"
Ukraine instantly jolted awake, let out yet another scream of horror and jumped onto me, clinging on like a terrified frog. I rolled my eyes.
„Ok, back to work, da?" said Rusha (that's how he spelled his own name). „Albania, Serbia, you two sweep the house. Poland, go print up my propaganda! Czech, Slovakia! Dust my dildo collection!" Their pretty little faces morphed into bug-eyed expressions of sheer horror, half from disgust, half from fear of knocking them down (Russia was just as fussy about his dildos as he was about his vodka, which is saying something, and I would know. If you knocked even ONE of his dildos down, he'd give you like twenty belts). The two sisters just stood stock-still, like ice statues.
„WEEEELL?! What are you WAITING for?! GET CLEANING!"
They immediately scurried off, like caffeinated squirrels.
„OK. Bulgaria, Croatia, give my room a new lick of paint. By this afternoon, I want a grand pink wall with orange and purple geraniums. And as many Matryoshka stickers as humanly possible! Without covering the geraniums, of course."
„See, I told you he was BRAINWASHED," Belarus whispered to Bosnia. Herzegovina instantly burst into sniggers and snorts of laughter. Belarus and Bosnia grabbed two pillows as shields from flying snot coming from Herzegovina's direction. All the rest of us cringed.
„What are you laughing about?" Russia crooned with only a slight trace of menace in his voice.
„Oh...umm...it's...umm...just...a joke umm...someone told me," finished Herzegovina.
„IS THAT SO?" said Russia, with even more menace in his creepy little voice.
„Um...yes?" the little goof timidly said.
As if struck by some kind of brainwave, Russia changed from dark, cold and creepy to happy, exited and lively in a flash (this would happen quite often, that's why his slaves reckoned he was bipolar).
„OH REALLY?" Russia happily sang, as if he had to concentrate all his energy into not exploding with joy. „I LOVE jokes! Tell me NOW!"
„Well...umm...Oooo-kaaay, siiiir..." the poor man mumbled, trying to buy himself some time to invent a good joke. „Umm...ok heeere goes!" He said, with a „I'm dead! I'm so dead" sort of look on his cheeky little fase. Uh, pardon me, I mean FACE.
„W-w-what's p-p-p-pink and f-fluffy?" he nervously stuttered.
„Wha-a-at?" Russia said suspiciously, as if he were about to grow taller and darker.
„P-p-p-p-pink f-f-fluff," he said, quieter than the fart of a mouse.
To the surprise of everyone in the room, Russia burst into hysterical, insane, clowny laughter. „THAT'S THE BEST JOKE I EVER HEARD!"he said, wiping a tear of mirth from his annoying eye. At first, Herzegovina blew a breath the size of an elephant, out of relief, and was just happy not to get mashed to a pulp. But after about three minutes, he started rolling his eyes together with everyone else in the room.
After Russia had laughed away the last of his hysteria, he firmly said:
„OK, everyone, now we can REALLY, and I mean REALLY get to work. OK, umm...where was I...? Oh yes. Bosnia, Herzegovina, go unclog my toilet (which was clogged with a dead kitten he had recently murdered when he had drunk too much vodka the other night). As I was saying, Transnistria, Georgia, go dig up PUMPKINS. And as for you, Dragan (that's Montenegro, Serbia's li'l bro) and Misha (Moldova's real name is Mihai, but Russia calls him Misha just to tick ME, Iancu Popescu, off) go scrub the carpet in the main hall. Hungary, Prussia, wash as many windows as you can before breakfast, no slacking off!" Prussia gave Hungary a „hay baby" sort of look, leaning in closer. But she just bopped him one over the head with her trusty pan, and everything was back to normal.
„ And, you, my sexy little angels," he said, staring at Natalia and me as if he were about to DO SOMETHING INAPPROPRIATE with us (not that Belarus would mind if he did), „Go cook."
„What do we cook SIR?" I said, reluctantly doing the Soviet salute (:P).
„I feel like Japanese food. Go make PIZZA!" he boomed with childish excitement.
„Umm...sir," I said, my voice trembling a bit with fear of correcting him, „I THINK pizza is ITALIAN, sir." (I was trying not to sound TOO sneery for Big Bonzo's liking, but believe me, it was hard.)
„Is that so?" said Russia, murderously.
„Yes it is, SIR!" I quickly replied, and I quickly whisked Belarus to the kitchen before the chump could go into murder mode.
Arrighty, once we got to the kitchen, I stopped to catch me breath (b'cos e'en though she had a very slim figure, she was surprisin'ly heavy. Donnask why. I guess that's just how creeps are).
"So", says I, in what I hoped was a jolly voice, „Let's get cookin' that..." I trailed off. She was staying, head turned away from me, completely clammin' up. „Umm...Belarus..."I said, uncomfortably scratchin' the back o' me head. Suddenly, she turned around, her eyes a-gleaming and a-glarin' like yer worst nightmare. I leddout a gasp o' shock. THEN she drew 'er knife (God knows from whar), and befarr I could react, she churrged at me, a-leapin' an' a-squealin' at me like a goblin from a town called Doom. She grabbed me 'round the neck, threw me ta the filthy, cold stone floor, once again leaped on me squealing, an' started brutally a-stabbin' me over an' over again...weeeell, not rilly, no. But it would've been so Belarus-ish if she did.
How'd ya lads 'n lassies reckon me creepy story was a-comin'? Fine, I'll stop.
OK, sit back and prepare to listen to what really happened...
So once I'd whisked her to the kitchen, I said in what I hoped was a jolly voice „let's get cooking."
„Alright,"I announced in my most official-sounding voice. „You washed tomatoes, I'll start chopping ham."
„Heeeey...wait one doggone minute!" she snarled, narrowing her freaky eyes."How come You get to boss me around? ".
Her deathly glare was intensifying by the second.
„Weeeell...umm..." I mumbled, once again scratching the back of my head uncomfortably, trying to think up an excuse. And then, as if an angel had whispered it to me, I thought of the perfect answer:
„Because we're playing ‚Simon Says'!" I beamed. „And Simon says, ‚go wash TOMATOES!'"
„Simon Says?" Belarus sneered. „But you're Iancu, aren't you? Who's Simon! Only Simon can boss me around, not Iancu. So there!"
„Yeees, I'm Iancu, but now I'm SIMON!"
„Who's Simon? I don't know any Simon."
Before I could say anything, I found myself listening to Belarus shrieking, „HEEEEEEELP! BIG BROTHER! THERE'S A BLOND STRANGER IN THE HOOOUSE! HELP! HELP! HE-E-E-E-E-mnngh!"
„Can it, Belarus!" I hissed as I covered her mouth. „You know Russia when we call him for no reason. We don't want him having another of his EXTREMELY hairy fits."
„Don't tell me what to do, Simon,"she hissed back at me in a muffled voice.
Russia, who was downstairs obviously heard the girl's incessant shrieking, but did not hear their discussion before that.
Instantly, his primitive rotten-walnut-glued-together-with-moldy-kasha brain started gathering clues together.
A blond stranger could only mean one thing: AMERICA...
Then, as if a chain reaction was set loose in his furious bull mind, he charged upstairs like an icy lightning bolt. I could hear his annoying heavy boots clanking and clunking up the spirally wooden stairs. „Now we're in for it and it's all your fault," I whispered furiously to Belarus. „hope you're happy."
Just as an apologetic grin was spreading over Belarus' sexy face, the door crashed open and Russia burst in like a putrid, hairy hurricane.
„AMERICAAAAA?!GYET OUT OV MY HOUSSSSE RRRIGHT NAU OR I WEELL BASH YU WITH MY...pipe?" (accent preserved for that authentic russian feel. )
A look of genuine surprise settled over his smug, boar-like features as the fact that I was not America, but Romania settled into his microscopic brain. „Hey, you don't look like America, you look like..."
Just as I was holding my breath fearfully, knowing any moment the fuse would light and the slavic bomb would go bang, Russia's expression of fury dizzolved into an awed, respectful smile that reminded the casual observer of Dora the Explorer (with a nose considerably enlarged).
„Y-you-y-y-you...you can SHAPESHIFT?" questioned the 105-kilo ball of communism.
Before I had the chance to answer, Russia enthused, „YOU GOTTA TEACH ME HOW!" as he whisked me to his messy old room where Croatia and Bulgaria were hard at work painting. (Luckily, since I'm a wizard, I actually DO know how to shapeshift. Isn't fate artistic?)
Sooooo...that pretty much left Belarus down in the kitchen cooking on her own. Whereas I was upstairs comfortably seated on Russia's soft, plush bed, easily teaching him the basics of wizardry. Thanks, Belarus!
!
But Belarus, being the kind of person she is, got butthurt as I ranted on to Russia about how to shapeshift. I could hear Belarus' creepy (but it must be admitted, pleasant) voice saying:
„I'll get you back for that one, America," she finished bitterly. Although I don't see why because the whole thing was her fault. (I have to admit that I AM pretty scared). Oh well, Belarus logic.
Once Ukraine was done with the outhouse (and her shower) she came to help her little sister out.
Lunch was ready (if you're wondering why I skipped over breakfast, it's because Russia only grants us the 'grand honour' of breakfast on weekends. Today it's Monday) and it was smelling delicious. Belarus and Ukraine trotted in with makeshift chef hats (made out of paper ).
Belarus and Ukraine walked around serving everyone (you know how I said Belarus was really butthurt?). When Belarus came around to me, she just scowled at me and gave me my pizza...in the FACE. (Yeesh, what is wrong with that girl?)
When Ukraine came around to Russia, she put the pizza on his plate. But the second she put it on his plate, he began hysterically squealing and howling and crying like a baby.
„W-w-what's wrong, sir?" she said, wincing at his high-pitched squeals.
Russia said, in between snorts and sobs: „D-d-d-dis pizza has scattered olives! I want them in a STRAIGHT LINE!" and afterwards immediately continued his bawling.
„OK sir," said Ukraine, grabbing his plate and skipping off, happily singing the word ,wab' to the tune of ,Mary had a little lamb'.
30 seconds later, she came skipping back in and stoppped singing when she got over to Russia.
But as soon as she put the plate back, he took to his hysterical whining again."What now sir?" she said in a worried voice.
„D-d-d-dese olives are in a vertical line! I WANT THEM HORIZONTALLY!" and once again reverted to his blubbing.
Ukraine returned to the kitchen, this time singing ‚wab' to Vivaldi's ‚the Four Seasons', second movement. She came back still singing and put the plate on the table.
„Is THAT good enough for you, sir?" the bosomy girl exasperatedly sighed.
Russia nodded, wiped and sniffed away the last of his tears and started stuffing his face like the pig that he was (did I forget to mention he was chewing and smacking really loud with his mouth open? You could see all the shiny, doughy globs of gooey mush in his mouth) (OMG, I can't believe I used to be friends with this guy!).
After we had all finished with our lunches, Russia, still red and splotchy in the face from his recent bout of hysteria, said he had an announcement to make...
„Attention, slaves and slave-ettes! I am going to a sleepover at little Yao-yao's. "
„Poor ‚Yao-yao'," Albania whispered to Serbia (whom he has a crush on). I couldn't have agreed more.
„Now," said Russia firmly, „I would like you to clean the house while I am gone."
„Yeeees siiir," we all groaningly chorused.
„GOOOOOOOD," he menacingly spewed (straight into muh eye.)
„G'bye!" he blurted. In a jiffy he was out the door (outside you could hear his thickly accented voice squealing ‚Oh, this is going to be so much fun, da?').
After we'd all done our jobs, we were all thinking the same thing - but Bosnia and Herzegovina were the first to put it into words:
„PAAAAAARTYYYY!" the two whippersnappers (in the immortal words of old China-boy) blasted simultaneously. „Muh!," Hungary said. „That was random," Georgia interjected. Hungary shrugged. „Hatehatehatehatehate," thought my highly advanced mind.
After we had finished partying for ages (Bosnia and Herzegovina had already fallen asleep on top of each other, and Czech grabbed a blanket and ever so gently covered them with it), Ukraine had a revelation.
„I forgot," she exclaimed, „I had to sweep the basement!"
And so, Ukraine scuttled off like a cockroach. A very beautiful cockroach, that is.
Ten seconds later, we heard Ukraine's horrified girly shriek. In fact, it was so loud it blew Czech Republic's beret off (Dumnezeule*, that girl can really scream when she wants too).
We all ran downstairs to see what had happened. Albania cunningly armed himself with a loaf of rock-hard black Russian bread.
When we all got downstairs we saw Ukraine, eyes open wider than an airport runway, with her thin hands on her temples.
„Th-th-the VODKA! Latvia's drunk FOUR whole bottles of vodka!"
*Dumnezeule: means 'My God!' in Romanian
We all gasped in sheer horror at the thought of what Russia would do if he saw some of his PRECIOUS vodka missing :() .
„What are we going to do now?" sputtered East Germany (Prussia) in his crow-like voice.
„Fear not, I have a plan 'cos I'm, like, so smart and stuff!" Poland said, putting on a sneery face (nothing new here). The flirt continued, „OK guys, leesten to my brilliance. Phase 1: We gather whut liddle pocket money we hev-"(God, I love Poland's accent – I'm gonna keep reproducing it.)
While Transnistria's attention was diverted, Slovakia saw her chance. She slo-o-o-owly leaned over, trying to peer into Transnistria's bucket. Like an eagle, (NO, American otakus, I'm NOT talking about a bald eagle) Transnistria suddenly turned his head, fixing Slovakia with a deathly glare. The unfortunate nation-ette jumped back as a gasp of shock escaped her lips. In a flurry of fury, he quickly lifted his arm, swung it around and caught Slovakia on the temple with his bucket. Slovakia yelped and stumbled back.
„It'th not nithe to hit ladieth!" she lisped, on the brink of tears. Transnistria shrugged and turned back to look at Poland, who had interrupted his speech to stare at the two idiots brawling in the background. (Ever since he was a little micro-nation, Transnistria has always lugged a mysteeeeeeerious bucket around. Nobody actually knows what is in it, but everyone has their ideas and theories on this INTERESTING subject. MY personal theory is that he's keeping geranium seeds in there (OK, bad idea). As I was saying, he's very secretive about it, and won't tell anyone, no matter HOW much we bribe him. Whenever we ask him to play Truth or Dare with us, he only agrees to it if we all swear not to ask him anything about the bucket.)
„Eeeeeenyway, back to my ingenious plan. Phase 2: we use that money to buy vodka. Phase 3: We give Latvia a serious chewing-out and posseeblee a slap or two. Great plan, huh guys?" Poland inquired.
„All the stores will be closed by now," Bulgaria offered. „We should put your plan into action in the morning."
A devious smile crept over Poland's features. „Oh, but you see my plen eez CAPYRIGHTED," he crooned. „You can ONLY use it if you all bau daun to me and say 'Oh, thenk you, mighty and gracious Feliks'."
Everyone in the basement let out a loud groan.
„OK, OK," Poland said meekly blushing a bright shade of pink (just like his favorite colour. Weird, right?)
„Let's go to bed now," suggested Croatia.
We all agreed.
TO BE CONTINUED...