A Game Called Grenades
"Alfred, I think it's time you learned how to use a grenade." England said. Alfred, being the eager boy that he was, slouched out of the kitchen (which smelled faintly of rotten tomatoes) and into the small backyard behind his and England's' Victorian home. Normally, he would be excited about learning to use a 'slightly' dangerous weapon. He was going through a stage, England had said, like all boys do.
"Can't I learn how to shoot a musket?" Alfred whined. He was only four, but yearning how to use guns. I wanna be a cowboy!
"My dear bo-"
"I wanna be a cowboy! I wanna be a cowboy! I wanna be a cowboy! I wanna..." At this point, England brought out a foghorn (they have no shortage of these in England) and-
" I wanna be a cow-" PAAAAAAAAAAAARP! England was breathing heavily now, and wished he had never brought up the subject of weapons.
"Now, now, Alfred. You are going to learn how to use a grenade, whether you like it or not. Even these have been rigged so that they can't detonate. I'm a responisble adult, so mine is real." But Alfred was not done with his rant.
"But cowboys don't use grenades! COWBOY! COWBOY! COWBOY!" Alfred said it so many times that it started to sound funny to Arthur's ears.
"COW-B-BOY! COBOY! CO-WBOEY! CEWBOY! COYBOY! COWYBOY!" England threw his grenade to the ground in frustration.
What he didn't realize was that the ring was still around his finger.
"OHGODALFREDDUCK!" England screamed.