If anyone that's seen this movie can suggest a better name, then please go ahead and tell me.
This will shadow the movie, but I will do my best to keep it as different as possible. Some lines may have been taken directly from the movie, so I shall start this off with saying that I don't own either Some Like it Hot or Hetalia.
Thank Fem!Italy for the idea. Somehow, I see her as a Marilyn Monroe-type character, and so I might also write a Hetalia version of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes when this is done.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
"You ready Jones?" Ivan asked. The American suppressed a shudder. Whoever had the bright idea to assign the Russian as his partner on this case needed to have their head examined.
But he just gave a bright grin, "As always Braginski. This speakeasy is going down, now that the Hero is on the case!"
"You have to admit," the Russian said, "It was quite ingenious of them to hide it in a funeral parlor, da?"
Alfred glared at him, "Commie, don't compliment the villains. It's not heroic at all."
Braginski just smiled at him, and Alfred sighed.
"We're in there to close this organization down and bring in Tomato Romano."
"Tomato?"
"Named because he's always eating a tomato. Funnily enough, he doesn't mind the name. He leaves bruised tomatoes behind at his crime scenes as some sort of calling card."
"But if he likes tomatoes so much, then…"
"He doesn't like bruised tomatoes. That's all."
"Ah," the Russian nodded, and handed over the other man's gun, "Good luck, Jones."
The American snorted, "Heroes don't need luck from stinking Commies."
"Then should I ask for you to die?" he smiled at the shorter man, "I would be happy to do so if that will help?"
Jones scoffed at it, "Don't be stupid, Commie."
"Remember, Jones, the password is that you're going to your great-aunt's funeral," the larger man handed over a tie that the American grudgingly accepted, "In order to get a side-table, say…"
"That I'm one of the pall-bearers, yeah, I know," Alfred interrupted, finishing tying his tie that he needed for admission, "I'm ready. Send in the troops after about five minute, alright?"
The Russian nodded, and Jones turned to walk into the parlor.
It was time to take down this illegal establishment.
…
Ludwig breathed heavily on his hands to warm them up before lifting his gleaming trumpet to his lips and playing. Next to him, Arthur grinned as his fingers ran up and down his guitar, playing as though he had been born to it. For all the German knew, the Englishman had been born to it.
"We're getting paid tonight," the smooth-talking Brit hissed at him happily, "And…"
"Not another vord," usually his glare was enough to shut most people up; too bad the Brit wasn't most people, "I am not participating in one of your insane schemes again."
"This time the thing's for sure! The Britannia Angel is sure to win!"
"That's vhat you said about the Prussian Blue," Ludwig rolled his eyes and paused in his conversation to play a bit before continuing the conversation, "And it cost us all of our money right before we lost our jobs."
"This time I'm sure! The odds are 10-to-1! We'll be rich!"
"And I reiterate, that's vhat you said last time."
"Hey, if we don't win, we just bide our time until our next payday."
"Vhich might not be as soon as you think," the German responded, his eyes traveling over the crowd.
"What makes you say that? This job is steady!"
As he carefully replaced his trumpet, slowly, he inclined his head at the messy-haired blonde who was currently adjusting his police badge under his coat.
Arthur let out a quick swear as he packed up his guitar, and both of them carefully made their way out of there, exiting with barely any time to spare as a cacophony of noise started up inside as the officer revealed himself.
"Good eye," was all Arthur said as they ran off, "But I'm guessing we're not getting paid tonight."
They walked in silence for a bit, trying to keep from being noticed, when Arthur finally spoke up.
"I wonder if the bookie will take coats as collateral…"
"No. Ve'll freeze!"
"Look, tomorrow we'll have twenty overcoats. Trust me."
"No, ve're not doing it! You cannot talk me into this!"
…
"Tomato Romano, huh?"
Amber eyes peered up at him from beneath the dark brim of his fedora, but other than that the mobster's only move was to lift a bright red tomato to his lips and take a huge bite out of it. It wasn't until he finished chewing that he responded.
"Si?" his tenor voice sounded bored as he took another bite.
"Well," Alfred grinned, "It looks like we finally caught you. Quite an ingenious idea, hiding a speakeasy in a funeral parlor like this.'
"What are you talking about?" the Italian tilted his hat back, allowing the American to see a young-looking face with a glare of ice.
"This is yours…"
"No. I am un cliente, like everyone else here."
"Don't lie to me, Tomato, you're the one providing alcohol for this establishment."
"Lies. You're just costing the taxpayers money with stunts like these."
"Well, how about you tell that to your friends down at the station?" Ivan had rejoined him with his handcuffs in his hand, "You might want to call your lawyer."
"These are mio lawyers," Romano lazily waved his hand, gesturing to s brawny companions, all of whom stood with stern looks on their faces, "All graduates from Harvard."
"Um, yeah, sure, whatever."
The Italian smirked, no one would be able to hold Tomato Romano, no matter how hard they tried.