Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, sadly enough. If I did, I'd be wallowing around in massive piles of money. Also, I'd be a man. But…money…! Anyway, just figured I'd give a hitherto uncreated character with potential for odd stories a chance; this version of Puerto Rico is the monster to my Frankenstein, only without the whole 'being made out of the clumsily stitched-together parts of corpses' bit. Mostly.

Sand. Sun. Piña coladas. Bioluminescent bays. Those were some of Puerto Rico's main attractions, which was why Alfred F. Jones had booked a flight to visit his adoptive sister/ unincorporated territory. Seriously, what could be better than great beaches filled with bikini-clad babes and glowing water? He was so busy wondering if diving into a bioluminescent bay would give him a permanent blue colour that would allow him to glow in the dark that he didn't even notice that Kita had been standing behind him for the past fifteen minutes chucking cheesy puffs at the back of his head while he stood in the centre of the crowded airport, clutching his luggage and blocking everyone's path.

It was only when the twenty-third cheesy puff struck the back of his head did Alfred turn around to see the blank-faced teen standing behind him, a half-empty bag of Wotsits clutched in her hand.

Short and curvy with blue-black hair, skin that looked like she never saw the sun (a surprising feat, considering that she lived on a tropical freaking island), Kita looked rather like a porcelain doll. The sort that stood on a mantelpiece, staring into your soul with its unblinking glass gaze and which you speculated might come to life during the night in order to rummage around in your cutlery drawer, specifically for knives. Maybe forks if your death was going to be especially prolonged and painful.

Undeterred by her lack of response, his face split into a wide grin and he grabbed the small girl up in a one-armed hug. "How're you doing, Kita?" Alfred said cheerily.

"As well as can be expected," Kita replied, her voice barely audible over the background noise and language soup of the crowded terminal. She made no motion to return the hug, keeping her arms dangling limply at her sides. Looking down, Alfred saw her eyes rolling around in their sockets as she attempted to take in everything at once. At one point, Kita's eyes actually rolled up into the back of her head, yellow irises disappearing to show only the sclera. Frowning, he pushed her away from him slightly, noticing the bloodshot appearance of her eyes and the dark circles beneath them.

"Okay," Alfred said. "Either you've been smoking some really good shit or you haven't been sleeping…Again." He flicked Kita, who was staring up at the ceiling as though it were the pinnacle of humanity's engineering, in the centre of her forehead, causing her to jerk her head down so quickly that he could hear her vertebra click into place. "Well, which is it? Weed or insomnia?" He repeated.

Kita's response was to look dazedly at him before her eyes widened in horrified realisation and she leaped back with a scream, knocking over a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki short pants and sending him onto the baggage carousel. No one claimed him and he was promptly sent to the lost property area by several disgruntled airline workers.

Meanwhile, Kita was once again staring vacantly into some yawning abyss that only she could see. From the look on her face, there must have been some pretty wicked things floating around in there. Probably teddy bears…with their heads ripped off and centipedes crawling out of the gaping neck holes, if her last explanation of her mind's default settings were anything to go by.

Rolling his eyes, Alfred snapped his fingers in front of her face several times; all that happened was that Kita's eyes once again bulged out of their sockets before she launched into another screaming fit and then promptly fell back into her cloudy-eyed fugue. Shaking his head, Alfred shrugged and ambled over towards a nearby Cinnabon stall. Perhaps the time spent procuring some delicious sugar-laden treats would be enough for Kita to wake up from her semi-comatose state? (All right, that was a lie; Alfred knew that she wouldn't wake up, he just really wanted some cinnamon buns coated in delicious sticky icing. Mm, icing…

When he returned fifteen minutes later, clutching six packs of Minibites and a mochalatta chill, she was, as he'd expected, still standing there, half-asleep. Alfred looked from Kita to the drink in his hand and back to Kita before stepping lightly on her foot, causing her mouth to creak open in a manner similar to a trash bin. Tilting her head back, he poured the caffeinated beverage down her throat and pinched her nostrils shut so that she had no other option but to swallow it. The results were instantaneous.

The mixture of chocolate and coffee had barely slid down Kita's throat when her eyes shot open, glittering with what could only be described as caffeine-induced mania. Enlivened by the legal drug coursing through her system, she then proceeded to cock her head to the side and began babbling a rushed string of incoherent words that made her sound like an mp3 file sped up with Windows Media Player.

"OhhelloAlfredwhendidyougethereIhadnoideathatyouwe rearrivingtodayandsorryaboutmybeingsospacedoutI've beenupforthepastweeksearchingfortheChupacabraIthin kitsbeenrootingaroundinmytrashbinsormaybeit'sjusts traycatsormayberaccoonswaitnoIdon'thaveracoonsdoyo uthinkyoucanimportsome,they'resocutewiththeirlittl eburglarmasksandteensypeoplehandsanddidyouknowthat racoonsrotatetheirhindfeetsothatthey'refacingbackw ardswhentheyclimbdowntreesandyeah,I'vebeenhavingth isrecurringdreamwhereIseethreecreepilyrealisticbab ydollsinafireplaceandthey'regettingburntbytheflame ssoItakethemoutbutwhenIexaminethedollsinsteadofbei ngburntplastictheyhaveawfullookingthirddegreeburns alloverthemandthewoundsareallbloodyandoozingandthe nthebabydollshavetearsformingintheireyesbuttheycan 'tmakeanysoundsandit'ssosadandthenIhearthisreallyl oudscreambutnoneoftheirmouthsaremovingbutthescream ingdoesn'tstopandthenthedollsturntoashinmyarmsandI wakeupneauseausandwantingtothrowupandsothat'swhyI' vebeensearchingforthechupacabrainmybackyardbecause Idon'tlikethedream." Kita paused for a moment to hold her breath. "So, are you here to help me catch that pesky chupacabra?" She asked brightly.

Alfred stared blankly at her for a good long moment. "You know what," he said finally. "I'm just gonna use the tried-and-true method that Antonio suggested to me between his tears when you came to live with me, and just go along with your sleep-deprived schemes."

Kita clapped her hands together. "Hooray, chupacabra hunt!" She cried, and, grabbing his valise by the handle, ran out of the airport's exit, ducking around several nervous-looking passers-by who gave her a wide berth as she scrambled past them.

"I miss being the weird sibling," he said to himself as he watched a wide-eyed Kita terrify a heavily bearded man with an anecdote about how insects would "agitatedly scurry through the tangled network of his face brambles as he slept, clicking their mandibles in frustration and eventually seeking solitude in more navigable areas, such as down his throat and inside of his ear canals", causing him to flee in the opposite direction while shrieking something about purchasing a package of disposable razors and a can of Raid. Meanwhile, Kita continued to chase after the man, nearly knocking over several people as she continued to explain that the bugs might also choose to nest in his pubic hair before burrowing themselves in through his urinary meatus, thus clogging his urethra like a toilet and causing horrible seminal back-up.

"And then your testicles will EXPLODE. Explode like an EGG IN A MICROWAVE OVEN, but with more blood! And SEMEN!" Kita shouted, causing everyone in her vicinity to slowly back away.

"I have really got to get her some Lunesta," Alfred declared. "This whole not sleeping thing is really messing her up." He'd barely finished his sentence when Kita promptly curled up on the floor like a kitten and fell asleep just centimetres from the exit, letting out an odd mewling sound in place of snores. "Yeah, definitely Lunesta. Or maybe just a blunt object to the head, I dunno."

XXX

After several incidents involving Kita nearly driving them off the motorway and into a lake, crashing into a school bus laden with children and somehow sending it spinning off the road and into a fruit stand, which for some reason exploded as though it were a Pinto, narrowly avoiding running over an old woman pushing a trolley full of kitty litter across the street and finally culminating in them being pulled over by the police…For not having the blinkers on. Alfred could only face-palm as the police then proceeded to mistake Kita for a pre-adolescent due to her short height and the fact that the only parts of her that would give away her age weren't visible since she apparently decided that trolling the police was a brilliant idea and had only opened the window a tiny crack rather than rolling it all the way down. Eventually, however, the incident was remedied. By her stomping on the accelerator and speeding away at roughly a-hundred-and-fifty kilometres per hour before they could write out a ticket, leaving the police to shout impotent threats and wave their fists while they choked on the noxious cloud of exhaust gas that her tailpipe belched out as she and Alfred flew down the road, leaving a trail of destruction and flaming tyre tracks in their wake.

After that adventure, the two of them finally managed to pull up in front of Kita's house, which happened to the only one situated on the plot of land that it occupied. Looking over at the dark, dense foliage looming behind the house through the fog, Alfred felt a wave of apprehension roll over him as his mind was filled with images of hockey mask-wearing, machete-wielding serial killers wandering the forest in search of hapless tourists to disembowel before turning their scalps into lampshades and making godless love to their corpses.

Yeah, I can definitely see a chupa-whatsis living around here, he thought to himself. Turning to Kita, who was having a difficult time unbuckling her safety harness due to her current caffeine-powered state, he voiced the opinion that any other urban-dweller would have had when faced with such an eerie and isolated area: "How the hell do you live here?"

Finally freed from her safety harness, Kita nonchalantly pushed her door open, only to catch her foot on God-only-knew-what and fall facedown onto the grass. Pulling herself to her feet, she wiped the dew accumulated on her shirtfront while giving Alfred a look that clearly stated that she thought he was of the sort whose hobbies included licking windows and attempting masturbation with household appliances such as vacuum cleaners.

"One, I hate having neighbours; seriously, fuck that noise. Two, since there's no one else around for at least eight kilometres, I can do essentially anything without getting the police called on me for my less… savoury hobbies. And three, where the hell else would I be able to search for the chupacabra, ass jacket? No self-respecting, blood-hungry cryptid would live in the city! There aren't enough goats, for one thing, and the price of real estate is fucking mental." She shook her head, looking disgusted. "Two thousand a month for a flat the size of a walk-in closet…Kita muttered. "I'd sooner hire some random thug to skull-fuck the landlord for that same price they're asking for rent than pay that much for some shit flat you could spit from one end to the other in!" Her diatribe over, she turned her slightly twitching gaze on Alfred, who was pulling up the boot of her car in order to remove his luggage.

"So that's why you had that court summons last year," he said as he slammed the lid down. Alfred quirked his eyebrows at Kita, who had abandoned her ranting in order to chase around what appeared to be a small Asian mongoose that had previously been snoozing on her veranda while repeating the words "mon mon mon mon mon goose" over and over again.

Having finally the caught the creature, she ran up to Alfred while holding the sleepy-looking mongoose above her head like a furry little trophy. "All hail Mongoolord, divine emperor of Feliformia!" Kita declared. Smiling, she held the mongoose out towards Alfred, at which point it lost its placid expression in order to flail and screech like something possessed, baring its horrid, needle-like dentition and swiping at his face with its claws. He backed away whilst wondering if the red hue of its eyes was just a trick of the light.

Wait a minute, the sky is overcast. His eyes widened. Oh shit balls, demon weasel!

Kita, meanwhile, was still shoving her pet into Alfred's face, oblivious to the fact that it obviously wanted nothing more than to chew through his eyeballs before tearing his face off and wearing it like a maggot-riddled meat-mask. "You're not hailing!" She scolded.

"Get that thing away from me! It wants my soul!" Alfred shouted back as he ran towards her house in an attempt to escape the mad duo.

"Am I in a pair of knickers, because I'm seeing a giant pussy in front of me," the mongoose said in a rather haughty-sounding cut-glass accent, a fact which was rather hilarious given its choice of words. Extending a paw out in a manner that indicated that Alfred ought to be flattered that it deigned to bother doing so, it gave Alfred a salute before curling itself around Kita's neck and batting at the hair that she'd left to flow loose from the high pigtails tied near the top of her head. "The name is Reyes. Psicó Reyes," he introduced himself a la James Bond.

Alfred blinked. "Uh…Why do you have a mongoose as a pet? Aren't they, like, vectors for rabies and shit?"

Upon hearing the word pet, Psicó bristled and bared his teeth again. "I am not a pet. I am an animal companion. And I've had my rabies shot, you twat-sucking cum barge!"

Kita stroked his head with a finger. "Now, now, Psicó, don't listen to Alfred. He suffers from this disorder called diarrhoea of the mouth. It's very tragic. Now, what say you and I go inside and cook up some chicken for lunch?"

Psicó looked up at her. "Can I wear the tiny top hat and tails you made for me?" He asked hopefully.

Kita nodded. "Mm-hm. We can put on the miniature monocle, too, if you want."

Alfred could do little more than stare after them in confusion as they walked up the front steps and into the house discussing the benefits of silk versus cotton in the production of waistcoats before chalking it up to general eccentricity and following after them with his luggage.

"I can't believe that I always forget how weird Kita is after just a few months of…not…seeing her…He trailed off when he saw the aforementioned girl in the kitchen standing over a frozen chicken with a hair dryer while wearing a look of the utmost concentration on her face and Psicó, looking like a weasel version of the Monopoly Man, nudged the refrigerator door closed with his head before dragging a sack of onions towards her.

"Uhm," Alfred began slowly, "what are you doing?"

"Defrosting the chicken," Kita answered brightly, and switched the hair dryer's settings to high.

Alfred shrugged. "That's actually a pretty good idea," he admitted. Then he gestured towards his bag. "Where can I put this?" He asked.

"In the room on the second floor, three doors down to your left," Kita said over the noise of the hair dryer. "Oh, and don't worry about the knife underneath your pillow," she added. "I keep one underneath every pillow in the house."

Once again, all Alfred could do was stare at her in bewilderment. "Why do you keep knives there?" He finally asked.

"In case of home invasion, obviously," Kita said. At that moment, the hair dryer died with a sad little sputter and a series of sparks that just missed setting Alfred's eyebrows on fire. "Curse you and your poor quality products, Yao!" She shouted, throwing the hair dryer out of the thankfully open kitchen window.

If she had neighbours, the rules of comedy would have demanded that one of them be outside in the path of the incoming hair dryer in order to shout "my eye", or some variation thereof. Kita didn't have any neighbours, however, so nothing of the sort happened. Alfred couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed; God knew how many people he'd inadvertently injured by throwing so much as a penny back in New York.

While Alfred was busy reminiscing about life back in the Big Apple and denouncing Kita's home as a rapist/murderers/cultists/murderous rapist cultist's dream locality, Kita had taken the opportunity to draw a moustache on his face with a Sharpie procured from the pocket of her pullover. Alfred didn't even notice until she held a spoon up towards his face in order for him to see his reflection.

"I mean, I'm too awesome to be killed by a cloak-wearing weirdo with a clown fetish and aspirations of having sex with an M-80 stuck up his ass while he reads me passages from a satanic bible and when did I grow a moustache?" Alfred asked.

"While you were talking to yourself," Kita said with a completely straight face. "Much in the same way that carbon dioxide exhaled by humans during speech fosters plant growth; it does the same with the hair follicles. Why, there's been ground-breaking research in the field of hair regrowth for male-pattern baldness in which scientists continuously breathe onto a balding man's scalp for two hours. After a month of bi-weekly sessions, participants in the study noticed a marked increase in hair growth. It's quite amazing, really."

"Wow, that's really-Wait, are you fucking with me?" Alfred asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

Kita nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry." Silence reigned for several minutes, broken only by the sudden re-emergence of Psicó from inside of the icebox, holding a bottle of vodka in his mouth.

"Anyone care for a foray into blissful intoxication and subsequent ill-advised shenanigans possibly involving awkward sexual encounters?" He asked as he balanced the bottle upright with his tail before leaping onto the counter.

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, throwing a confused look at Kita. "Translation?"

"Do you want to get shitfaced?" Kita summarised.

At that, Alfred pumped his fist in the air, all thoughts of possible rapist murder cults lurking in the woods forgotten at the prospect of getting sloshed. "Hells yeah! Booze is my middle name!" He declared.

Kita blinked. "I thought it was Fucking?"

"Speaking of which," Psicó said as he read the print on the back of the bottle's label. "This comes with a warning. Just thought you would like to know."

"What's it say?" Alfred asked.

Clearing his throat, Psicó began to read the tiny print, squinting as he did so. "Warning: The contents of this bottle may cause you to get naked, get religious, and/or get arrested. Use in moderation." He turned his head towards Kita. "You might want to have some condoms on hand."

Alfred recoiled in disgust even as Kita's eye began to violently tick. "Dude, we're like, related, sorta!" Alfred shouted feeling slightly nauseated at the thought.

"Just the thought of Alfred naked caused my mons pubis to stretch up and seal my major orifices closed," Kita added.

Psicó looked strangely at them. If he had eyebrows, he would have raised them, but he didn't, a fact which saddened him on occasions such as these, which warranted a good dose of eyebrow rising. "All right," he said. "I actually meant for myself. There's a very lovely lady mongoose I've been seeing for a while and while I intensely enjoy drunken frenzied love-making, I certainly do not want to accidentally wind up with a litter that I'll ultimately wind up having to dole out large amounts of child support for after a nasty custody battle which I'll be doomed to lose."

Alfred looked tiredly at Kita. "Put that in non-hauteur for me, please," he sighed.

Kita slid up onto the counter. "Psicó is going to get his bone on tonight and needs little mongoose-sized condoms so that he won't get his girlfriend pregnant. Also, he likes sloppy drunk sex, apparently." She threw Psicó a stern look. "Speaking of your liking of intoxicated one-night stands, Mister, I hope you're being careful at all times. If not, well, you'll know where you contracted leptospirosis from."

Psicó rolled his beady eyes. "Yes, mother," he said sarcastically.

Alfred pulled up one of the chairs at the kitchen table and threw himself onto it. "Are you two seriously having a stereotypical parent-teenager interaction about sex?" He demanded.

"Yes," Kita and Psicó said at the same time.

"Talking to a mongoose about STIs," Alfred muttered. He held his hand out. "Yeah, I need a drink."

Kita threw the bottle of vodka at him. "Try and keep your trousers on," she advised when he caught it. "No one needs to see the oversized clitoris that passes for your penis except for the doctors studying it. And maybe Arthur when he's in need of a laugh."

"Ha, ha," Alfred said dryly before knocking back a large swig of the vodka. After the burning in his throat had ebbed down to a mild ache, he plunked the bottle down onto the table. "Keep being such a snarky little dick waffle and I'll stick a frog in your bed while you sleep again."

Kita yawned. "Frogs? How passé. If you really want to freak someone out, you stick a still-beating sheep's heart on a hook hanging over their head before waking them up while dressed as a clown wearing hooker boots and a pork pie hat and holding a dagger or nothing. Maybe make it a banana for humour's sake. Or a…dildo, that'd be really freaky. I don't know. Give that vodka over here."

Alfred gulped down another swig before passing the bottle over to her. "I'm starting to think something's wrong with you, Kita," he said as she poured herself some of the clear liquid into the first thing she could find, which just so happened to be a mason jar.

"That's rich, coming from the guy who talks to aliens and who still thinks that the Roswell incident wasn't just a weather balloon crash," Kita countered.

"I'm telling you, that's real!" Alfred screeched, slamming his palms down on the table hard enough to split it in half. "Oops," he said when it collapsed in a pile of wood fragments and broken china.

Kita looked sadly at the mound of splinters that was once her kitchen table. "I just bought that two months ago from IKEA."

Alfred nudged the remainders of the table with his foot. "Shit, no wonder it broke. IKEA sucks more than Paris Hilton at a penis party."

Meanwhile, down in Stockholm, Berwald sneezed, certain that someone had just slandered the good name of his lucrative ready-to-assemble furniture. Eyes glinting, he took his sword from out of its case and proceeded to sharpen it with a whetstone, ready to cut down any and all denigrators because, hey, it had been a while since he got to go Viking on someone. He was starting to miss the feeling of stabbing throats.

Back in Río, Kita sighed over the mess in her kitchen before snatching up a nearby broom and walloping Alfred over the head with it so hard that it broke in half over his head. Tossing aside the halves, she fixed a dirty look on him. "You owe me a new broom."

"Me?" Alfred demanded incredulously. "You're the one who hit me!"

"Yeah, well, maybe if your head wasn't the result of skull sorcery and cocoanut sperm tossing each other a mercy fuck, the broom wouldn't have broken," Kita countered.

Alfred threw himself back onto the chair, which promptly collapsed beneath him with a sound like the cracking of a gunshot. "What does that even mean?" He muttered from his spot atop the pile of broken wood.

"It means that your head can be used in place of dynamite for breaking apart rocks and that you owe me five dollars for a new broom. Oh yeah, and you don't get any ice cream," Kita added.

Alfred's jaw dropped to the floor. "No ice cream because I accidentally broke a broom?!"

Kita shook her head. "No, that's not why you don't get any ice cream."

"Then why the hell not?!" Alfred shrieked, doing an incredible imitation of a petulant toddler, red face and all. The only thing that could have made his performance even more realistic was if he were to crap his trousers before going off to sulk in the corner in order to watch Teletubbies.

"Because I don't actually have any ice cream. I just wanted to get your hopes up," Kita said.

For a moment, the kitchen fell into a silence so pregnant that it must've given birth to octuplets before Alfred flopped onto his back, wincing as a particularly large splinter began to make its way into his right buttock. "So, no dessert?"

The response he received was a rough poke delivered by an umbrella. "Not unless you like bread pudding," Kita answered.

"Not really," Alfred said after a moment.

Upon hearing those words, Kita's face twisted into a nightmare-worthy grimace that would've made Hieronymus Bosch shit his britches before adding it into the third section of his The Garden of Earthly Delights triptych. "You don't like bread pudding?" Kita asked quietly.

"Uhm…no," Alfred said, the realisation of the colossal shit-storm that was about to be unleashed going ignored in favour of his brain constantly replaying him the image of circus bear with a triangular party hat and a ruffled collar riding around in circles on a unicycle.

Kita smiled serenely at him. "That's cool, I've got brownies in the fridge," she assured him. "Now, go put your things away and Psicó and I will finish preparing lunch."

Psicó looked from her to Alfred. "Just so you know, there's a fifty percent chance that I'll shit in your bowl," he informed Alfred.

"How come I get the shit-encrusted chicken?"

"Because fuck you, that's why. The whole world is my toilet."

"…You're a real asshole, you know that?"

Kita chose that moment to re-enter the conversation, having tired of her imagination spot involving being a spectator at a monkey knife fight and cheering on the man of the match, Furious George. "I once stumbled upon a website itemizing various objects removed from people's anuses at hospitals. One guy stuck a bunch of mercury thermometers up his and died when he sat down and they shattered inside of him and he died from mercury poisoning when it seeped into the cuts. It was awkward," she stated matter-of-factly, as though she were giving a synopsis of the weather.

Alfred blinked once, twice, three times, than cleared his throat, coughing into his hand as he did so. "Wow. Uhm. Yeah. That's pretty awkward." He scratched his head. "Why do people with stuff stuck up their butts always say that they fell on the thing? Like, do they really expect doctors to just accept 'I was hanging up drapes while naked when I slipped and landed asshole-first on a potato' with a smile and a nod? Seriously, what the fuck?"

Having shoved the chicken inside, Kita kicked the oven door shut before turning around to face Alfred. "Well," she said, "would you admit to anyone that you just got bored one day and decided to try your hand at inserting a potentially-dangerous foreign object up your stink-hole?"

"Depends on how drunk I am at the time and this conversation is starting to get weird. So, how about them, uh…" Alfred tossed his hands up into the air in frustration. "C'mon, help me out here!"

Kita drummed her fingers against the countertop, looking thoughtful. "Drunken sailors?"

Alfred gaped at her. "What the hell do drunken sailors have to do with anything? Fucking random..."

"They're the dogged few who actually manoeuvre the winding roads and dense forest that serve as natural barriers towards unwanted guests in order to try and tell me this mad thing about how we shouldn't have blood transfusions or salute national flags," Kita explained. "And let me tell you, after fighting their way through all of my booby traps, they do not take 'suck my metaphorically existing balls' for an answer," she added.

"…Those are Jehovah's Witnesses," Alfred said after a moment had passed by. "Not drunk sailors."

In response, Kita shrugged. "Whatever. Point is, I don't know how they always manage to avoid the spike-pit, but the grenade with a wire tied to the pin that's pulled by the turn of the doorknob ought to take care of them."

"By take care of them, you mean blow them to smithereens," Alfred said dully.

"Uh-huh," Kita confirmed. "There's nothing quite like the gentle pitter-patter of chunks of brain matter plopping onto the ground like so many raindrops."

Alfred threw her a sidelong glance. "Are you bigoted towards Jehovah's Witnesses?"

Much to his surprise, Kita actually looked rather chagrined. "What? No! I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope! Don't you remember the time I caved Antonio's skull in when he jumped out to wish me a happy birthday and scared me while I just so happened to be holding a spanner?"

"Haha, yeah, he was like 'Feliz cumple-OW!" and then you had to drive him to the accident and emergency because you ended up giving him a subdural hematoma. Don't you think the grenade thing is kind of extreme, though?" Alfred asked.

Kita stared blankly at him. "No," she said. "You should see what I did to the postman," she added. Her face took on a dreamy expression. "He'll never look at lawn gnomes the same way again."

Alfred sat down on one of the remaining chairs, pleasantly surprised when it didn't collapse under him. "I don't wanna know, do I?" He said.

"Not unless you like stories that end with the words 'and although he survived, he'll never walk again'," Kita said.

"You crippled him?" Alfred demanded, looking horrified. "Are you rock-fuck insane?!"

Kita simply threw him a dreamy smile. "Indeed, and I enjoy every minute of it whilst having enough self-awareness to realise just how messed in the head I truly am. By the way, you might want to lock your bedroom door tonight; I'm a sleep-strangler, or so Antonio claims, anyway." Kita continued to smile, giggling to herself at random intervals. Psicó joined in as well, their laughter merging to form an eerie chorus the likes of which one only ever heard in horror movies right before the killer pops out of seemingly nowhere and buries a hatchet into the nerdy guy's skull.

Feeling cold all of a sudden, Alfred wrapped his arms around himself and wondered whether or not it was too late for him to make his way back to the airport and book a flight back to New York.

A/N: I was sleepy when I wrote this. It's pretty obvious. Mm, Lunesta.