Disclaimer: I do not own FMA, Edward Elric, or Roy Mustang.

Ok, so this story is kinda dumb. And cliché. So what?

I just had the thought while sitting in algebra. (I hate algebra, so my mind tends to wander. A lot.) I heard the song "Size Matters" playing on the radio, and I burst out laughing. My teacher told me to quit disrupting class, and my friends thought I was laughing for a perverted reason. I wasn't, I swear! It made me think of Ed. And how he gets called short all the time. Nevertheless, I'm not sure how this story was born from that, but it was.

You can flame me if you want to, because I'm sure you've seen stories like this before.

Except the storyline, of course. That is entirely original and entirely mine.

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Edward Elric yawned. Today was a lazy day, and he had spent it lazing around his room. There wasn't much to do around Central, unless you had a mission or something. At the moment, Al was on a mail run, fetching the day's letters and such. Ed hoped that maybe the mail would bring something interesting.

"Brother?"

Al spoke timidly, sliding into the room.

"What is it, Al?" Ed said, stifling another yawn and sitting up from the couch.

"You got a … uh… letter."

"Yeah, and?"

"Well… here."

He threw the solitary envelope on the couch table, and ran for it.

Ed was confused. He picked up the letter. Emblazoned on it was:

To: Edward Elric, Fullmetal Chibi

From: Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist

Now you understand why Al ran.

In a blind rage, Ed threw himself down the hall. He didn't care what the letter was about. It was probably blank, anyway. The bastard would pay!

Roy looked up in surprise when his door came crashing down.

"Fullmetal, if you can't tell, I'm doing paperwork. And fix that door."

Ed said nothing. He stormed over to the Colonel's desk, and clapped his hands together.

"I'M NOT SHORT!"

45 minutes later

Fuhrer King Bradley strutted down the hall, followed by his entire brigade. He was about to send an important military official on an equally important mission. He and his team stopped in front of the door they had been seeking.

"Excuse me," the Fuhrer said, stepping into the room. "But I need to ask some-"

He stopped dead. There, in front of him, suspended upside down at the ankles by a rope hanging from the ceiling, stark naked, covering his "boy parts" with his hands, and sporting a rather red face, was Roy Mustang.

Moral: Don't mess with midgets.

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Well, there is it. It's not supposed to be like a proverb or anything. I just thought that the moral would add an extra zing.

But you really shouldn't tell midgets what they're already aware of.

I apologize to Edward.

Come on, Roy had it coming to him.

Well, maybe not.

Quit arguing and review!