So one of my best friends and fellow fanfic writer TrebleTwenty (go check her out) came up with the idea of this Saga: Every time America celebrates his independence on July 4th, he wakes up the following day with an insane hangover and in some kind of compromising position. This is the first in the series (purely because I finished this first), and we have SO many hilarious ideas (if i do say so myself) for this collection (just you wait...). Enjoy m'lovelies!


Alfred F. Jones was woken by an intense burning on his eyelids. As the light behind his eyes turned from black to orange, he became aware of the bacon-sizzling heat that was ravishing his entire body. Alfred cracked an eye open, only to be assaulted by the intense glare from his glasses lens. He hissed and clamped his eyes shut again, grumbling something about "kicking the Sun's ass with a dose of freedom and liberty" when a thought suddenly occurred to him –

"Where the hell am I anyway?" he murmured, draping his forearm across his brow to shield his sensitive blue eyes. Still blind, Alfred attempted to prop himself up on his other elbow, only to cause a violent jerk, accompanied by loud splashing sounds as the elbow sank into something soft and rubbery.

"What the hell man?!" he shouted as his eyes instinctively snapped open, and Alfred was met with an image of the ocean. A vast, never-ending body of water that he recognised as the Atlantic – he could never forget it, half of his country was surrounded by it after all (never so literally as now mind you).

"Man this picture is freaking beautif- WOAH WHAT THE HOLY HELL?" he was now aware of the gentle rhythm of waves all around him; water lapping at the bright orange rubber dinghy that he was aboard, still slightly swaying from the elbow incident.

"Dude, this better be some of that 4D cinema shit Japan was going on about,"

Alfred frantically whipped his head around, only to be met with more unending sea. He froze in the boat, just staring at the horizon as if willing it to become a crowded row of cinema seats. It took him a long time to take in all of this information (nothing unusual there):

He was lying down…

…In a rubber dinghy (bright orange no less)…

…In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

When Alfred had finally adjusted (as much as one can adjust to such a preposterous turn of events), he turned back to the dingy and –after some stumbling - sat cross-legged on the floor of his new home. He buried his head in his hands and attempted to recollect the actions that had led to his current situa-

July 4th.

"Why am I even surprised?" Alfred groaned as vague images began to resurface in his mind: a kick-ass party, his fellow nations partying it up like it was 1969, being led into a rubber dinghy… wait a sec. He focused on that memory so hard that he began to exert a high pitched whining sound akin to that of a dying ostrich but for the life of him, Alfred F. Jones simply COULD NOT remember who had led him into this orange abomination. He sighed tiredly, only to become acutely aware that he was incredibly thirsty. He scanned the dinghy in vain, only to realise the state of his own appearance when his eyes landed on the crumpled suit-pants his crossed legs were clad in. Alfred's shirt was unbuttoned nearly all the way down (an image of France's pervy face immediately assaulted his mind) and stained with some kind of liquor. His tie hung over his right shoulder and there was no evidence of footwear to be seen. This had once been a majestic azure suit, complimented by a glittery red tie (Alfred had thought it was a bit girly at first, until he realised he totally rocked it) but now it was a dishevelled mess of red, white and blue ("a bit like Arthur's flag, ooooooh snap!" Alfred thought to himself).

"Woah, must've been one hell of a party – well obviously it was because I was the host, yeah!" he croaked out a laugh but then caught himself, realising that he was (already) beginning to sound insane(r) and that he really needed a drink. He started fantasising about McDonald's milkshake when he veered off into imaging how great a cheeseburger would be right now. As he started to drool, Alfred was aware of just how dire his situation was.

There was no food or drink in this orange monstrosity. Nutrition isn't usually a problem for nations as they can't die unless they're de-nationed (don't question me about Prussia's existence – he claims to be the personification of 'awesome' now), however it's well known that Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, has a monstrous appetite. This knowledge alone was threatening to send Alfred over the rails, and just as he was about to throw his head back and scream at the clouds, his eye caught something at the other end of the boat (how he hadn't noticed it before can be put down to his narcissistic tendencies). Something small and thin and yellow, a tiny beacon of hope in this liquid wasteland…

A McDonald's chip.


"Day 6 – me and Alfred Jr. are still sailing the open sea," Alfred announced as he leaned over the side of the rubber dinghy. In the initial moments of discovering the McDonald's chip, he was going to stuff the tiny morsel between his teeth and be done with it. However, Alfred quickly realised that this was the only scrap of food left in his life and that he would savour it until he absolutely needed it - already coming close oh so many times to devouring the little fry. He cupped it in his hands now like an injured bird and looked down fondly at his little potato-friend. Alfred had become quite fond of the chip, even going so far to name 'him' 'Alfred Jr.'. At first Alfred was worried about the affection he had developed for Alfred Jr., but as the days past and he found himself getting lonelier, he had embraced the idea of having a McDonald's fry as a son. In fact the idea of eating little Alfie made his stomach wrench from the potential loss of his only companion.

"I'll never eat you, Alfie..." Alfred whispered into his hand, rubbing his cheek softly against the potato-morsel. The chip was silent.

As the days had rolled past, Alfred had become more and more uncomfortable aboard the dinghy. He now wore his shirt around his waist and his trousers were rolled up to his knees. He had decided to fasten his tie around his forehead to absorb his mountains of sweat, but really he thought it made him look more like Rambo –too proud to admit the fact that Rambo's bandana wasn't glittery.

"There's just no way this," he rambled as he gestured to his body "-could ever not look totally sexy". The fact of the matter was that Alfred was losing it: lack of water & food and real company (he would never admit that Alfred Jr. wasn't real company though, fully convincing himself that he was a living, breathing person) and his beloved PSP was taking its toll on the young nation. Nobody knew the effects of malnutrition on a nation (Russia had lived solely on vodka for 4 months once and he was fine, but nobody else had bothered to try), but it was becoming evident that it effects them. At least, it was affecting Alfred - the possibility of one day filling his aching stomach with a rack of barbeque ribs was too much for him. Before he knew what he was doing, he snapped back into reality to discover the horror: He was licking Alfred Jr. from the palm of his dry hands. Alfred screeched.

"Alfred Jr.! Alfie, I'm s-so sorry! Please forgive me!" he screamed as he flung himself backwards onto his ass to the other end of the boat. Alfred Jr. had fallen to the floor in the commotion, still and unresponsive.

"I'd never hurt you little dude! I-it was an accident, I swear-"cut off by a sob, Alfred curled into the foetal position, shaking and murmuring about "never hurting his potato-child… I'm such a terrible father…" and cried himself to sleep.


"Day… 7? Is it 7, Alfie?" Alfred asked the fry, which had now been propped upright against the edge of the dinghy by a tentative and apologetic Alfred. The nation was waiting for an answer from Alfred Jr., but his son was being his usual silent self.

"Not feeling chatty today buddy? I understand…" Alfred said sadly as he remembered the events from the previous day. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his once immaculate trousers, frowning as his fingers graced a piece of paper. Alfred fished it out and eyed the crumpled paper suspiciously, slowing turning over the folds. He held the paper away from him to get a look at the whole thing when his face lit up with recognition.

"Dude, this is me! It's my map!" Alfred said excitedly. He now held a map of the United States of America – something he always carried around in case anyone questioned how big he was (The nation gave a childish snicker when he remembered this). He gazed at it longingly now, tracing the pad of his index finger along his coast from Maine to Miami, then around to New Orleans and onto Los Angeles, up to Seattle, circling Alaska lovingly with the thumb of his free hand.

"Yo Alfie, Daddy's gonna give you a little geography lesson," The nation got up and collected the morsel between his thumb and index finger, not looking directly at it lest he get tempted to eat his only friend again. Alfred sat in the dinghy, placed the fry gently on his lap and opened the map again.

"This is where I became a man, son." The nation recalled fondly with his finger on Philadelphia, relaying the memory of when he adopted the Declaration of Independence to Alfred Jr., who was stunned into silence.

When Alfred F. Jones had finished a full account of his nation's history, he tried to estimate where exactly he was in the Atlantic.

"Judging by the direction of the wind, I'd say that we're well on my way to the Western Sahara…" however, Alfred being Alfred, only carried a map of HIS country, so the coast of Africa wasn't visible on his map. He took one last look at where the sea met the sky and decided to call it a day.


Pirates.

All Alfred F. Jones could think about was pirates. He was beginning to fancy himself as one too.

"If limey old Arthur can be a pirate then there's no doubt that I can too!" Alfred babbled to Alfred Jr., who sat in his usual place against the side of the dingy. "We'll take what we want, dude! Do what we want! We'll sail the seven seas – as soon as we figure a way out of this one – and then I'll be remembered as the ruthless delinquent! 'Captain Alfred F. Jones', with his first mate: Alfred Jr.! On the S.S. Liberty! Hahahaha!" At this point Alfred was untying the shirt from around his waist and morphing it into a flag of sorts, but upon realising there was no mast for his flag he stood up as straight as possible in an attempt to BECOME a flag pole; holding his shirt out so the wind would catch it. After a few minutes of standing like this, the nation began to feel numb and a bit stupid, so he collapsed back into the rubber boat. Thoroughly disheartened that he couldn't play pirate, stories that Arthur had told him as a child began to float across his memory – tales of theft, murder, riches and women (granted, Francis had filled out the details of the latter as there was no way Arthur would tell that kind of stuff to a SMALL CHILD). Alfred had always envied Arthur's adventures: to be able to do whatever he wanted and for it to be socially acceptable (not that this was a major concern for Alfred, who did whatever the fuck he wanted anyway 'cause #yolo) was something he had never been a part of. Whenever he did something childish or conceited, he was always scolded by someone, whether it was another nation or his boss.

"That's all gonna change now, bro," Alfred gestured vaguely towards where his fry-friend was perched.

"As of today, I am a free man! No boss, no 'responsibilities', no stupid Arthur telling me what to do – hell yeah!" He didn't know why it had taken him so long to realise it – all of Alfred's childishness, all of his pent-up madness could be unleashed and there was no one around to judge him or take him away in a straitjacket (which they definitely would if they could see him). After all the years of going to World Meetings and keeping up with political relations, Alfred F. Jones finally felt like the free man he had always claimed to be.

And his first act as a free man was to put his shirt back on.