punch buggy
Boring. That was the only word you could think of to describe this uberawful trip. Horrible. You hated long car rides with a passion, and if it hadn't been for the handsome, yet deceivingly convincing, blond driving, you would've stayed home. Mind-numbing.
"Gerrrmaaanyyy," you cried out for the hundredth time that afternoon.
"What is it now?" His azure eyes darted from the road to you, then back again.
"I'm hungry," you peeped, jutting out your lower lip.
He swore you were nearly as bad as that damn Italy, always whining and carrying on. Sighing, he motioned to the back seat. "There's some wurst," he began, watching you plummet behind him, bottom in air. "But don't eat them all! I told Italy I would bring some so he would finally shut up about it."
"Mmm," was your only reply, before turning back to your chauffeur and landing a punch into his right shoulder. "Red one," you shouted, returning to your food.
"Hey! What was that for?"
"Yellow one!" Sending another fist flying into his arm, he shot you an incredulous glance.
"Blue one!" Punch.
"Green one!" Punch.
"White one!" Punch.
"WOULD YOU CUT IT OUT?" You cringed, Germany's outburst causing you to shrink back into your seat.
Staring for a moment, you blinked once, pleading, "But there were-"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT THERE WERE! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! WE'RE IN ONE, FOR FUHRUR'S SAKE!"
A thick silence filled the vehicle for the next forty-five minutes. Watching car after car pass, you fought the urge to speak, refraining nevertheless, for fear of Germany's wrath. That was until the reflection of enticing metallic paint caught your eye.
"Hey, Germany~?"
He let out another sigh. "Ja?"
Punch, punch, punch. "BLACK ONE!"
