For those of you who don't know, this fic is this routine by comedian Bret Ernst. Look it up; it's hilarious.

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America At The Club

Just say the world's a night club...

America saunters towards the club. He is dressed casually: Bomber jacket, jeans, graphic tee, sneakers. A throng of people has already gathered, though it is still early in the evening. With confidence, he walks by the orderly line and goes straight to the front door. He ignores the exclamations, glares and entreaties directed at him, and instead he smiles at the bouncer. Small and dark, it seems unlikely the young man should be able to hold his own against the much larger countries, who are but a few feet away, yet he does.

America offers his hand. "Yo, Israel."

"Hey, America," Israel greets him, taking the proffered hand. "Who's with you?"

"Let's see… England's with me…Australia's with me…" The two men materialize next to America. England is clad in a sweater vest and looks as though he rather not be there; Australia is wearing a nice shirt, jeans and boots, and he is wearing a far more pleasant expression.

"What about France?" Israel asks, gesturing to the man who is currently glaring daggers at them.

"Oh, probably not your friend, ohon, oui oui. Did I not give you the Statue? Ohon, pou pou…"

America stares at France for a moment. The other man is clearly already drunk, a fact made obvious since he is trying to smoke his rose. But America just smiles and says, "You know what, France? You dig; you can come with us."

England groans but is ignored. Australia slaps France on the back and says how nice it was to see him again. France responds in kind, but his attention is turned inward.

Hehehehe, he laughes to himself. Once again I have fooled America. He's thinks he such hot shit with his showering and shaving…

Israel steps aside to let them in. America pauses beside him and slips him a wad of cash. "Here, Israel, this is for you. Get yourself some weapons."

The small man smiles gratefully and waves them inside.

~*~*~ST~*~*~

The music is loud. The dance floor can hardly be seen for all of the dancers. The tables and the bar are thick with people. Scotland and Northern Ireland are at the bar, pouring booze into glasses until they overflow and splash on the uncaring customs. Both take a couple of shots before hoisting themselves upon the counter.

The quartet's attention is drawn to the spectacle by the gleeful shouts. England buries his face in his hands when he sees them begin to dance.

"Aren't those your brothers?" Australia asks as he squints at the duo.

England vehemently shakes his head. Scotland begins to encourage a girl to join in on their fun, and Northern Ireland beseeches her as well. The Republic of Ireland, too drunk to resist her brothers, climes onto the counter and starts to dance as well.

"Isn't that your sister?" America asks with a broad grin, glancing at a mortified England.

"Let's go over here," England says desperately as he takes America's arm and drags him away from the spectacle. Australia and France follow, both snickering.

They pass by Russia, China, Iran and North Korea, all of whom are doing shots. North Korea, a petite, pretty girl, glowers at their retreating figures. She nudges the others. Once she has their attention, she gestures wildly at the small group. "I think we can take them," she slurs.

The others are drunk enough to agree to this and begin to plan their attack. Germany and Japan, sitting not too far away with a completely smashed Italy, notice. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Japan says, the alcohol making him bolder. "You may want to order a coffee and a Red Bull and sober up, alright?"

Germany, pink-faced, nods sagely at this advice. "Yeah, they're lazy an…and stupid…but they're also bored and nuts." As if on cue, America's hysterical laughter wafts over to them.

North Korea frowns, but she is soon distracted by her brother who has chosen that moment to launch himself at China. Iran and Russia seem to find it absurdly amusing and burst out laughing. North Korea tries to help China get South Korea off, but soon everything dissolves into chaos as Iran ad Russia join the fray.

~*~*~ST~*~*~

Suddenly, a few hours after America and his entourage arrived, the door is kicked open and canisters of harmless gas are tossed in. The dancers and drinkers scream and scatter. Soon a few vague, black-clad figures are discernible. They are heavily armed, so much so that they appear to have a hard time moving.

"Terrorists," Australia deduces.

"Got some beef with these guys," America mutters. Raising his voice, he calls out, "Who's got my back?"

Out of nowhere, Canada pops out. With Kumajiro held securely in his arms, he moves to stand along side his brother. "What's going on, eh?" he inquires.

"Ah, no, not you, Canada," America says tolerantly. "Does Mom even know you're out? Go home, you're not supposed to be here."

France sniggers. "England is right there, mon ami." That earns him a slap from an irate island nation.

"For the last time, I am not America or Canada's mother!" England screeches, pink-faced, as Canada disappointingly slinks away.

"But you raised us," America argues, grinning broadly, "and you do all of those girly things–"

Australia clears his throat. "The terrorists, mates?"

"Right, right," America says. He starts to look around for backup when his eyes land on an approaching slim young woman with dark brown hair and eyes. She has a bandana on her head and a thin looking scar on the upper part of her right arm. "Mexico!" he exclaims. "Are you here to help?"

She shrugs and grins. "I'm down for whatever. I'll shank a bitch." She pulls a wicked-looking knife out of...somewhere. She turns and shouts at the lurking terrorists. "This is for lil' puppet!"

America just laughs at his bizarre neighbor, saying, "Alright! Mexico, you ready to roll?"

She says something in rapid Spanish and nods emphatically while doing a queer salute.

"Alright! Australia, you ready to roll?"

"You got it mate," he replies, curling his hands into large fists.

"Alright! England, you ready to roll?"

England does not respond, looking miffed and apathetic, so Australia repeats in a terrible British accent, "You got it mate!"

"Alright!" America says as though it had been England who had said it. "France, you ready to roll?" No answer. "F-france?" America glances around and notices the man has disappeared. "Where the hell did France go?" Scotland, from his spot behind the bar, supplies the answer. "What? He-he ran up a tab? Whose gonna pay for it?"

Italy lurches from his comfy resting place on Germany's shoulder and says, "Don't worry! I got it!" Then he turns to Germany and whispers, "Hey, Germany…? Can I borrow some cash?"

The End

A/N: Just a bit of nonsense I felt like doing. Review, if you like.

Israel, I think, would be a boy. Why? I don't know. Just seems like it.

North Korea, à mon avis, would be a female. A rather emotional one. I'm sorry if that offends any North Koreans here, but that's just how I interpret it.

Iran, as you may have noticed, does not have a specified gender. Would it be male or female? Persia (what Iran used to be called) sounds feminine, but Iran sound masculine. I dunno.

Mexico, no matter the gender, would be a BAMF. I just have that sort of feeling about that character.