The Hash Slinging Slasher ~Hetalia Style
9:00 p.m.
All the nations left the meeting hours ago. Well, all except for two of them. Long story short, Britain decided to make lunch that day. America, knowing Britain's bad cooking skills and believing he can take care of it by himself, kept adding more chili powder to the stew. With the extra spice and the overheated temperature of the stove, the stew splattered all over the room. Despite Britain's protests, Germany forced the two of them to stay after the meeting was over and clean up the mess. Britain was bitter, but never being at the meeting building at night before, America thought this was cool.
"Dude, Britain, isn't this cool?" said America as he scrubbed some stew off the wall. "Just you and me together for hours and hours and hours. I wonder if the sun will come up and we'll still be working, I mean I've never been here at night bef-"
Unfortunately, this was not one of Britain's patient days. "America, will you PLEASE?!" He handed America a trash bag. "Here, why don't you give me a moment of peace and take out the trash."
"Sure thing." America started toward the door with the trash bag, singing "Takin' out the trash, takin' out the trash at ni-"
He stopped. He was looking out the window at the dark street. The dumpster seemed like a long way away.
"You mean outside?"
"That's where the dumpster is, yes," said Britain.
"I dunno, dude," said America. "It's- It's kinda dark out there."
"But I thought you liked being here late," said Britain in a slight teasing tone.
America got his familiar, determined look in his eyes. "You're right! A job has to be done, and I'm the one chosen to fulfill it. I'm the hero!"
"You're the hero," Britain encouraged, unenthusiastically.
A second later, America was out the door. Five seconds later, he was back, his eyes wide in terror, breathing very fast. He immediately calmed down, snapped his fingers and said, "Piece of cake." as if nothing had happened.
The Englishman rolled his eyes. "The git thinks he's so brave," he thought. "So you're not afraid?" he asked America.
"Pffft, nah," America replied, proudly.
"Well, I am," said Britain, pretending to be worried. "Especially after...well, you know."
America turned around. "What? What do I know?"
"You don't remember? It was all over the news!"
"What was? Ohmygod, Britain, tell me, tell me!"
"No, I probably shouldn't," Britain pondered. "It would ruin being here late for you."
By this time, Amerca was close to Britain's face shaking him vigorously. "Dude, you can't just start saying something and then just leave me hangin'! TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED!"
"If you stop shaking me, I'll tell you!"
America stopped shaking him.
"You mean you've never heard the story of...the hash slinging slasher?" asked Britain, seriously.
America looked confused. "The slash bringing hasher?"
"The hash slinging slasher."
"The sash ringing, the flash singing, mash flinging, the flash springing, ringing, the- the crash dinging...duh."
Britain face palmed. "Yes. The hash slinging slasher." His voice returned to a spooky tone. "But most people just call him 'the ha-Aaagh!' Because that's all they have time to say before he GETS THEM!"
America gasped. "Dude, tell me the story!"
So that's what he did.
"A long time ago...er...at the McDonald's across the street," Britain began. "the has slinging slasher used to be a fry cook. And a very clumsy one at that. Then one night, when he was cutting the burgers...it happened."
"He forgot the special sauce?" America guessed.
"No."
"He didn't was his hands?"
"No."
"He cut the burgers too small?!"
"NO! He cut off his own hand by mistake!"
"Ohmygod, that is so freaky!" said America, excitedly. "Did it grow back?! Is he an alien?!"
"America, stick to reality, please!" said Britain. "He wasn't an alien; his hand didn't grow back!"
America's smile fell. "Oh."
"And he replaced it with a rusty spatula."
"Why did he replace it with a spatula?" asked America. "Why not a hook?"
Britain shrugged. "After that, he got hit by a bus, and at his funeral, he got fired from his job. So now every...what day is it?"
"Tuesday."
"Tuesday night, his ghost comes to anyone who eats at McDonald's. America?"
America was no longer in front of him.
When he turned around, America was sitting behind him...eating a Big Mac and a large soda from McDonald's.
Britain's eyes grew wide. "America, what is that?"
"A Big Mac," he responded, his mouth full. "I got it from the McDonald's across the street a few hours ago. Want some?"
"America, you bloody idiot!" Britain yelled. "I just got done telling you the hash slinging slasher comes to anyone who buys from that McDonald's on Tuesday!"
America froze. "Oops. Wait, tonight's Tuesday night!"
"That means he'll be coming."
"How will we know?"
"There are three signs that signal the approach of the has slinging slasher," said Britain. "First, the lights will flicker on and off. Next, the phone will ring, and no one will be there."
By now, America was munching on his Big Mac, nervously.
"Finally, the hash slinging slasher arrives in the ghost of the bus that ran him over. Then, he exits the bus, and he taps on the window with his grizzly spatula hand. He opens the door..." He mimicked the sound of a door creaking open. "And you know what he does next?"
"What?" said America, nervously.
"You really want to know?"
"What?"
"Are you sure you want to know?"
America shut his eyes. "What?! What the hell does he do?!"
Closing his eyes was a mistake, because Britain snuck up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder and said "HE GETS YOU!"
America screamed. More times than once. Britain, not meaning to take this ghost story too far, decided to tell the truth.
"America?"
Unfortunately, America kept screaming repetitively.
"America, I was j-"
"AAAAGH! AAAGH!"
"I was ju-"
"AAAGH! AAAGH! AAAGH!"
"I WAS JUST JOKING!"
America stopped screaming. "What?"
"It's not true, none of it's true. No one has a spatula for a hand. It was all just a joke."
"Oh." Once he understood, America's face lit up. Then he started laughing uncontrollably. Britain groaned and covered his ears. "Bloody hell, he's gonna be in this state all night."
3:00 a.m.
It look a lot longer to scrub the stew off the walls than the two nations thought it would; the stew hardened and stuck to the walls and they had to use trowels to scrape it off.
"This is ridiculous," Britain was muttering to himself. "We've been here for six bloody hours! Who on earth is awake at 3:00 in the morning?!"
Meanwhile, somewhere else, Italy awoke. "Ve'...Yay, it's 3 a.m.!" He then proceeded to eat his plate of pasta. ("PASTAAAAAAA!")
Britain looked out the window. "It's as much as a ghost town out there as it is in here."
All of a sudden, the lights began to flicker on and off. Britain didn't flinch. "Very funny, America."
"What?"
"'And the light will flicker on and off' just like the story. I get it."
He turned and looked at America...who wasn't even near the light switch. Then he looked at the nearest light switch; it wasn't moving and the lights were still flickering.
"Yo, Britain," said America. "How are you doing that without moving the switch?"
"I'm not doing it," said Britain. "It must be the bloody wiring in here."
Suddenly, Britain's cell phone rang. "Hello?"
…
"Hello? Who is this?"
...
There was no voice on the other end, so he hung up.
America chuckled. "Nice try, Britain."
"Nice try what?"
"'The phone will ring,'" America recited in a spooky voice. "'and no one will be there.' You crack me up, dude."
By now, Britain was worried. "America, I'm not doing this! Okay, calm down, calm down. Now what was it? It was the lights...and the phone..." He looked at the walls. "...and THE WALLS WILL OOZE GREEN SLIME?! Oh, wait. They always do that. Now we have more to clean off. But what was that third thing?"
As if on cue, a bus pulled up to the building. Britain's eyes went wide.
"I didn't know the buses ran this late," said America.
"They don't," said Britain in a small voice.
"Well, it looks like they're dropping someone off."
The bus drove off, and on the other side of the street stood a tall, dark figure. It raised an arm...and the spatula attached to it glinted in the moonlight.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Britain screamed. "The sash ringing, the flash singing, the bash pinging-"
"The hash slinging slasher!" America cried.
"At last, you understand!" said Britain. "We're doomed!"
"No, that's not it," said America, wiping a tear from his eye. "I'm just so touched that you would use your magic to disguise yourself as a totally ghostly, spatula-handed figure and stand on the other side of the street just to entertain me!"
"America, there are two problems with your theory," said Britain. "First, I don't use my magic to entertain. I use it to summon supernatural beings. And second, how can that be me when I'm STANDING RIGHT HERE?!"
The figure was now tapping on the window with his spatula.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" America screamed.
"THE HASH SLINGING SLASHER!" the two nations screamed in unison.
The hash slinging slasher had opened the door and was now advancing towards them. They were now holding each other, sensing the end.
"America," Britain whimpered. "despite our numerous times fighting, and though you drive me mad every day, you were always like a brother to me!"
"Britain, I used the scones you baked me to scrub my toilet!" America blurted out.
"Wait, what?"
"What are you two whimpering about?"
America and Britain looked at who was talking. The "hash slinging slasher" was easier to see now, with his good natured face, tan coat, and long scarf.
"RUSSIA?!"
Yes, it was Russia, standing in front of them with a spatula in one hand.
"BLOODY HELL, RUSSIA!" Britain shouted. "You nearly gave me an America a heart attack!"
"Is that so?" asked Russia, innocently. "Allow me to apply the pressure on your chest." He raised his spatula.
"I thought China already told you," said Britain, taking the spatula from him. "a pickax and a spatula are not for medical treatment. Why are you carrying this around anyway?"
"I had no idea you guys would be here this long," said Russia. "I brought along this spatula to speed up the cleaning process because I left my pickax at home. I tried calling Britain, but my phone died on me."
"So, if it was you on the phone and you on the bus," said America. "who was flickering the lights?"
"Probably just faulty wiring, da?" Russia answered.
So after the final spot of stew (and green slime) was scraped off the wall, the three nations were ready for a good night's rest.
But as they walked out of the building, they didn't see a shadowy figure in the corner, who flipped the lights off with its spatula.
THE END