1.
.oOo.
~ The Tortoise and the Brit ~
.oOo.
Once upon a time, there lived a young, foolish lad named the United States of America, who proposed a silly challenge to the great nation of England.
It had started out innocently enough; the older nation had begrudgingly agreed to run laps with the younger, and the two had been jogging around an outdoor track on a bright, sunny day when America suddenly came to a stop. Noticing his jogging partner was suddenly a great distance behind him, England stopped as well.
"Is something wrong?" he politely inquired.
"Not with me," America replied. "But are you okay?"
"Of course I am," England said, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"
"Dude," America said in that dreadful slang of his, smirking playfully as he raised an eyebrow. "Look at you. It's been, like, two minutes, and you're already sweating up a freaking storm. Want to rest or something?"
Now, England was most definitely sure that a couple droplets of sweat beading up on his forehead did not equate to "sweating up a freaking storm". Furthermore, the reason for said droplets of sweat was merely that it was a rather hot and sunny day, and America had insisted on running outside (which England had complied with, as he was less than willing to put up with the temper tantrum that would result if he hadn't). Therefore, no, he did not want to rest, and wasted no time letting the younger twat know so.
So the two started running again, and after a few minutes, England's pace started to lessen.
Again, this was perfectly natural. Because it was hot. And sunny. Neither of which being especially suitable conditions for an intense workout, pray tell.
Alas, however, America did notice the other nation start to fall behind. He could have ignored it and carried on running, but, of course, the typical git saw a source of entertainment in the situation.
"Bro, come on," he laughed annoyingly. "You're so slow! Face it, Grandpa, you're getting old."
"Oh, piss off," England told the blasted twit. "I'm neither slow nor old."
"Are too!"
"I am not, you wanker!"
"Seriously, Burger Brows," America said, crossing his arms. "You've got to stop lying to yourself. You are super old, and I'll bet you're even slower than a stupid tortoise."
"Slower than a tortoise?" England muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'll admit, America, I always think you can't possibly get more stupid, but you do keep proving me wrong."
"Oh, please," America said. "I'd like to see you race one. For the record, my money's on the tortoise."
England was a rather peaceful nation, yes, but let it be said that he was certainly not one to let annoying young tossers challenge his great power whenever they saw fit; he had already made that mistake once, and clearly that had gone over quite well.
Which was why, without any hesitation at all, he narrowed his emerald eyes and held the other nation in an intense gaze.
"Is that a challenge?" he dared coolly.
The American merely laughed before returning a competitive smirk of his own.
"Yeah, old man. Guess it is."
As England had the misfortune of knowing, America took challenges seriously. A bit too seriously, as a matter of fact, which was how, exactly half an hour later, England found himself standing on the track alongside a tortoise that America had somehow stolen from the local zoo (no matter how much the stupid git claimed they were just "borrowing" it).
How America had managed to do it? England didn't know.
Quite frankly, he didn't want to know.
Anyway.
At first, the race commenced just as England presumed it would. America fired a blank from a gun that had been in his pocket the entire time (again, for reasons England didn't want to know), and England immediately set off into a sprint while the tortoise refused to budge.
He was about halfway to the finish line when he heard a second boom, soon accompanied by a sudden burst of movement that he could only interpret as a flash of green soaring past him with incredible speed.
The tortoise was… flying?
England could only stand and watch in a daze as the tortoise landed on the ground, well over the finish line, somehow impossibly winning the race.
As it turned out, no, the tortoise hadn't flown. A quick look behind him showed England that the tortoise had, in fact, been picked up and launched through the air by a particular American, whose whoops and cheers of excitement were almost as big as the cannon that stood beside him.
Yes, dear reader, your eyes did not deceive you.
Cannon. CANNON.
Where the bloody hell did that git manage to get a cannon from? And just how in the name of the Queen had the godforsaken prat managed to hide it from England?
Well, no matter, for however England – or any person, nation, creature, or bloody inanimate object with the slightest ounce of sanity – looked at it, the competition was clearly unfairly won.
Unfortunately, America was not one of those aforementioned beings of sanity, so it was to England's great dismay that nearly every other nation had heard the news of England's "loss" by the very next day.
Even though he didn't lose.
Because the stupid American wanker CHEATED and the race DIDN'T COUNT and that was FINAL.
THE END.
