Make My Dream Come True


America woke up with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat. He just had a terrible nightmare in which he was being fucked half to death by a big angry black dude in prison. As his bleary eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in through the barred windows and he was able to discern the manly shape of, well, a big angry (and naked) black dude smoking a cigar next to him, America had a sinking feeling that it was not a dream after all.

"Hey, you awake… Canada?" This last word was said with some uncertainty, as if the owner of the deep voice could not quite believe what he was saying.

Thinking fast and recognizing the imminent danger his ass was in, America cleared his throat and did his best at imitating Canada's perpetually apologetic tone. "Um… yeah."

"Want some ice cream?"

Ice cream? After getting fucked half to death? Did that make the pain go away or something? He was certain that if this is how Cuba treated Canada (and he assumed that they were friends, more or less), then he, the awesome and beautiful hero, was probably going to be fucked all the way to death should Cuba ever find out he was actually America instead of Canada. …With his proudly non-Communist corpse offered ice cream afterwards.

Well, he wasn't going to die in such a demeaning way, not if he can help it!

"That sounds great, Cuba. What flavors do you have?" he asked as cheerfully as he could.

"Chocolate and vanilla."

Oh shit… Which was Canada's favorite? Argh, why didn't he pay attention whenever Canada came over?

"I'll uh, have whatever you're having." Was he supposed to say "eh" now or later? How come he couldn't remember that either?

Luckily, Cuba seemed to believe his charade, and he got up to get the ice cream.

America let out a quiet sigh of relief, rubbing at his eyes with his hands. Now came the question of how he got to Guantánamo Bay, what he was drinking the night before and how Cuba could possibly mistake him for his brother…


Somewhere in Washington D.C., Canada wondered why no one was picking up their phone. "More bars in more places, my ass," he thought, as he left yet another voice message for America about their misplaced plane tickets.