Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
A late night. A bottle of red. Two men, and a bet between them.
"Come on, Angleterre, are you even trying?"
"Shut up, you are disturbing me!"
"Very well. You get one last try, and if you fail, this round is mine."
A deep breath. "Unchasseursach- fuck –sachantchas- chasser-"
"Ah, looks like that's a point for me, hm?"
"Laugh all you want, but it's my turn to give a phrase. I'll give you... let's see..."
A sip of wine. "Think carefully, love, otherwise I win."
"Ha!" A satisfied smirk, a gleam in eyes. "Now listen, frog: you get Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."
"Bless you."
An even wider smirk. "Funny. But not as funny as you soon trying to pronounce this."
"That's not even a real phrase."
"Oh, yes it is. And, France? Remember your own rule: if you say it too slowly, it's not a point."
"England, I swear -"
"If I were you, I'd swear less and focus more. You've got three tries."
A glare. "This will come right back at you, keep that in mind."
"Was that a try already?"
"Fine." A sip to loosen the tongue. "Supercalifag-"
Triumphal laughter. "Wrong!"
"Merde... Supercaligraficept- fragi..."
"One more try, dear."
"Wipe that Cheshire grin from your lips before I do it myself. Here: Supercalifragilicepxia- Putain! That's a meaningless mess of sounds and doesn't even mean anything!"
"Oh, it does mean something."
"What?"
A slow, self-satisfied smile. "I won."
"Oh, you little -"
"France!"
"I warned you about that grin, didn't I?"
"You – mmf!"
A late night, a fallen bottle – and two men, with nothing between them.
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