Drabble #8

Debatin' Role Models

October 19, 2016

America sat stiffly upon the hotel-issued queen-sized bed, hugging a pillow to his chest with one arm as though it was a life-line. The other arm, elbow stuck firmly to the pillow's soft body, was busy holding his smartphone up to his ear. Advil pills (about thirty of them—don't judge) and a glass of fizzy coke waited for him on his right-side night stand. A bingo paper rested in front of him, a pencil laying diagonally on the printed sheet. He wore gray sweatpants and a black short-sleeved T-shirt with the words 'I ATE THE AMERICONE DREAM' in a representation of his flag.

Beep-beep beep. Beep-beep beep.

Someone picked up.

"Mattie, I need a favor bro." This was said without missing a beat, in a complete deadpan, azure blue eyes glued to the TV in front of him.

"Al?" A sound, as though the Canadian had nearly dropped the phone. "What—why—you, I—are you ... okay?" Canada asked tentatively from the other end of the line, surprise and concern bleeding into his tone. But mostly surprise—and confusion, with a dash of panic.

America stared at the television; Donald Trump, Hilary Clinton and the Moderator were talking all over each other. Surprisingly enough, they had been behaving thus far … for them, that is.

"The country is going to hell, I say!" shouted John Adams passionately, angrily. He waved his ghostly cane around, emphasizing every word with gusto— "To hell! When legislature is corrupted, the people are undone! Undone, I say!"

Thomas Jefferson sighed. He looked equal parts solemn and exasperated; "Are you done quoting yourself, Mr. Adams?"

"NEVER!" Mr. John Adams bellowed. Neither the ghosts nor America winced at the loudness. Expressions annoyed, many of the ghosts in the room opened their mouths to—"And don't you dare tell me to sit down! Or to open that damn window—we're dead, for God's sake! Heat is of no consequence—"

"Let's talk a bit. About anything."

"Um, sure?"

America though for a second. "Tell me about … poutine. What's the recipe?"

"Oh! Um, okay, so first—"

Trump's voice intermingled with Clinton's, yelling about something or other. Rigged election, voter fraud, and Clinton's e-mails. America absently grabbed the pencil and crossed out the three boxes pertaining to those topics.

It should be noted that several of the ghosts in the crowd were old, wore crumpled nightgowns, or both. Many had died of old age or of some sickness—their appearance pained America, reminding him of their mortality, short lives, and fragility. He remembered many of their last moments, and how hard their deaths had hit. Mr. John Adams and Mr. Thomas Jefferson both died on the same day in 1826—on the fourth of July.

Not the best birthday, 1826.

He dealt with it on his own; since the XYZ Affair and Quasi-War with France, America had gone into isolation and had been perfectly happy to avoid everyone—which was made easier thanks to his physical position on the planet. 1826 marked the beginning of some very interesting times … ah, yes, America planned and schemed and pretended, intent on getting away from even his own government. He stuck around until Mr. James Madison, the last Founding Father and one of his Presidents, died, which was another ten years.

And then he went Wild Westing, as he liked to call it—with the Civil War acting as an interlude of sorts—until good ol' Teddy dragged him back by the ear in 1905.

Et tu, Wright Brothers? Et tu?

The word crooked was mentioned on the TV. America checked his bingo card—nope. Not on it. Dang.

"And look at him—playing some silly game!" Mr. John Adams fretted, angry steam bubbling beneath his translucent skin. Not literally, of course, though judging by the sheer exasperation combined with probable high blood pressure—a look he was most familiar with, past Bosses and fellow nations alike having opted that look often enough when the immortal teen felt particularly energetic—he honestly wouldn't be surprised if the spirit started to breathe fire.

He'd seen ghosts spontaneously combust before, so the notion was totally possible.

America let go of the pencil, cheeks inflated into a small, childish pout.

"Oh, let the lad be—he has enough on his plate as it is," grumbled Mr. Thomas Jefferson, looking over some document.

"Al? You there?"

America blinked.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"Oh."

There was silence between them, albeit not awkward or anything—Mattie was an awesomely understanding dude just like that. He should hang out with him more often …

Hmmmmm …. Oh! They could totally go tree tapping and make their own maple syrup! They haven't done that in years. Ha! He'll show that poutine-lover the power of his amazing Vermont maple syrup!

"Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There was never a democracy that did not commit suicide!" Mr. John Adams continued.

"So, Mattie, how's your day?"

"Really, John," chuckled Benjamin Franklin, head popping out from a wall. "You're starting to sound like a—oh, what do they call it? A broken record!"

"Well, I went fishing this morning—the leaves are changing, eh?"

America nodded, making an approving noise. Fall was his favorite season. Hm, maybe he'll buy some hot apple cider later, or maybe get a pumpkin-spiced latte. Yeah, he'll do that.

"Oh, do respectably shut it, Mr. Franklin—like you're any better!" Mr. John Adams heatedly shot back.

Mr. Thomas Jefferson shook his head, one leg resting over the other, sitting in mid-air, document still in hand. Could documents die? America suddenly thought of removed constitutions such as the Articles of Confederation as well as the millions of books burned during World War II. He filed that thought for later. "No wonder the present government has issues," Mr. Thomas Jefferson commented, "—they have us as role models."

"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Mr. Hancock in the background.

"Well, if you lot didn't decide to make it so—" started an anonymous southern representative, hidden somewhere in the crowd of floating congressmen.

"Pardon, 'our lot'?" screeched another, wigged head popping out from the silver sea. "If I recall—"

On the other side of the room, Ben chuckled at Mr. John Adam's sour expression; America absently noted Mr. Thomas Jefferson's very subtle smirk.

Syrian refugees—

Another box was checked. One more box, and he'd have bingo.

He rubbed his temple—this migraine was killing him. Migraines were the norm during election year, amplified on debate nights, but this one was taking the cake. The only thing keeping him from moaning himself into a fetal position was his audience of the undead. Now, if he was at home, he wouldn't have this problem—his homes were all warded, in exception to his old Virginia plantation which he was never going near ever again.

Ugh. He just wanted it to be over. Stupid migraine. Stupid floods, and fires, and hurricanes, and tornadoes, and shootings, and—

"SLAVERY IS AN ABOMINATION—"

"YOU'RE AN ABOMINATION!"

And they were definitely not helping. His head throbbed. Was this how the other nations felt whenever America was being his usual obnoxious self? For some reason, that did not stir anything within him. He paused, mentally looking for something.

Yeah, nope, no guilt over it at all.

Mr. John Adams chased a jolly Ben around the room in the space mid-air, swinging his cane around trying to hit the bespectacled Founding Father who did nothing more than chuckle. America pressed a hand to his face; in death, some of their attributes had … amplified. John Adams would have never tried bashing Ben over the head with a cane, no matter how much he had been tempted to in the past during their living years. And Ben … well, he didn't change much, other than embracing his inner child a bit more.

'Oh, someone just put me out of my misery …' mentally moaned America.

"Hey, bro, next week wanna go—"

CRASH!

America snapped his head to the side, body tense, where the broken wreckage of what once was a ceramic pot laid. The whole room froze—America was frozen, the ghosts were frozen, heck, even the damn air seemed to have frozen.

And they were all staring at him, wide-eyed and looking very much like children caught doing something they shouldn't be doing. America kept his gaze on the broken pot, feeling butterflies flutter about in his stomach.

"Al? What was that noise?"

America continued to stare, mind whirling, perfectly aware of the awkward atmosphere. The ghosts remained still, silent, holding in their breaths—not that they needed to breathe?

Technically, America wasn't supposed to be able to see them anyway, so it was kind of ridiculous for them to do that.

"Al? You there?"

"Ah, yes—yes."

"Is everything alright? Really alright?"

"Of course!" America exclaimed energetically, grin stretching his face. It was genuine, too. "I think this hotel is haunted, since this pot just totally fell and broke—" America felt the air stir, restless, "but maybe I just have super psychic super-powers!" And here he bellowed out his famously obnoxious 'hero laugh,' all rights reserved.

Mattie sighed. "Or maybe you watch too many movies, eh."

America chuckled. "Maybe. Oh, hey, I gotta go—we should talk some other time, make plans or something—MY MAPLE SYRUP IS BETTER THAN YOURS!"

Before Mattie had a chance to protest very loudly on the subject, America killed the connection. Ah, Mattie. So easy to rile up. His phone rang, blaring out one of Justin Bieber's songs—the one Canada hated the most. America rejected it. A pause. It buzzed in his hand—a text message.

[NO IT'S NOT :(]

America sniggered, and laid down on the bed, pillows cushioning his noggin. Talking with Mattie always made things better—especially when he needed a distraction.

And just in time, the heater hummed to life, like a very loud monster that made the walls vibrate.

"Huh," America said out loud, latching on to opportunity. "So that's why the pot fell …"

The ghosts tittered.

"Are we in the clear, then?"

"I believe we are."

"Perhaps we should evacuate the room—if something else broke—"

And then George Washington manifested himself through the wall, an expression of resigned confusion marring his face.

"I heard a crash and everything got quiet. What have you lot done this time?"

Poor General Washington, he sounded equal parts patronizing as well as exasperated—much like a tired parent to unruly children.

Which he practically was, both in life as well as in death.

America felt better when he was in the room, despite being …. a ghost.

The General was to Congress like Germany was to World Meetings.

All the ghosts in the room looked appeased enough. America had thought about revealing his little secret to his first Boss many times, but was too scared to do so—the man would probably sternly sit him down next to Alexander and Mr. Thomas Jefferson and proceed to lecture them for hours on why exactly he had warned them against forming political parties the way they did.

Speaking of Alexander—were was the man that made him into the man he was today?

Alexander, last name Hamilton, popped his head through the wall, all smirk and no shame.

"Why, Mr. Jefferson, sir!" he greeted, and America turned off the TV and rolled out of bed.

"Alexander …" the General warned.

America slipped on his sneakers, which were still tied up from when he kicked them off.

"I forgot to tell you a few years back, when my beautiful and most splendid musical came out—"

America grabbed his Captain America sweatshirt—black, the hero's shield large on the chest area—and hunted down his key, a card with the room's number.

"—but did you know that you are being played by a negro actor?"

America grabbed seven of his Advil with one hand, muttered something about a midnight buffet as he trotted across the room, shut the door behind him, and ran. He could hear the yelling all the way down the hall.

The next day, the newspaper claimed a gas leak.

Thankfully, no one was hurt.

Except maybe his laptop, which was installing the PC version of Assassin's Creed Unity. Good thing he kept his important files on an encrypted and everything-proof USB.

A/N: HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! Also, happy belated Canada Day! :)

Actually started writing this waaaaaaaaay back, during one of the Presidential Debates, the one in Vegas. Yes, I multi-tasked watching the circus, typing the thing, and playing debate bingo, in addition to munching on the treats brought by the other members of the Democrat, Republican, and Officially-Libertarian-But-Really-All-Affiliations college clubs. Yeah, we got all together to watch it live in a classroom, enlarged via projector.

Also, 'I ATE THE AMERICONE DREAM' belongs to Ben and Jerry's, supreme ice cream lords.