Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are owned by Himaruya Hidekaz.
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Warnings for: smut, innuendo, swearing and silliness (and a piss-take of various movies and a well-known "novel")
Chapter 25: Lost in London Part 2
Oxford Street
Twenty minutes, 1200 seconds… It doesn't sound very much does it? To Arthur it had been the longest twenty minutes of his very long life. He swore, again, for approximately the twentieth time since he'd found himself in this - his own personal hell.
"Damn and bloody blast, Alfred, why did you bloody well shut that bloody door?"
In answer, America shrugged and attempted to shove the said 'bloody door' open. It would not budge.
"Ah well, mes amies… eet appears we are going to be 'ere for a long time, so we can get to know each other better?" Francis purred.
This was precisely what made this hell.
The 'bloody door' in question was made of steel with small glass windows. In fact the whole structure - measuring 3 feet square - was steel with small glass apertures so that Arthur could see, tantalisingly, the people (and freedom) just feet away.
All in all, a British telephone kiosk was not an ideal place to be stuck in - and it was even more hellish to be trapped alongside a randy Frenchman with wandering hands and an oblivious American who seemed to be under the illusion they were in an action movie.
"I don't want to get to know you better, you French tart!" Arthur told Francis. "…And keep those bloody hands to yourself."
"Well, you should not have answered ze téléphone, mon ami."
"What the bloody hell does that have to do with your bloody hands?" Arthur shouted.
"Who was on the phone anyway, dude?" Alfred interrupted.
"Some fool said to me, 'Welcome to hell', and he was bloody right!"
"Ah oui, someone does not like you very much, Angleterre," Francis said sadly.
The three Nations had walked down Oxford Street looking, vainly, for signs of a large Russian, and they'd got caught up behind some kind of parade or carnival. Certainly, there were people dressed up, carnival floats and a New Orleans marching jazz band.
The telephone had rung and Arthur, foolishly he now realised, had stepped into the kiosk and answered, thinking, quite illogically, that Poland or possibly Lithuania, had rung them to tell them they'd found Russia. It wasn't. A strange voice - clearly disguised with some kind of voice modulator - hissed "Welcome to hell!" and hung up.
Before Arthur had managed to slam the receiver down, Francis and Alfred had blindly, like sheep, followed him into the kiosk and the latter had shut the door.
One person in a telephone kiosk was claustrophobic enough, two people was 'cosy' to say the least, three was a distinct 'squash'.
"It's been glued shut!" Alfred had yelled in Arthur's ear.
"I can bloody see that! Stop shouting, I'm stood next to you, not in bloody Paris!"
"Ahhhh, if only we were in gay Paris… eet eez soo beautiful…" Francis went off in a reverie and ignored Alfred's fist slamming against the door.
They'd shouted "help" and "m'aidez" (America shouted "Hey man! Mayday is the same in French and English! Woah!"). But this had no effect, they were now surrounded by a marching New Orleans Jazz Band and no-one could hear Arthur's cries of help over the sound of "When the Saints go marching in".
Outside the Imperial War Museum
Feliks turned to Toris, "Come on, sweetie, let's go and get a drink, I need one after going in there."
"I told them Mr Russia wouldn't be in there… nobody listens to me…" Toris rubbed his stomach, his nervous system playing up after Feliks had given an impromptu lecture about the Polish Home Army to a large contingency of wide-eyed schoolchildren.
"What sweetie?"
"Never mind…"
They strolled down the road, hand in hand, for once Feliks was not dressed in a skirt, but did have lipstick on and pearly pink nail varnish on his manicured nails. But, refreshingly no-one stared at two men holding hands.
Having been in four public houses, drank two vodkas and two shandies (he'd managed to persuade Ukraine that vodka did not agree with him), Estonia was feeling a little giddy. Giddiness was not a normal feeling for the usually staid, cautious, sensible Baltic. He held hands blushingly with Ukraine, who bounced alongside him pointing out the various goods in the shop windows and pointing at the various sights.
Eduard Von Bock, despite his being several hundred years old, had rarely held hands with a woman - and certainly not a female Nation - and grinned stupidly.
"I wonder where we'll find Vanya and little Raivis?" Katya said, breaking into his daydreams.
"Eh? Wut? I mean er what? Mr Russia? Oh yes…"
"Poor little Penny!" Russia exclaimed as they stepped out of the movie theatre. "But I'm glad those little mice saved her in the end!"
Latvia shook her head. It was always touch and go taking Russia to see a movie. In the Soviet Union, many western films weren't shown anyway, but sometimes the Baltics went to see foreign films over the border in Finland. Usually, like today, they stuck with Disney productions. War films were a no-no of course, any films showing history were also out as Russia would shout at the screen about historical inaccuracies (he may not remember what he had breakfast but he could remember who killed/married who in 1459), any romance films were also out - he would become very morose and start drinking, singing love songs and then slurring about his 'little Yao'.
"Yes, I'm relieved as well, Sir," Latvia answered, leading the way. In fact, Latvia was relieved she'd managed to distract Russia from launching himself at the screen at 'Madam Medusa' by waving a huge bucket of popcorn in front of him.
Russia stopped dead as a thought occurred to him, he grinned broadly, "Latvia! Do you think there really is a Rescue Aid Society underneath the United Nations building?"
"It's a damn shame that this telephone kiosk wasn't like the Tardis and bigger on the inside…" Arthur said sadly.
"Ah oui, like my pants, honhonhon…"
"Arthur! Tell him to stop wiggling his hips like that!"
"Je danse!"
"There isn't bloody room!"
"Ah oui, we should have some wine, non?"
"Where the bloody hell did you get that bottle and glasses from?"
"Mon pantalon!"
"Oh dear God…"
The phone rang…
Russia was having one of the best days of this current century, he'd been to a fairground, he had acquired a teddy (he was still undecided whether to call it 'Comrade Teddy' or 'General Ted'), watched a movie (he loved talking cartoon animals) and best of all, was spending time with his smallest Baltic.
"Shall we go to the zoo?" he asked her.
"The zoo? Well… I think we should really be getting back," Latvia answered.
Russia decided otherwise. He really did not want to spend the afternoon stuck in a conference room with loud-mouthed America yelling about justice, England moaning about the quality of the biscuits, and France making obscene gestures. In short, he was playing truant.
The large Russian tucked 'Comrade Teddy' under his arm and jumped onto a sight-seeing bus that had stopped at the traffic lights.
Latvia gasped, "You can't…"
But he could and he did.
He waved happily at her as she ran after the bus. She managed to jump on the rear platform and Russia pulled her into his arms, "Very good! Let's go and see the Queen and then we go to the zoo!"
Latvia shook her head, pulling herself free, reluctantly following the Russian up the steps to the open-air upper deck of the bus. "I doubt the Queen will want to see you," she muttered.
"I've met lots of queens," Russia answered, flumping down in a seat. He grinned at some Japanese tourists, who automatically flinched.
"Privet! Where did you get those hats?" He asked them. (Two were wearing over-large Union Jack hats.) One shook his head hurriedly, another indicated their cameras and tried to say, in broken English that they were foreign tourists.
Russia grinned maniacally, "I like your hat! It is very cheery! I want one!"
Latvia sat next to him, and smiled apologetically around her.
Russia's intimidating aura intensified, "I've been to Japan… many years ago… I was going to visit in 1945, but my boss said no…" he continued and his violet eyes darkened.
"Oh look… there's Buckingham Palace where the Queen lives!" Latvia said hurriedly.
Russia smiled, his aura diminishing as he took possession of his new hat - which he plonked on Latvia's head. "It suits you, little one!" he said happily, his mood changing like the weather (it had changed from foggy and cold to sunny and warm).
No-one said anything.
"I don't know this part of London," Feliks said, "Liet, what does it say on the map?"
"It's not on the map," Toris answered, holding his tourist map of London upside-down, "Strange… Knockturne Alley… ne, it's not on here…"
They looked around them. It was almost as if they'd been transported back a century. The street was cobbled, dark and damp. The shops had peculiar signs on them: "Clearance sale: bat ears, dragons blood, printer parchment - half price" and "Potions while you wait".
"Perhaps they'll sell me an antacid medicine?" Toris said pointing to the latter one, which had a strange picture of a hideous woman in a large hat holding a broom and a bubbling vial aloft.
Feliks almost jumped out of his skin, and then grabbed Toris by the arm, dragging the bewildered Lithuanian around a corner.
"Feliks! Stop pulling me… what…?" but his protests were muffled by Feliks' ridiculously large hand on his mouth.
"Shush Liet, look… it's Princess Crazy…" Poland pointed to a shady figure entering an equally shady looking shop.
"Was that Miss Belarus?" Lithuania whispered.
Poland gave him a despairing look. "Come on, sweetie, who else would be around here, in this part of the city?"
"Well, it's certainly not Oxford Street is it?" Toris whispered.
They peered around the corner and watched as the feminine figure, pulled back her hood to reveal long silver-blond hair tied back with a blue ribbon.
"I'd recognise that evil aura anywhere!" Poland said with satisfaction.
"You say that about Mr Russia!" Toris interjected.
"He doesn't wear a frock, Liet," Poland answered and then added, "Well, not recently anyway."
In the dark recesses of the shop, Belarus - for it was indeed her - was perusing the shelves with an expert air.
"Can I help you, Miss… er….?" asked the shop-keeper, a particularly greasy looking individual in a black cloak.
Belarus spun round and glared at the man, "Yes, you can," she said.
The man, in his own world a high-ranking individual of a secret order, a man without scruples or moral compass, a man who counted the most villainous creatures as his friends, stepped back and felt goose-bumps break out on his arms, the hair on his neck standing on end.
"You've been in here before," he said quietly.
"Yes, I have," Belarus said, with a horrid smile, "I'm glad you remember me."
Remember her? The man could not forget her. He'd had plenty of sleepless nights since that day she'd come into his shop to buy a 'love potion'. He'd assumed she was just another one of the ignorant airheaded teenagers who came into his shop having got lost on the tourist trail and wanted to buy a love potion to try and ensnare their favourite popstar. He'd realised quickly that this was not the case when she'd pressed a knife against his throat and pinned him to his own counter and hissed at him that she wanted a 'potion that would ensnare the senses, bewitch the mind…' The man had made the mistake of saying that a beauty such as her did not need a potion and then… calling her 'Dear'. How could such a small, slight girl have such strength? She'd spun him round three times and slammed him against a wall, her knife (which she caressingly called 'Natasha') millimetres from his left eyeball.
"This love potion…" she squeezed the glass vial so hard it broke in her hand.
The man gulped and reached inside his cloak for his wand.
"…is rubbish… my brother did not fall in love with me… he broke wind so hard that one of Kamchatka's volcanoes erupted and then… do you know what he did?" she asked.
The man shook his long greasy hair, his hand inside his cloak gripping his wand. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
"He. Fell. Asleep." She said, in utter disgust.
"Ah well…"
"I want my money back and a free potion," she asserted.
He made his move, as a chief amongst his order, the top pupil in his class for 'defence', he was fairly confident that she would soon be at his mercy. He was wrong. In fact he was so wrong, he should have taken the number 10 bus to Wrong City.
"Expelliarmus!" he yelled, pointing his wand at Belarus.
Nothing happened, well actually something did happen. Belarus snarled and leapt over the counter, grabbed the man's collar and pulled him down to her level of 5 foot 4 inches.
"I don't like you, you're a bigger idiot than Gilbert," she told him.
The man trembled and tried again, "Avada…" he got no further, his wand splintered and broke.
"Silly spells don't work on such as me…" Belarus told him.
Around the corner, Toris watched as the woman he had loved since the 17th Century threw a grown man through a shop window.
"Ah, isn't she wonderful?" he sighed.
Feliks shook his head, "She could have a great career as an all-in wrestler," he said.
"I've just seen England, America, France and a strange man in that telephone box!" Russia exclaimed and pointed at the telephone kiosk.
Latvia shook her head, honestly, Mr Russia's delusions were getting worse. She smiled again at the cowering Japanese tourists and shook her head, indicating that she was his carer and the bus sped on.
However, Mr Russia was indeed correct. England, America, France and a 'strange man' were still in the telephone box.
The 'strange man' was Pierre, Francis' representative in London. Francis has found a ten pence piece in his pocket, which was hailed immediately as their saviour.
"Ring for help!" Arthur had said.
Which Francis duly did.
Pierre (or 'another stupid Frenchman with sex on his brains' as Arthur called him) had turned up, opened the door, stepped in and closed it… only to find that they were trapped again.
In between all this, the telephone had rung three times in twenty minutes.
Each time, Arthur had picked it up to be told that if they 'tried to escape they would be shot'. The second time the disguised voice said this, Arthur had replied "How the bloody hell are you going to do that? There's a ton of people outside this bloody box!" Which was true - there was - a one-man band had now taken up residence outside and was actually taking in quite a bit of money playing dreadful versions of popular soap opera themes.
"I have a sniper rifle trained on you at all times, Mr England!" the voice had replied - somewhat huffily, Arthur thought, and hung up.
"Pierre!" Francis hugged his fellow Frenchman, who tried to inch away, but in the confines of the telephone box this was not easy.
America was sat on the floor, attempting to dig his way through the floor with a spoon. "This is like that film, The Great Escape, Artie, where they had to dig their way out of that P.O.W. camp and…"
"Except it's not, is it? We're stuck in a bloody telephone box with some nutcase sniper assassin out to kill us…"
"Kill you, mon Angleterre, he did not say he would kill us…"
"You can bloody shut up, Francy-pants. Why didn't you ring the bloody police? Why ring for this idiot?"
"I did not have a corkscrew, non…" Francis answered and held up his bottle of wine dejectedly.
Pierre, who was often called in by the French Embassy to bail Francis out of police stations (several times - usually for 'lewd conduct'), was a nervous-looking man with a facial tic, prematurely grey hair and a permanently worried expression on his face. Arthur often felt very sorry for him.
In the Giddy Tart public house, Estonia snapped his ever-present briefcase shut, shook hands with the landlord and several men in suits and told them 'it was nice doing business with them'. Katya swallowed the rest of her vodka, cheekily pinched Estonia's bottom and they left, Katya swaying quite a bit.
"What did you shell them? I mean er… sell them?" Katya slurred in Eduard's ear.
"The Tower of London," Eduard said with a smile.
"You can't shell that! It doesn't belong to you!" She cried and then thumped him playfully, "You're sho funny, Ed!"
Eduard just smiled and patted his briefcase, it wasn't far from the truth, he'd just sold 1/1000th shares in a piece of land called 'Canary Wharf', land that actually didn't specifically belong to him. But Estonia never dealt with specifics - not when money was concerned. So far, he'd amassed a portfolio of several properties - in various countries, hundreds of acreage of prime real estate in Finland, Sweden, Soviet Russia, the UK and Denmark (the latter when he'd been under the control of Denmark) and multi-national chain of hotels.
"Look, Latvia! Wolves!" Russia forgot (of course) that he was supposed to call Latvia 'Raivis' and dashed off, his scarf flapping behind him, 'Comrade Ted' under his arm, the comically over-sized Union Jack felt hat under his other arm (Latvia had refused to wear it).
Latvia trudged after him. They were, of course, at London Zoo. Having completely terrified all the tourists on the 'hop-on hop-off' bus, Russia had jumped off and declared he was going to the zoo, paid the entrance fee and bounded in.
Latvia sighed. She just hoped, against hope, that he wouldn't show them both up by chatting to the wolves as if they were dogs, or even worse, getting into the enclosure and stroking them. She and her fellow Baltics had had to drag him out of Moscow Zoo for precisely this reason many years ago. He seemed to have an affinity with the creatures.
However, when she caught up with him, it wasn't wolves that were getting his attention - it was pandas.
"Look, Latvia! Ching Ching and Chia Chia!" he said excitedly.
"Yes, Sir…" she said and held out an ice cream cornet for him - ice cream often calmed him down.
He accepted it. "I think they are hoping that they will mate…" Russia nodded at the notice at the notice on the side of the enclosure. Sure enough the zoo did hope to be the first Western zoo to successfully breed a panda cub.
"Awww.. Perhaps they will…"
"Nyet… Ching Ching is not pregnant," Russia said confidently.
Latvia shook her head, how the hell does he know? She thought.
"So you used our last bit of small change to ring for help and we get this idiot… excuse me, Pierre…"
"Ah oui.. Erm…"
"… this idiot Frenchman… another bloody Frenchman…" Arthur had been ranting for about ten minutes non-stop, without drawing breath - other than to answer the telephone to yell down it as the increasingly sinister voice said, "I have a gun trained on you."
"Bloody buggering, sodding, bloody hell…"
"That's two bloodies," Alfred pointed out, unhelpfully.
"I'm aware of that," Arthur growled as his headache grew exponentially with the row outside - the one-man band that had taken up residence outside the door and played nothing but 'I do like to be beside the seaside' had been replaced by a half a dozen Scottish pipers.
As the bagpipes launched into yet another rendition of 'Scotland the Brave', the phone rang - again.
Arthur picked it up, shoving Francis' hand away and shushing Alfred's humming, "What the fucking bloody hell do you want with me, you damnable ignorant tosspot of a disgrace of a human sodding being?" he screamed down the mouthpiece.
There was a shocked silence at the other end of the telephone and then the mysterious voice, sounding slightly hysterical, whined in a much higher octave, "I'm going to tell on you! You'll regret this!"
England slammed the phone down, batted Francis' hand away again, and turned to America, "America, I know who it is!" he said.
"Hey man! You never call me America!" it was true, he didn't. "You always call me Alfred…" It was true, he did.
England shook his head, the pipers outside began playing 'Flower of Scotland' and England's headache evolved into a migraine.
"Voulez-vous un glass of vino, mon cheri?" Francis asked tentatively.
"No, I bloody well do not… I'm going to bloody well kill that kid… Wait a minute…. France! Of course!"
Francis frowned, "Quoi?" he asked.
"Give me that corkscrew," England said, taking it out of the Frenchman's hand.
"Ah oui, you wish another bottle to be opened?"
"No, you bloody fool, we… meaning America.. Is going to dig us out of here."
"I am?" America asked, "What with?"
"This!" England handed him the corkscrew. "I mean really!? I escaped from those idiot macaroni brothers during the war at least three times and if it wasn't for bloody Germany, I would have gotten away with it!"
"Your female panda is not pregnant," the big Russian told the confused zoo-keeper, "… but Tasha, your female brown bear is going to have cubs this spring!"
"I'm sorry erm… Sir?" the zoo-keeper was about to question the tall blond foreign gentleman, but said 'gentleman' was being ushered out of the zoo by a small blond girl dressed as a boy, who indicated that he/she was the man's 'carer'.
"I can handle my drink!" Ukraine told Estonia indignantly as she practically poured out of the taxi and onto the pavement. She landed in a heap on the kerb and giggled hysterically, and then began singing an old Ukrainian folk tune. Estonia attempted to lift her by her armpits to drag her into the hotel and ended up sitting on the pavement beside her.
A passing tourist threw some coins at them, and Ukraine, emboldened, dragged herself and Estonia to their feet and danced a mad folk dance - flinging Estonia round and round. The coins poured in along with loud applause.
"Do you think she saw us, Pol?" Toris asked his friend, as they re-entered Hotel Majestic.
Feliks shook his head and put a hand on his friend's shoulder, "You need to chill, like, Liet."
"Chill? We still haven't found Mr Russia's suitcase!"
"Now then!" The loud, flat-vowelled Yorkshire accent rang out around the hotel entrance hall.
The two Nations spun round to find themselves face to face with Yorkshire's ruddy face and… was that a ferret peeking out of his concierge uniform?
"Erm yes? Mr Yorkshire?"
"Wipe thee feet!"
"Erm thank you…" Both Nations hurriedly wiped their shoes on the mat.
"And… eh?
"Da? I mean er yes?"
"Tha forgot this bloody great suitcase, it belongs to that bloody great Russkie idiot…"
"Oh Mr Yorkshire! Thank you, thank you, spasiba!"
"Aaah well… never mind all that nonsense, here's yer case," Yorkshire said and threw said case at them.
"Where did you find it?" Toris asked, looking at the broken lock and frowning.
Yorkshire looked shifty and didn't answer but moved to open the door (even though it was a revolving one) for the next guest.
"Mr Yorkshire?" Toris tried again.
"Bob! Answer him or we'll tell Den and his band of Vikings to turn York into Jorvik again!" Poland intervened.
Yorkshire frowned and fed his ferret a titbit, "I didn't steal it, honest!" he said quickly.
Toris opened the case, "The scarf's gone!" he said, utterly shocked.
"Yer can't blame me! I mean who'd want a bloody scarf with yellow flippin' ducks on it?"
"Ha! How do you know it had yellow ducks on it?" Toris asked.
"Bloody 'ell, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition?" Yorkshire said, utterly appalled, but his face now very very red.
"If I don't get that scarf back, Mr Russia will kill me!" Toris said and rubbed his stomach as his ulcer began to play up.
"Give him back the scarf, you welly-wearing idiot!" Poland told Yorkshire.
"Ha! I ain't scare of you, yer skirt-wearing nelly!" Yorkshire said, illogically as Poland was wearing trousers that day.
The 'great Polska' wasted no more time and launched himself at the Yorkshireman, taking him down and pinned him to the ground.
"Oh dear…" Toris said quietly.
"Give it him back!"
"No! I bloody love it! Nobody has ever knitted me a bloody scarf! I live up there in the bloody wilds of bloody Yorkshire, I need it more than that great bloody…"
"Privet Mr Yorkshire!" came a chirpy voice.
Yorkshire and Polska both looked up from grappling each other on the floor of the hotel lobby. A pair of huge army boots met their eyes.
Russia grinned, reached down and pulled at the blue wool peeking out from under the Yorkshireman's uniform. "Thank you for looking after my scarf!" Russia chirruped.
Yorkshire stood up hurriedly, rubbing his (quite filthy) neck, "Aye… that's what I was doing… aye…" he mumbled.
Russia leaned in close, his purple irises flashing, "Because you wouldn't steal my precious scarf from me, would you, Mr Yorkshire?" he rumbled.
Yorkshire shook his head as he dangled from Russia's hand, the scarf still wrapped around his neck.
"By the way… I like your little pet," Russia patted the ferret, which immediately ran down Yorkshire's trousers. "Come on, little Latvia. Oh and Toris?"
Toris stepped forward, shaking.
"Can you give Estonia a hand with my sestra outside - she needs carrying in. She's being silly."
Toris' eyes lit up, "Natalya! My one and only…" he murmured.
Unfortunately, it was the wrong sister. As Toris dreamt of carrying Belarus in his strong arms through the hotel… he found Ukraine and Estonia (mainly the latter) pocketing large amounts of loose change.
"I bloody hate you lot." The speaker was, of course, England.
The targets of his ire were America, France and Pierre.
They were sat in a police cell having been arrested for vandalism, willful destruction of State property, breach of the peace, civil disturbance, assault and resisting arrest.
"Man! I told you that a corkscrew wasn't going to get us outta there!"
"Alfred, just shut up."
"Oui and zat Scottish monsieur was not very happy when you told him to stick his bagpipe up his…"
"Shut up, Francy-pants, he was asking for it."
"Oui, Monsieur Angleterre, slamming zat Scottish man's head against ze telephone did not help matters."
"And you can bloody shut up as well, Pierre."
"Wait! I can hear someone coming. Obviously, they've realised that we're very important people and…"
"Hell yeah, man!"
"… apart from you, of course, America…"
"… ah oui!"
"… and you, idiot France… and they've come to bail me out because otherwise the meeting cannot possibly…" But Arthur was cut off by a familiar voice.
"It wasn't my rifle!"
"Your fingerprints were all over it, young man," a police officer answered.
"Well… yeah… but it was Uncle Den's! I was just looking after it!" came the high-pitched boy's voice.
"In you go, we're ringing your parents now."
"Nooooooo… I'll be grounded forever! You can't do this to me!"
England suddenly perked up and stepped towards the bars of his cell and peered through. What he saw obviously cheered him immensely as he began to dance around, "Hahaha! Yes! You young varmint! You should be in prison after the hell you put me through!" he yelled.
America clapped his hand on the Englishman's shoulder, "Let it out, bro… I mean that Scottish piper dude should be locked up. His Flowers of the Brave was rubbish."
"Oui, Angleterre, have a glass of wine!"
"Aaaaaargh!" England screamed, as his mental state finally collapsed.
In the next cell, his agitator smiled, "Soon, England, soon," he whispered, "Well… as soon as I get Sweden and Finland to let me out again on my own…" he added.
A few hours later
"I've had a great day!" Russia announced to the rest of the conference attendees.
England was silent - he nursed a bruised pride and a stifling migraine - France was absent (he and Pierre were still in the police cell 'for being French in a confined space'), Ukraine was laid on the floor with a wet flannel over her eyes and moaning softly, Toris was popping antacid tablets and had one hand on Poland who was making threatening gestures through the window at the scruffy and slightly beaten-looking concierge, Estonia was counting money, Latvia had stolen England's migraine tablets and was taking several with a very large vodka. Only America seemed to be present, "Hell yeah man! It was brilliant. Me and Artie-dude, Francy and his boyfriend dude got stuck in a telephone box!" he yelled.
Over at the Majestic Hotel, a sinister-looking woman in a blue dress with white pinafore, long silvery blond hair streaking down her back slipped past the reception and made her way to room 101. She held a bag full of 'brother-trapping apparatus'. "This time, he is mine," she said with an evil chuckle.
She picked the lock and stepped inside.
"Bruder…" she said in her sweetest voice.
What followed was a surprise to both her and the occupant.
Epilogues
The next day…
London Zoo announced that the two Kodiak brown bears lent to them from Moscow Zoo had successfully bred and the female was expecting cubs in the Spring.
At the Majestic Hotel, London (not the Hotel Majestic where a top-secret NATO meeting was being held) an American man, looking exhausted, hollow-eyed and shaken, was checking out.
He rubbed his wrists and hoped his suit jacket would cover the rope burns, his whole body ached - including places he didn't realise he had.
"Mr Grey? Mr Christian Grey?" the receptionist asked.
"Yes, that's me," he said, his voice betraying a shake. He scanned the reception, half hoping, half dreading to see her.
"Just sign here…" the receptionist handing him the register, "Did you have a good night's sleep, Sir?" she asked conversationally, not really caring.
"Not really…" Mr Grey said with half a sob and ruminated on the marks on his bottom and whether he would ever erase that voice from his head, "брат, брат, брат…." That had punctuated each smack on his arse.
Notes:
Can anyone guess what film Russia and Latvia had seen?
The Soviet Union declared war on Japan at midnight 8th August 1945 after the defeat of Nazi Germany. Plans were drawn up for an invasion of the Japanese mainland - which were unnecessary as Japan surrendered
Брат - Russian/Belorussian for brother
References to various films/novels - sorry couldn't resist.
Getting stuck in a phone box can happen - this did happen to me once many years ago - but not alongside two Frenchmen and an American.
I don't think London zoo has ever had Kodiak bears, but they did have pandas there at one time in the 1970s.
Possible next chapters: Russia and the 'Stans, China pays a visit, Flashbacks - the Nations recall when they first met Russia.