Inviting Violence
or, The American Hyperbole

Following the ideas of his citizens, America decides it's time for him to bite the dust. Russia does not want to help.

Rated T for some violence and rude humor

America was going to die.

America knew he was going to die. All his citizens agreed, and they made sure to remind him at every opportunity. It was a daily game to see just how quickly the masses could mention his impending doom, pointing to some friend of a friend who knew someone who saw something dangerous. The assassins and assailants were everywhere. In the stores. In the streets. In the classrooms. Hell, in the cradles, too. Those rats! Vaunting and flaunting their dastardly plans in the twisted, eldritch spells of the fall of democracy and all it stood for.

It was not simply that America was going to die. It was that he was dying. Constantly. Dying from every weapon available. Every malice natural and manufactured. Through every bill on the senate floor and every whisper behind closed doors. Through insurgence and collusion. Through genetic congenital spiritual plague and the meticulous sedulous chemical cleansing of abstract structures. Through each invented specter and each gray insipid truth he was unraveling at his core and slowly, painfully wasting away every time the sun climbed the horizon.

"I'm always fearing for my life, and America's too!" a congresswoman screeched at her entourage.

"Authoritarian ideology is rising, and soon it will consume everything. America's future is hanging in the balance," a podcast host kept repeating.

"It's disturbing what brutal insanity we're seeing in our neighborhoods every day. Barbarism is everywhere, all around us. We have a right to be worried about America," a bear softly spoke from a children's cartoon.

"Well, I don't want to get into an argument with a cartoon," sighed the world's foremost beekeeping philanthropist.

And meanwhile, a degenerate English major wearing the most obnoxious glittery gold lip gloss possible was told she had no right to be at a public American university with her face uncovered.

"So anyway," America started, tugging his lapels and trying to translate caffeine into arm-wiggles as quickly as possible, "Russia dude, you wanna kill me?"

The two of them were just heading to the elevator after another unsuccessful vote on whether Turkey was annoying or not. Greece said yes. Cyprus said yes. Russia said no. Italy said kinda yes but also oil money pipeline jobs so no can I just go to dinner please?

Russia seemed startled by the question. His large nose wrinkled, and he sank both hands in the pockets of his coat.

"You are saying you want to die, America? That sounds serious."

"Can't be that serious. I'm dying anyway, right? Everybody says I am. CNN, FXN, MSNBC, NPR, SBG, plus all the angry alphabet people! I'm dying so much that I don't think anyone would notice if I actually died. Ya get me?"

"I think it is sad you are thinking about this. Even with immortality, we still have human bodies. You should not be excited to harm yours. Or to ask a friend to help you."

America gave Russia a caffeinated shoulder slap that sent him flying into the back of the elevator. "No hard feelings! You got your own issues, right? Don't you have some kids' show with a crossdressing puppet making all your pundits shit themselves and scream you're on your last legs?"

"That does not happen in Russia."

"Well, aren't you special. We got brutal insanity in the neighborhoods and the schools. Say, is there a gateway death? Like one that's quick and painless? I'm not opposed to a bombastic bloodbath, but since this is gonna be my first time ever, ya know, actually biting the dust, I don't wanna go too bananas. What's dying feel like? England said it's like falling asleep, and sometimes you dream about what your people are thinking. So in that case, I'd die and then dream about my own death. Would that mean I could die again, after already being dead?"

Russia pursed his lips. "Perhaps, but death is quite deep. In my experience, it is like waking up in a heavy snowstorm that comes out of nothing. Everything is cold and white. You can't see your body or your surroundings. You don't know where you came from, or where you're going. And when it ends, you don't remember being there. Only that you were lost, and now you're reasonably safe again."

"Huh. Makes sense. But if you can't remember it, how do you know it's a snowstorm?"

"Because it is always a snowstorm where I'm from. The difference is whether I'm alive or not."

"Are you alive right now?"

"I should think yes. Are you?"

America huffed. "Man, it should be easy to answer that question. I guess yeah, 'cause I got a neck cramp."

Russia cringed. The elevator dinged, and he made sure to shuffle out of the cab first. Out of the infinite liminal fluorescent buzz and out into the red-gold of sunset glowing through convention center windows. Unfortunately America shuffled after him. He pulled on Russia's scarf like a child trying to keep up and renewed his argument.

"Don't call it death. Call it a car payment. Or… a date. Or a drink! A first drink! Oh, I just renewed my medical paperwork at the last Pam meeting. All my IDs are gonna say I'm twenty-one starting next July Fourth! If I were human, I'd celebrate that, but since I'm an immortal nation, I can celebrate my first death! A voluntary action that I'm a little nervous for, but that I'm allowed to do, and I can do safely and responsibly with friends and family!"

"America, why do you make such lopsided comparisons all of the time?"

"You use vodka to brush your teeth. Of course it seems lopsided to you."

"I wasn't lucky enough to survive adolescence without dying a painful death. I didn't have the privilege to choose when and how I died and who killed me. I just died. With brutal insanity. You can ask Prussia and Lithuania. I know they remember exactly the blades they used, and the killing strokes. Latvia, too. Ask him about the oatmeal. He remembers," Russia growled, sickly purple tendrils of his nation aura flaring up beneath his skin. Then he looked to his younger friend, and all hard feelings softened again. Clearly none of this had penetrated America's helmet of a skull.

Because then he said:

"I already asked both of them to do it. Lithuania said he doesn't know how to kill me, and Prussia said he can fully immerse me in the 4th Dimension whenever I want. I don't need to die to get a glimpse of it. England said no. Canada said no. France said he'd do it, but only by guillotine, and I told him no 'cause I already have really bad neck pain! I think it's from sitting in that gaming chair so much. England said getting all nine hundred korok seeds unlocks a weapon even more powerful than the Savage Lynel Sword, so I haven't slept in quite a while."

Russia opened the driver's side door of his van, and America latched onto his left arm, squeezing with the strength of a healthy adult male white rhinoceros, a creature which was also unsure of its continued existence.

"Come on, Russia! You're a pro! You can kill tanks with your bare hands! I know you wanted to kill me during the Cold War, but you didn't say anything. I didn't say anything either. Aren't we equals? I'd let an equal kill me. If you want to use a special weapon I'll ride with you wherever that is and then dress up for the event! I'll let you impale me while I'm imbibing on my first ever glass of vodka! How 'bout that? Then after I revive, we can go do something fun together!"

Russia sighed. With his free hand, he fluffed his hair in the rearview mirror. Shimmering silver like snowflakes adrift in an uncertain wind, the servants of a cold usurper who ruled the ancient, silent black basalt. He looked to the sky-blue eyes of the dreamer, free and soft and cloudless despite the turmoil within. Such brutal insanity boiling over within his young and brilliant mind. Such violent thoughts extrapolated from minor altercations and shadowy feelings of spite.

This was a different era for nations. One where joking about one's demise was a casual affair, and discussing it a public and celebrated event. To die was to assume responsibility for all one's wrongs, historic and current, constructed and natural, on purpose or otherwise. And of course, to let others have their voices heard in one's stead. To exist was to hold supreme vanity and ultimate power. The titan on his throne, crushing all below like stones.

He waited a few more heavy seconds, until America's grip on his sleeve had slightly loosened. Then, as peacefully as a pile of snowflakes building up upon one another, Russia rose up out of the seat and stood to tower over America again.

He wrapped his huge hands around America's head, thumbs tucked beneath the cheekbones and fingers clasping close by the ears. With one swift twist, an audible pop brought the vertebrae apart and the spinal cord loose in its tube. The sky-blue eyes went blank, all sparkles overcome by stark nothingness. Betraying thin foundations. A tower built on shaking ground, and all the spirits lifting it now fleeing.

America stumbled, then collapsed on the pavement. His final breath escaped his throat as a reedy afterthought to the horror of his empty nation soul. Wiggling elbows stiffened. Dancing feet grew still. Glasses took on shadows. Perfect quirky little tuft of hair lost its energy and lay down with the rest of his fading gold fringe.

America was dead.

America had finally died.

Russia acknowledged this.

And then America stood up again, rubbing the back of his neck as the bones fused once more. His muscles faintly squelched when the blood began circulating and the nerves began firing. The eyes were as they once were, a few moments previous. Bright and blue and cheery and chirpy and certainly not wondering about their purpose or rights.

"Frick! What is up with my neck today!? I gotta get some lidocaine patches 'r something. Man, it's killing me! Like you should be doing, Russia! Otherwise you're leaving me to drink by myself, and that's not responsible for me or for you."

Russia shrugged. He was buckled up and had started the engine on his van.

"I'm sorry, America. I can't."

"I already told you ya don't have to feel bad about it! I'm a failed state, ya know!?"

Russia just shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I hope you have a better day tomorrow. You are a formidable friend, and I don't want to worry about you."

Driving off, he wondered if it made sense to apologize, when he'd killed America countless times, before and after the meeting, just to see if he could, and not one of those deaths had come to the idiot's attention. He wondered if America would even believe him if he explained. And whether he'd feel hurt to realize any one of those broken necks was not his first passing. Whether he'd recall being a child and dying of fever or loneliness — some humbler "first drink" than a bombastic bloodbath.

But then Russia brushed it off. America was constantly dying. He was just one of the reasons.

"I'm happy I don't have to worry about you."

~N~

I've been a fan of the Matt Walsh Show over the past couple of months, and it's really fascinating how his right-wing views and the left-wing views he comments on both portray America as teetering on the brink. Like how left-wingers argue racism is destroying us, but right-wingers argue that race-based education is the real danger. Either way, democracy has no chance, and America is dying. There's a certain appeal to sensationalism that I feel is unique to this country. We bond over shock value — something Thoreau and Mark Twain both utilized and something I've encountered when discussing values with friends here and abroad. So I started imagining someone telling America that last line, "I'm happy I don't have to worry about you," and it was bittersweet.

Thoughts? Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net August 23rd, 2021.