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Driving Lessons Chapter 41: My Kingdom for a Dragon
"It's just like Harry Potter!" America yelled at England.
The 'boy' looked wildly excited, his eyes shining. From what England could see of his eyes that is. The American had dug out his flying goggles and was now shouting something about being in the US Air Force.
They were seated on 'Mr Ping'. Russia in front 'driving' (and still wearing a ridiculously large Union Jack hat), England in the middle, and America behind him (so England had to turn his head to look at him which elicited some motion sickness). Thankfully, the two King Georges had refused to climb aboard and were last seen entering - bizarrely - a 'King George' public house.
America had wanted to 'drive', but as Russia told them that Mr China had once taught him how to 'drive a dragon', and that no western Nation could possibly do this, and also because he was the biggest, it was Russia who was steering.
Mr Ping had launched over the London streets and England, finding himself in the air again for the third time, felt distinctly ill.
It was not made any better by America excitedly pointing out the landmarks beneath them, "Look Artie! It's Westminster Abbey thingy, and there's Trafalgar Square and there's London Eye! Can we go on the London Eye? And there's Scotland Yard and its spinning cube! Why does Scotland have a yard? Has he always had a yard? Doesn't he have a garden as well? You have a garden. Why doesn't it say England Yard?"
England did not answer. He couldn't. He felt too sick.
By the time they landed at Heathrow Airport just in front of the taxi rank, England was green. He fell off the dragon and staggered into the airport, throwing up in a wastebin.
Russia patted Mr Ping and gave him a vodka-soaked fortune cookie. What wisdom was involved in giving a 20 foot long fire-breathing dragon alcohol should perhaps be taken up with Russia himself.
America also patted Mr Ping who flapped a lazy wing at him and then flew off.
"That was so freakin' awesome, man!" America yelled and patted Russia on the shoulder.
Russia stared at him, "Don't touch me," he growled.
America bounced into the airport totally oblivious. "Hey where'd Artie go?" he asked Russia.
Russia shrugged. "Oh look there's a Sock Shop!" he said. "I need some new ones!"
England was in the gents toilets, stepping around a man trying to change a child's nappy (England winced at the metrosexuality of the modern man, forgetting he himself had changed quite a few nappies), a yelling toddler blocked his approach to the sinks and two football fans on their way to some game compared tattoos blocked the cubicles.
"Excuse me… I just need to…"
"Artie!" came a yell.
England realised he had no privacy at all. He straightened his tie and splashed water in his face. It had been a long, exhausting day. And now they were supposed to be collecting France.
"It's crazy out there!" America yelled as he strolled in. The boy seemed to have a radar for figuring out where England was. "Is this the ladies?" he asked.
"No! Why?"
America shrugged and went back out before the two Arsenal Football Club supporters could hit him.
England apologised to them and followed the American.
"Right… I can't see Francis anywhere… Let's go!" England decided after two seconds.
The airport concourse was indeed 'crazy' and thronged with tourists, air travellers and weary looking business commuters.
"There he is!" America pointed and he was right.
England couldn't understand why he hadn't seen France despite the throng of people. The Frenchman, as usual, stuck out like a sore thumb.
Francis looked like a gone to seed rock star. He was wearing very tight pink leather trousers (that had alarmed the old age pensioners seated next to him on the plane), a French flag was draped around his shoulders and he was wearing pink bunny ears and trailing red, white and blue balloons. He was the most conspicuous person there - even considering the security men in high-vis vests, the group of football fans singing, and the unfortunate person dressed in the giant Costa Coffee cup outfit advertising said beverage.
"Francis!" America yelled.
England pulled him away and hissed, "Come on! Before he sees us!"
Too late.
"Yoohoo sweeties!" France called and sashayed over, dragging a leopard-print suitcase with two very squeaky wheels.
"Oh God…" England muttered.
"I know you missed me! So what's been happening?" France asked, hugging them both and planting big sticky kisses on England and America's cheeks.
America blushed bright red, as did England.
"I had a job!" America told France.
"Oh aren't you growing up?!" France squealed as if the American was 12 years old.
"I know!"
"He caused absolute frigging chaos!" England interjected, wiping lipstick off his cheeks. Why did France have to be so loud, camp and why was he wearing bright pink lipstick?
"Ah but he is so cute!" France said, tweaking America's cheek.
"He's a bloody idiot!"
"And you! Declaring war on Brother Espana!" France said turning to England.
"No I didn't!" England responded.
They strolled towards the exit, momentarily forgetting Russia.
"He is very upset avec vous. Especially when you sent young Gilbert and Den to liaise avec ze Spanish Ambassador!" France made the word 'liaise' sound utterly filthy.
"I did what?"
"You sent zem to your allotment, mon ami!"
"No I did not!"
"Monsieur Espana said zat zere was a huge fight in ze Palace between Scotland, King Malcolm and some people who he thought were his Spanish embassy staff but zay were not! Zay were ze allotment people!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," England said.
"I zink zat you do. And so does Antonio. He believes zat you want zis war and zat you deliberately sent his Ambassador and Gibraltar to Den and Gilbert to insult him."
"That's preposterous!"
"Gilbert's nakedness was apparently enough to make zem call off all discussions and when Espana saw how his delegation was attacked by Hamish and King Malcolm…"
"But you just said they weren't his delegation!"
"Ah oui, but zat does not matter, he thought zat zay were!"
"None of this makes any bloody sense!"
"Non it does not," France looked pleased about this and lit a French cigarillo underneath a 'No Smoking' sign.
"That says no smoking, Francy-pants," America pointed at the sign.
"I know zis, it does not apply to me," France said moodily and blew smoke in America's face.
"Taxi!" England called as they exited the airport quickly. A pair of security guards were watching them.
"So you've just caused World War Three, dude," America said to England. He looked impressed.
"I did not!" England said. He was suddenly very sober. But he needed a cup of tea. "What time is it anyway?"
"About 1771 looking at the state of this city," America said looking up and down the street, there were no taxis free. "Man! How do you lot live like this? It's crazy. You might as well go back to horse and cart."
"You bloody caused this, you great idiot!" England said, swiping him around the head.
"Leave ze boy alone," France said, leaning against a wall. He was taking a call and talking very loudly to someone from some establishment called 'Buns and Butts'. England doubted it was anything to do with baking.
"Artie, what's a mile high club? Is it something to do with mountaineering?" America asked innocently.
England nodded and pulled America away from France quickly.
"I wonder where Russia is?" England asked.
"Yeah we're going to need him to drive Mr Ping," America said.
"You there!" shouted the security men in high-vis jackets. They were talking into walkie-talkies and clearly wanted to parlez with the Nations.
"Time to move ass!" America said and pulled England along the pavement. France lazily followed them.
"Mind mon balloons!" France shouted in protest as America burst one of them.
They ran around a corner, panting and America peered round to see if their pursuers were following.
"I think we lost 'em, dudes," America said.
"What on earth is going on? We've done nothing wrong…" England said and then added, looking dubiously at France, "Well, apart from him…"
"Moi? I have done nothing mon cher."
They all looked at each other.
"Russia!" England exclaimed.
"Oh mon dieu! Poor leetle Russie!" France said.
England and America stared at him.
'Poor leetle Russie' was actually in Sock Shop, sat on a comfy soft cube chair (which in itself amazed him), his huge Red Army boots lying on the floor and trying socks on his massive size 15 feet.
He was becoming more and more annoyed that none of the 'Minions' or 'Union Jack' socks would fit him.
He threw the offending garments at the terrified shop assistant, a nervous-looking young man who had been trying to supplement his meager student loan.
"These are not big enough! Does everyone in Britain have tiny tiddly feet?" Russia bellowed.
"Erm… I don't know…" the boy said. "You're not really supposed to try the socks on," the boy said nervously.
Russia looked amazed. "But how can I tell if they fit?"
"The sizes are on the packet, Sir," the assistant said. He pointed. His hands were shaking.
Russia frowned and read slowly, "Size 42-46…"
"Erm yes or 8-11, Sir."
"Is that age group? Because if it is then I'm way out!" Russia exclaimed and began searching again through the racks.
The assistant noticed that Russia's current socks had more holes than sock… "Well no. It's shoe size."
"My Baltics used to darn my socks for me," Russia told the young man who was trembling hard.
"R..r…really?" the assistant stuttered. He had no idea what the big foreign man meant. He was backing away towards the counter and the big red alarm button.
Russia nodded. He was used to people shaking and stammering around him. It was very odd. "My sestra taught me to knit. But I don't usually knit socks," he told the boy who was pressing the alarm button in a panic, "I've run out of wool," he added sadly, his purple aura pulsating.
"We should go and rescue fat Russkie dude! It's all for one and one for all!" America told France and England.
France was clearly drunk as he said, "Oui mon cher."
England stared at him, "Are you mad? I think we should, as the idiot boy said earlier, haul arse."
"Ass," America corrected.
"Anyway, why on earth did you run like that when you saw the security men? What have you been doing?" England asked suspiciously narrowing his eyes. He had sobered up quite suddenly. Also his phone was going absolutely crazy in his pocket. He ignored it.
"CIA."
"They weren't CIA," England replied.
"Non. Zay were not Maurice, Pierre, Marcel or Gaston," France slurred. He was looking at his phone and giggling.
England snatched the phone from him. "Will you stop bloody sex texting people?"
"Sexting, mon cher," France purred.
"You disgust me."
"They obviously need me," America said. "They are complete buzzkills though. They said my job was a security risk… blah blah blah."
"Your so-called job as you called it caused utter chaos in my Capital!" England all but shouted at him.
America looked hurt, "Man, you really hold a grudge."
"You two between you have completely ruined my life!" England all but screamed. "You made me destroy a perfectly good car…"
"… your precious Bentley?" France interjected.
"Well yes… but I mean Germany's car!"
"That was you, mon cher!"
"It was bloody you, you stupid frog!"
They were about to start wrestling when America interrupted, "Dudes! Stop touching each other and stop with the sexual tension! I think we should go back in there and rescue fat Russkie!"
"Why?" England asked.
It was a good question.
"Because we're a team! Team Alpha Awesome Wolf Squadron!" America yelled.
"No we're not."
"Well he'd do the same for us!"
"I doubt that very much," England said, frowning. He was ignoring two buzzing phones now. One was playing 'La Marseillaise' and one playing the theme to Coronation Street. He was determined not to get them mixed up again. He really couldn't cope with that distress.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Jones?" a voice asked, a hand on the American's shoulder.
America immediately spun round and put the man in a strangle-hold, whilst France put his hands up in surrender, his remaining balloons were set free to float up in the darkening sky. England went through the five stages of panic.
"Why are we arrested? We've done nothing!" England protested as they were surrounded by security men. "Well apart from him… Francis! What did you do? Did you get stuck in the plane toilet again with a poor unfortunate mortal?"
France shrugged, "I may have done."
"You're not under arrest. We've been told to take you all in," one of them said.
Two of them were still in some kind of fight with America, but England couldn't really tell as the American was backflipping around the place.
"Alfred!" England yelled. "Alfred! Will you bloody stop all that bloody kungfooing! We're not under arrrest!"
"Mr Kirkland? You're supposed to come with us."
"It wasn't us," England said, uncertainly. He actually wasn't sure if it was them.
"You don't understand. Her Majesty wants to see you," the security man said.
England immediately straightened his back, his tie and his eyebrows. "Oh my! I'm back! Oh yes! That idiot brother of mine has just almost caused World War Three…"
"I thought that was you, dude?"
"Shut up, Alfred. And now I return! The great Nation…" he hurriedly shut up when he realised the humans were staring at him. He coughed, "Yes yes of course. Lead me to the Palace!"
"I'm coming too!" France squealed in excitement. "I adore her Majesty and she likes me."
England's left eyebrow twitched irritably.
"Yeah you're gonna need backup when you're shoved in that jail cell for causing Armageddon, Artie," America said, hitting him so hard on the back that the Englishman fell over.
"Damn."
Inside the airport, there was a melee as Russia had attempted to do some of his Russian 'kungfooing' on some security guards who had come to arrest him for stealing socks. In the end, one of them had tasered him. This had not gone down well. Tasers didn't really work that well on Nations. The electric current should have been enough to knock a grown adult human to the floor, Russia being a large Nation, just absorbed it and seemed to grow bigger and more angry.
He chased the security guards out of the Sock Shop and was about to chase them all the way down to the Departure Lounge when he was distracted by a sign that said 'Animal Reception'. Thinking this was some kind of animal rescue centre and also thinking that perhaps he might rescue some more kittens (he would also quite like to rescue a puppy he thought, preferably a wolf cub cross) and ignoring the thought that England would defintely not be happy at more felines in his home, Russia wandered in. He was oblivious to the fact that security was scouring the building for him or that they had no idea that their escaped criminal (Russia was carrying four bags of stolen socks) would be in Animal Control…
As England, France and America were being whisked away in a helicopter, the former thinking thoughts of being restored to his former glory as a Nation, Francis thinking filthy thoughts and America not thinking at all, a nefarious person was looking in horror at the 'Brother Tracker' which now pinged off. The taser had disrupted the implant in Russia's Red Star medal and now there was no way for this dark evil entity to know where he was.
A call was made to the Russian Government that their Nation had gone 'incognito' but when they said 'good' and seemed to be relieved. The dark entity decided to take matters into their own hands.
An Armageddon would be tame in comparison…
Elsewhere at the Globe Theatre…
King Henry VI, looking a little faded, was auditioning for a role as himself in a Shakespeare play.
"My crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy!" Henry read from the script and then added, "I never said this! What utter rubbish! Who wrote this?" He adjusted the crown on his head and looked around. "Is she supposed to be Queen Margaret? She looks nothing like her!" he said pointing at an actress.
The director and the casting director stared at him. One of them whispered to the other. "Where did we get him from?"
"He was outside pestering one of the understudies. He already had that garb on."
"Erm I sorry…" one of them spoke up, interrupting Henry's continued outburst. "…But you're not really… erm…"
"...Authentic enough." The other finished.
Henry stared at them.
"We need someone who can really get inside as to what Henry was all about."
"All his foibles."
"And his desperation."
"I am not pathetic!" Henry yelled. He waved the script at them. "As my subjects I order you to give me this role!"
King Henry didn't see the security men until he was lifted up off his feet and carried bodily out of the theatre. He was placed none too gently outside.
"You will feel my wrath verily you shall! I curse you!" he yelled and then turned round. "I'm going to tell my friend, Russia," he vowed to himself and headed off, first in one direction and then another when he realised he was going the wrong way. He then finally realised he could materialise anywhere he wanted and did so.
To be Continued…