Acknowledgements: Thank you to IrishMaid, B-The-Geek, Pedro-IS-Madi12, Percabeth is Awsome, cullinane, Go LilixIcy, Missmanda, Einsam-Schatten,, Becky 999, Kate Marley, Typewriting Fangirl, fishstick1999, Envie Rouge, Laughinthefaceofdanger, Missflutterpie, abbydobbie, saraholly, Draskar, julyza, Deefangirl, for all the reviews, PMs, faves and alerts and of course all my other readers.
Chapter 4
Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews from the last chapter. I'm sorry if I didn't make it clear, and yes you are right, I didn''t… that the female Nations are all still pregnant in this story. But this chapter will make things a bit clearer…
The usual warnings for swearing etc.
The Blue Lounge Nightclub
"Put Herakles down, besides I think he's asleep," Katya told her sister.
"Humph," Belarus dropped the Greek onto the floor. She was wearing a white dress. Not unusual really, but for the fact that it was her wedding dress. She'd worn it at the hotel for the final fitting, where the poor dressmaker, popping valium, had to take the material out a little to allow for Belarus' expanding waist. She then refused to take it off.
"Suppose someone spills something on it?" Katya had wisely asked before they'd left the hotel.
"Then they will die."
"Can I wear my bridesmaid dress?" Hungary asked. "Maybe someone will drop something on mine!"
She was ignored.
Eyebrows had been raised when Lily told the others she would not be going with them to the only nightclub as "Switzerland was having problems with a cock."
And so, Belarus and her remaining bridesmaids crammed themselves and Belarus' enormous frock into a minicab.
"What is this? Mothers' outing? I bloody hope you're not going to give birth in my taxi!" the driver had exclaimed when he saw the bride and her four bridesmaids - all six months pregnant - shove and push themselves into the taxi.
"We're not due for ages yet," Katya said with certainty and adjusted her massive boobs.
Greece had also been slithered in amongst them, the oblivious Greek grinning inanely.
Watching them leave, hope rising, was the two Italy brothers.
"Arrivederci!" Romano yelled and then shoved his brother into the hotel. "Thank God for that, fratello."
So in the nightclub, the girl Nations had taken over a corner where there were sofas, having told the bouncer it was a hen evening and got in free. Only Belarus had English money - she somehow had England's wallet. They were drinking mixtures of coca-cola, lemonade and something that looked virulently yellow. Belarus was not impressed that there was no tea.
"I think I may have given Catalonia to Peter Kirkland. That's not a good thing is it?" The speaker was Spain and he'd just wandered in and plonked himself next to Greece. "I mean the boy was very persuasive and said that once he had a region of Germany, I think he said Saxony, a region of the Soviet Union and one of the US states he could rule the world and he would help me get back Romano."
Greece sat up slowly from his resting place on Belgium's lap, and looked at his friend, "I don't know…" he said slowly, clearly worried, "It doesn't sound good to me."
"Why aren't you wearing a shirt, amigo?" Spain asked, momentarily forgetting his own worries.
Before Greece could answer, Belgium said, "He's our stripper tonight."
Greece looked down at his naked torso and then said to Spain, "Tony, save yourself. It's too late for me."
But Spain was too slow - the story of his life.
"Strip! Strip! Strip!" Four female Nations surrounded him like a pack of wolves.
Someone tapped Belgium on the shoulder.
"Hey, leave the poor guy alone…" the man said and then added after seeing Belarus' dubious red 'L' sign on her wedding dress, "Hey is this a hen party?"
Belgium stuck her hands on her (quite wide) hips and nodded.
"We're a stag party looking for fun," the man said.
He was to regret these words.
"You want fun eh?" Latvia said, standing with Belgium.
"Hahahaha, they're all pregnant!" the unfortunate groom-to-be said clapping his friend on the shoulder.
Ukraine punched him out cold.
"You'd better get your dancing shoes on," Belgium told one of the men.
There were six men. Normal human males who had gone into the night club to celebrate their friend's upcoming wedding by getting very drunk and having fun. They did not believe that a 'bunch of pregnant girls' could tell them what to do. They were very wrong.
The groom-to-be got up - with the help of his friend. His nose was bleeding and he didn't look well.
"We ain't doing nothing!" one of the men said with some confidence.
Belarus punched him on the arm. "It's you aren't doing anything! You can't have two negatives!" she told him.
"We don't care!" Latvia also told him.
The man rubbed his arm, tried to ignore Belarus' psychotic glare and took in Latvia's army fatigues, army boots, swollen belly and faucet pipe stuck in her belt. "Who the hell are you? A plumber?"
"She's my sister-in-law to be," Belarus snapped. "Now you… Dance!" she ordered and then pointed at another man, "You! Get me a chair!" she pointed at another, ""Don't just stand there, get me a cup of tea and if the stupid man at the bar says no, say it's for me." She then aimed a knife at the bar and threw it. It barely missed the barman's head.
"You can buy all our drinks, seeing as you ran into my friend's fist," Belgium said to the poor man with the broken nose.
"Who are they?" said one of the men to Spain, who was reduced to giving Ukraine a foot-rub - who was shouting at the men to "Dance quicker.""
Spain was looking for an escape route, "Your worst nightmare…" he said quietly.
Hungary was missing her sister Nations' professional bullying of the hapless men. She was in the toilets and telling an 'audience' of her predicaments.
"…And Roderich's such a wuzz yer know. I mean sometimes you need a real man. I mean I was with him for centuries," she told her fellow ''users', who listened uncomfortably as she herself re-applied her lipstick in the mirror, "… and he still can't find my g-spot…" (there was some uncomfortable shuffling and sidelong looks at her as she said this) "… but I suppose he'll make a good father. At least he can bake great cakes and he has lots of money…"
"Money isn't everything…" someone said.
"He sounds gay," said another.
"Oh I think he sounds okay," said another.
"Yeah, at least he's touch with his feminine side," said another.
Hungary nodded and put away her lipstick. "Thanks guys!" she shouted as she left.
"That was the gents," Belgium told her as she sat down.
"So?" Hungary shrugged.
"Come on, amigo," Spain dragged Greece to his feet. "Let's escape while the girls have some human pets to amuse them."
"Where are you going?" Belarus stood in front of them.
"Aaargh!"
"I wish I'd stayed with the America and the others. I bet they are having a much better time," Spain lamented quietly.
Somewhere unknown in a police van
"Well this is rubbish," America announced.
"Well that's life, sonny," Scotland said. "Let me tell you about life in Glasgow in the 1880s."
"Mr Pipe and Boris…" (Boris/Russi-cat purred on Russia's lap) "… are not happy," Russia said ominously.
"I'm disgusted! Why was I arrested? I have done nothing," Germany said indignantly.
"Yes, you're pretty useless aren't you?" Russia said.
"We worked from 6 in the morning until 6 at night. All we had was porridge and Scotch," Scotland began telling them, completely ignoring the conversation going on around him.
They were sat in the back of a police van. All four Nations present were in 'puny' (Russia's words) handcuffs.
"Well it wasn't me who got us arrested!" Germany said.
Germany and Russia then looked at America.
"Hell yeah! I sure did!"
"There were ten of us to a bed," Scotland continued.
Germany frowned, "Wait! You shared a flat with nine other people?" he asked.
"Och aye, man," Scotland said.
"I didn't know you had that many relatives," Germany said.
"I don't," Scotland said.
"Hey Germania! I blame your brother!" America said to Germany. "Australia told me what to say to that dude."
"It's Austria not Australia and he's not my brother!" Germany yelled, trying to wipe the image of Scotland sharing a bed with 9 other people from his mind.
"I knew that," Russia said sulkily.
"Dude needs to chillax man!" America yelled.
"We didn't need to chill, it was very cold. We had one coat and one shoe between us," Scotland continued balefully and to the other Nations'' horror, put the bagpipe mouthpiece to his lips.
"It would all have been okay if Artie hadn't fell over just cos he got a bag of fries," America said.
"Ma brother is nowt but a fool," Scotland shouted (he pronounced 'fool' as 'fule').
Russia frowned.
"I shoulda been representing Britain," Scotland said, standing up suddenly, his kilt giving his fellow Nations a peek of too much of his anatomy.
"Dude! Pull your skirt back down!" America shouted. "It's disturbing!""
"Where is Austria and England?" Russia suddenly asked as the police van took a sharp corner.
Scotland fell into Germany's lap.
"This is unacceptable!" Germany was outraged and shoved Scotland onto the floor. "I have my paperwork to finish. I did not want to come to this stupid ''do'. I do not even like England and now I am stuck in this van with such a bunch of…" he hesitated in his tirade as Russia stood up and glowered over him, a purple aura pulsating around him, ""… people." Germany finished lamely.
"Where is England?" Russia repeated, a growing sense of panic evidence in his voice.
"Aboot 60 miles south of Glasgow," Scotland said.
Russia did not understand him but grabbed the nearest person (who happened to be America) by the lapels and yelled in their face, "Where is England? He is supposed to be marrying my sister in less than 24 hours!"
Somewhere unknown...
"I'm getting married in the morning..." England slurringly sang.
"Non, you are not," France said.
"But Monsieur Le France, zis eez ze most reprehensible, diabolique, grotesque zing you have ever done," Pierre remonstrated.
"Merci mon cher!"
"Ding dong the bellsh are going to chime..." England sang happily.
"...Not if I have anything to do with it," muttered France as he spun the wheel of the small Citroen the wrong way down a one way street.
"Merci by ze way, mon cher, for helping me in zis expedition of l'amor!" France said.
"Moi?" Pierre squeaked.
"But of course, tu. Who do you zink? Angleterre? Or perhaps Monsieur Whiney Pants in ze back?"
"I heard that!" Austria shouted. He had taken off his pink bunny head and left it somewhere but had put a rather outsized pink paw on Francis' head.
Pierre closed his eyes as the small Citroen took a hairpin bend and then he opened them to see the sign that read "Dover Docks 20 miles". Why had he helped France to kidnap the two Nations? Obviously his Nation was completely and inarguably insane to believe that by getting England to France and delaying the wedding there would be no wedding. There was also the problem of the stolen car they were in the fact that they'd evaded arrest, assaulted a police officer and of course the biggest problem – Austria –– who was still handcuffed to England and very verbal in his objections to the whole scenario.
"My Government will sue you personally, Francis. I will make sure you lose every one of your properties..." Austria said.
France shrugged.
"... your cars..." Austria added.
"I do not care," France shrugged.
"...bottles of wine..."
France almost crashed the car.
"Roll out the barrelsh! We'll have a barrel of fun!" England sang.
"Oh do shut up," Austria said.
"I will take off ze cuffs and you will be free, Roddy, if you just..."
"Do not call me Roddy," Austria said and then added, "And you, Pierre, I will ensure that you never work in diplomatic circles again.""
"Bon," Pierre said with feeling.
"You're a disgrace! Call yourself a diplomat!"
"Non, I do not, I am a special attaché to ze French Embassy in London and I wish I was not," Pierre lamented.
"I will make sure you can never buy a pastry in Vienna again," Austria told him.
"Itsh a long way to Tipperary!" England sang.
"Yes it is," France said, temporarily stopping at a junction and looking at the road signs.
"What is wrong with him?" Austria said.
"He is a pathological liar and sex addict with perverted tendencies," Pierre said.
"No, not Francis. I mean England. Why is he still drunk?"
France shrugged and deigned to tell Austria that England had begun to regain consciousness on being crammed into the Citroen but had subsequently had half a bottle of wine poured down his throat.
"Pack up your troublesh in your old kit bag and shmile, shmile, shmile..." England slurred at Austria.
"Zis is bad, mon ami. He is singing wartime ditties," France muttered.
"Moron," Austria said and stared resolutely out of the window and hoped someone, anyone, would rescue him.
"We need to do a rescue! Are you with me, men?" America yelled.
"Aye laddie..."
"Da!"
"Ja, I suppose so..." Germany added wearily.
"Let's do this! On my command..."
"Why your command?" Scotland interjected. "I'm older than thee. I should be in charge."
"Nyet, I am the oldest here," Russia said.
"I've got underpants older than you!" Scotland told him.
Russia didn't understand this, all he heard was something about 'old underpants' and he stepped back.
"I was the Holy Roman Empire, so I'm older than all of you," Germany said.
"I was the Kingdom of the Picts so I was around long before you were even out of yer nappies!" Scotland said.
"Pics?" America said, his eyes wide and then shook himself. "Listen you old fogeys. On my command, we all kick this door down, jump out and...""
"We are still in handcuffs," Germany pointed out.
Russia broke his own cuffs like they were made of liquorice and did the same for Germany, "Now you are not," he said.
"Dude, that's what I'm talking about!" America said.
"Or we could just open the door," Scotland said, "When the van stops at a junction."
"No we have to burst through it and jump out of the speeding vehicle. Like in Speed."
"It's actually unlocked," Scotland said. "They didn''t lock it."
"Why didn't you say, you dummkopf?" Germany said with a sigh.
"You didn't ask."
"Russia uncuff my cuffs," America said, ignoring them.
"Da, Amerika. You are soft and fat because of capitalism and burgers."
'Amerika' ignored him but stuck one fist in the air almost punching through the roof when Russia pulled apart the cuffs. "Freedom!"" he yelled and launched into a karate kick.
"And there he goes..." Germany said as America slammed straight through the van's doors.
At the hotel…
Switzerland was having other problems no less difficult than his fellow Nations'. He was currently in his hotel room with the sash window wide open, leaning on the sill, his rifle in his hands looking through the scope at the source of what England had earlier called, "That buggering bugger of a cockerel."
The offending animal had woken the Nations at 4.00 am punctually each morning, and its domain was just 100 yards from Switzerland's hotel room.
But... the Swiss Nation's usual marksmanship had taken a few days off.
"Damn!" Vash Zwingli yelled as he took aim, squeezed the trigger and two idiot Italians strolled into his viewfinder and stood talking and gesticulating wildly.
He was tempted to shoot, but knew he couldn't possibly get away with maiming two of his fellow Nations - even two such incompetent ones as these.
What was even worse was that Lily stood next to him, lamenting about his gunsmanship. "Oh, bruder... I'm so sorry... How many bullets have you wasted now?"
"Grr..." Vash gritted his teeth. He'd been trying to shoot that damned cockerel for over two hours and wasted (much to his horror of general wastage) over a dozen bullets.
He was convinced the damn thing was possessed of some kind of innate intelligence. Just as he squeezed the trigger, it moved, ran behind the chicken coup, somebody walked in front of it and once it even ducked and pecked at the ground and Vash's bullet scraped over its comb.
"Don't worry, bruder... perhaps you should just leave it alone? And besides, I'm sure guns aren't allowed in England anyway." Lily said soothingly.
"This is a backwards country," Vash said. "A man should be entitled to protect his borders."
"Against a chicken?" Lily said.
"Yes, but I think it's in league with those two incompetent morons and possibly England as well..." Vash said.
"Hmmm..." Lily said. She carefully felt his forehead for fever. "I'm glad I didn't go to the hen party, I think you need me here."
"I told you not to go... partying with those undesirables could have landed you in any sort of trouble! I mean, I bet they have strippers or some such!"
Lily stepped back and stared at him, "I don't do as you tell me any more, Vash. And besides, would you dare call Belarus, Ukraine, Hungary and Latvia 'undesirable'' to their faces?" she asked.
"Well... of course... insulting a lady to her face is not very gentlemanly..."
Lily just looked at him with her hands on her hips and then suddenly shrieked, "Icy!" and ran out of the room.
"Funny. I had the heating turned up full," Vash mused aloud and looked back through his scope. He slammed his rifle back down at the sight that greeted him. Iceland, Japan and China were stood on the lawn in front of the chicken coup talking to the two gesticulating Italian brothers.
Iceland had caught the plane in Europe which already, by some misfortunate, had China and Japan on it. He'd been allocated the seat in between the two Nations, who were currently not talking to each other. However, for reasons known only to themselves, they still communicated – usually this was done via Government officials and the communication was very curt and abrupt. In this case, they used Iceland as a go-between and would whisper in his ear to pass on some observation that was sure to ire the other.
By the time they'd landed at Heathrow, gone through customs – which had been a nightmare in itself – Japan having brought his ceremonial sword (which he said was absolutely imperative for a wedding) and China had refused to open his backpack saying "Mr Ping was asleep" which had caused a terrorist red alert only defused by Special Branch and the Chinese Consulate.
Iceland never found out who "Mr Ping" was. But he did wonder, aloud, why they were both invited to the wedding.
"We were not!" Japan told him.
"No, but if he is going, then so am I. Besides, in my case it was an oversight on the part of Arthur. He and I go back a long way," China told him.
"Not far enough..." Japan told Iceland.
But China was not listening. "We Chinese invented noodles long before you Europeans discovered pasta, young Italy," China was lecturing the Italies. Romano glared at the Chinaman, whilst Feliciano listened with his mouth agape.
After about ten more minutes of lecturing from the Chinaman, in which time Iceland had been led away (gratefully) by Lily and Vash had reloaded his rifle, Feliciano took off like a bat out of hell his arms waving, yelling, "I'm going to make a noodle pizza to honour the great Nation of China and for England and Miss Bella's wedding!"
Back at the police station…
The personification of all that was awesome and great was jumping about feeling not very "great" or "awesome" as four very large ten stone Rottweillers snapped at him.
"Aarrgh, Den! Think of something!"
"Like what?" Denmark said. Both were used to dogs - Gilbert's brother had three, Denmark lived half the year with Sweden and Finland who had a small dog. But neither were good with animals.
"Show them who's boss - you have to be the alpha male!" Den yelled.
"Sit!" Prussia yelled.
The dogs snarled.
"Do you have any food on you?" Denmark asked.
Prussia dug in his pockets and pulled out an elastic band (broken), a ticket stub for a beerfest in Cologne, five deutchmarks (he was surprised at the amount), a plastic nude woman bottle opener and a pencil stub. He also had a lint roller but he hid that from Den as he didn't want Den to think he was 'gay', but he did like to keep neat.
"Nein. Do you?"
Den rummaged in his pockets with a horrid grunting noise which made all but the largest dog back away. "Ja!" he yelled and pulled out a value pack of condoms, a pack of hair gel, a comb (with a lot of its teeth missing) and a pack of playing cards with nude women (a lot of them were missing as well). He grunted a bit more and found, his face beaming a large pack of bacon shoved in the pocket of his jacket.
Prussia grinned. "Ja! You are a hero! Throw it!"
And Denmark did throw it, still in its packet, the bacon sailed into the air and over the wall.
The dogs began barking even louder.
"You fucking idiot!" Prussia said.
Another voice yelled, "Which idiot threw this bacon at me?"
Denmark looked at Prussia and then back at the wall. "Swe?" he said tentatively.
"Great stuff! Now we can get ourselves rescued. Well done, Den!" Prussia said, thumping his friends arm.
It was indeed Sweden - a very very angry looking Sweden, in full Viking mode. "What the hell are you doing?" he yelled at them, vaulting over the wall as if it were knee high.
"Erm well… the dogs…" Prussia began.
The dogs by this time had scattered yelping as the big blond Nation stormed up to them. "Did you sing Abba?" Sweden asked Denmark - in Swedish.
Prussia didn't understand a word of this. He and Den always conversed in a weird mix of Danish, German and English (the latter because sometimes neither could understand the other).
"Well… he made me…" Denmark said, pointing at Prussia.
There was a cough over the wall, "Ahem? Ber? Could you give me a hand?"
"Kesese! Little Finland can't get over the wall without his husband…"
Sweden hit him hard with the pack of bacon and leaned over the wall and pulled Finland across.
"So, danke Dudes for rescuing us…" Denmark began.
"Did you get arrested? That's the fourth time this year!" Finland said.
"Dude.. This ain't good… They can't talk to you like that!" Prussia said.
"Ja! Only the fourth time!"
"It's April… that makes it once a month. Even for you, that's going a bit. Get yourself sorted out." Finland said. "We're here for a wedding. We're fed up of having to leave what we want to do…"
Prussia kesesed at this in a horrid lewd manner.
"… buying Wagon wheels," Sweden said looming over Prussia.
"Yer know… you remind me of Rus…" Prussia began.
"Come on, let's go… get them in the car, Ber and we'll finish our shop later."
Ber's idea of getting them in the car was throwing them over the wall.
"Ha! Uncle Den is a right wimp! Call yourself a Nation? I should be the Danish Nation, I'd be better than you…" a boyish voice told Denmark.
"I hate that kid…" Den murmured to Prussia as they were shoved in the back of the hire car.
"… When I get really big and I'm a part of the Soviet Union…" Peter Kirkland began.
Finland almost choked. "Peter! Where do you get these ideas?"
"Him!" Peter pointed at Prussia. "His Handbook of How to be an Awesome Nation. And Mr China's Handbook on Industrial Growth in an Agrarian Society. And Mr Spain's Book on Growing Tomatoes. That last one isn't very good and is only one page long. I also have Mr France's book. But it's got strange pictures and…"
Finland leaned across, took the boy's satchel and said, "You are not to read any more of these handbooks, particularly by people like those…"
Sweden muttered something.
"Perhaps Mr China's would be okay…" Finland then shook himself. "No! You are not a Nation! You are all three very naughty. You will come with us, help us with the shopping…"
"… Wagon wheels," Sweden muttered.
"… and stay in the hotel until the wedding. I bet there's some nice winter sports like curling we can watch on the hotel television."
"Jeez, dude…" Prussia muttered as he looked around him for any sign of escape. "Now what?"
"Now what?" Germany said to his fellow Nations.
All four stood at the side of the road with their thumbs out. None of them looked like anybody anyone in their right and sane mind would pick up.
After America had leapt out of the moving van, Russia had yelled "Vodka!" and followed him, tucking Russi-cat safely inside his coat pocket first. Scotland had followed, yelling "William Wallace!"
Germany, the only sane Nation present, had wisely waited just less than two minutes until the van had stopped at a junction, before jumping down from the van and then straightening his tie and strolling towards his waiting Nations.
"This isn't working, men," America said, his thumb stuck out, watching the passing traffic.
"We've only bin doing this for ten minutes, laddie. Yer need to have a bit o' patience. A Scotsman will come by in a while and aid us,"" Scotland told him.
"It has been at least a century," Russia said confidently.
Nobody said anything for a while.
"Well we need to do something. Perhaps we should just walk to the nearest town, get a taxi back to the hotel...?" Germany suggested.
"And give up? Ma brother's been kidnapped by nefarious means! I'm no coward and I should be representing the UK, but we need to get Arthur back for his nuptials with Miss Bela...""
"I don't know what you just said, but hell yeah!" America yelled.
Scotland continued, "... even though I told him he was nowt but a fule for marrying her. She'll kill him within a year, she will."
"So perhaps we should just go this way," Germany said after a long pause.
"Why do we have our thumbs up like this?" Russia asked finally.
"We're hitchhiking, dude," America said.
Russia winced. He didn't like being called 'dude'. "Is this how you do hitchhike in your Western countries?" he asked.
"Sure, dude," America said, "Why?"
Russia shrugged and stepped out into the road – straight into the path of a van. "This is how we do it in Soviet Union," he said, simply, holding his hand up to halt the vehicle.
The vehicle came to a skidding halt.
It was a Royal Mail delivery van.
The terrified driver looked down to see four very odd individuals looking back at him. The biggest one stared at him with odd violet eyes and seemed to have a wildcat on his shoulder. "Drive us to ..." Russia paused and looked at Scotland with raised eyebrows.
"I dinnae know... it could be anywhere... Francis is a crafty little bastard. He could be in a hotel somewhere... on a plane to Belize or even..." Scotland shuddered, "... a four star gourmet restaurant."
America was already getting into the front of the van, "Follow that car!" he shouted.
"What car? I don't know what you mean? Do you mean that Ford Focus in front?" the shaking Royal Mail employee asked.
America frowned. It always worked in the movies.
"The docks," Germany said with a sigh as he got in beside America. "Take us to the docks."
"Dogs?" Russia misinterpreted.
"Just get in," Germany sighed, "Francis will have retreated very quickly back to France..."
"Dude is right! Men! Let's do this!" America yelled. "Drive, dude!""
"Oh wait, dude... let the skirty dude get in the back first with the Russkie dude," America added.
Germany put his head in his hands and wished for this day to be over.
At Dover docks
"Zay will never find us, Pierre. Do you have the tickets?" France asked.
Pierre had his head in his hands, he nodded without saying a word.
Austria had told them loudly, several times, that he was saying nothing else.
England had vomited all over the back seat and one of Austria's furry pink bunny arms and was now curled up in a foetal position asleep, covered with a strange-smelling travel rug.
"Zere! The ferry is in!" France said excitedly. "My plan is working."
"You knew, Monsieur Le France, the ferry schedule?" Pierre asked incredulously.
"I may have done..." France said. "Are you impressed at my planning?"
Pierre sighed again. This could only end in disaster.
"In an hour and a half we will be in my beloved country," France said. "I wonder if they serve wine on board?" He added, smiling.
He waved happily to the man at the barrier, handing him the tickets and passports, which were handed back. "Merci beaucoup mon cher!" Francis said happily as he drove up to the ferry terminal behind a small queue of cars heading up the ramp of the ferry. ""I love ze sea, don't you, Pierre?" France said dramatically. "Ah La Manche!"" he sighed. "Ah to feel ze breeze in my gorgeous hair! Ah... if only... Aaaargh!" he suddenly screamed as he spotted, to his horror, the baleful and official glare of Germany and an excited American together in a Royal Mail van some 20 cars behind him.
"He's there!" America yelled.
"Oh God, can't you just take the parcels in the back and let me go? The Post Office won't pay ransoms," the poor driver was saying (convinced that this was a robbery).
"Don't call me a parcel!" Russia said suddenly from the back.
"Just keep driving..." Germany said.
"We're not going to get on the ferry," the man said.
"You just have to have the right attitude," America said. "Acting all pessimistic won't win you any wars."
The driver turned to stare at him.
"Lieutenant Colonel Alfred F Jones, US Air Force. I got a purple heart at the Battle of Normandy."
"I got an Iron Cross in the same battle," Germany said.
"I played ma bagpipes at Gold Beach. The Germans fled from me screaming."
"I wasn't there. I was busy," Russia said ominously, the temperature dropping dramatically. "Operation Bagration," he added.
"Operation Bagration – that's lame! Operation Overlord! I wanted to call it Operation Stormforce Alpha," America said.
The driver was convinced by now that he was dealing with a bunch of mentally subnormal robbers and he was going to die.
"Keep driving!" America yelled as the ramp began to ascend. "We might just make it!"
"We're not going to make it!" Germany yelled and tried to take the wheel from the driver.
The driver froze, as the van drove at full speed towards the ferry.
"We're not going to make what?" Russia asked as the Royal Mail van drove straight off the end of the dock and straight into the churning waters of the British Channel.
To be continued...