Acknowledgements: Thank you to Mely-Val, 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, Pandoala, Hintori-time, Senor Tree, Wandering Authoress for the reviews, PMs, faves and alerts and of course all my other readers. (If I've missed anyone please tell me.)
Another quite long chapter…
White Wedding Chapter 7
On the ferry behind the one carrying America, France, England, Austria, the postman and Pierre, deep in the bowels of the car and lorry loading area, Mr and Mrs Worthington-Smythe were not dead - but they were not feeling very well either. They were handcuffed in the back of the battered police van in just their underwear.
Russia sat in the driver's seat of the campervan with Scotland sat next to him. Russia stared at the Scotsman in disbelief and then stared ahead. "You look stupid," Russia told Scotland.
Scotland did. But Russia had deigned to mention that he also looked stupid. He was wearing trousers that were too short for him (by at least six inches) and a jumper that rode up around his middle. He'd refused to dispense with his scarf and his coat was dumped in the back as Scotland had pointed out that it was 'too conspicuous'.
Russia looked over at Scotland. He was not sure what 'conspicuous' meant - his English didn't go that far, but in his eyes Scotland was certainly eye-catching. And not in a good way.
The Scotsman was wearing a tweed skirt, a jumper with kittens on it (which Russia quite liked but would have died rather than admit the fact), a string of pearls, high-heeled shoes (Mrs Worthington-Smythe had rather large feet and a rather extensive shoe collection Scotland had discovered) and to top the outfit off - a jaunty pink beret.
"You look stupid," Russia said again.
Scotland for once understood the Russian and looked hurt. "Do you normally say that to the ladies?" he said.
Russia considered this a moment too long.
"I think I look bloody good!" Scotland said to himself in the mirror. "There aren't many Nations who can wear a skirt," he said.
"Polska," Russia said grudgingly.
"There is no need to swear," Scotland said, huffily.
"Why didn't you wear trousers like I did?" Russia asked and pointed to the open wardrobe doors in the back of the campervan.
"We have to keep up these disguises, they are looking for two men, so I thought we'd be Mr and Mrs…" Scotland answered and checked the passports, "…Worthington-Smythe."
Russia shuddered.
"Hell yeah! This is what I'm talking about!" Alfred was in his element. He was now assisting French Special Forces to apprehend some terrorists.
He kicked down yet another cabin door and had to be restrained by an officer before he could arrest yet another bunch of sleeping tourists.
"They could be the terrorists!" America protested.
"That was a family on their way on holiday, I don't think they're the international terrorists we're looking for, Sir!"
"Aw!" America said and charged off, "Come on, men! I know where they are!" He was amazed that this time 'men' did actually follow him.
He headed back to the bar and pointed, "They're in there!"
"How do you know?" someone asked.
America was amazed that someone had questioned his authority and he glared at them. Realising that his balaclava didn't show his 'glare', he took it off and glared again.
He then leapt into the bar ninja-style and motioned to his men to follow.
An officer was beginning to doubt 'Lieutenant-Colonel' Alfred F Jones' credentials but followed him anyway.
Alfred motioned to 'his' men to fan out and take position and he aimed his machine gun at the nearest football fan (he had no idea however, that the gun had no ammunition).
"Yo! Where's the poofy French dude gone?" was his first line of questioning.
"Piss off!" the football fan told him, being English, drunk and therefore immune to any authority.
The fan was flung on the floor and found himself with America's size 10 trainer-clad foot on his neck.
"Yo! I don't think you heard me! Where's the poofy French dude, the bad-tempered Austrian and the other French poofy dude?" America asked.
"Sir?" one of the men asked America - the word 'Sir' said in a very doubtful tone, "We have a problem."
America turned to him, "Listen dude, I know you're French and all that, but this ain't the time to go off and drink wine and do some of that French-kissing," America told him. "We're in the middle of a battle here."
"Well, actually we're not, are we?" the officer said.
"We've scoured the ship and there is nobody matching those descriptions," someone said.
"Only him," the officer pointed at Alfred.
"Pfft! You know if you wanna go off crying to your mum, be my guest. But I'm here to kick butt," America said.
A walkie-talkie buzzed. America was about to ask if he could have one, when a voice told them, "A code 142 on the bridge."
The officer turned to his men, "Code 142 on the bridge, let's move out."
"Code one for two? In the bridge? There are no bridges, dude," America told them. "We. Are. At. Sea! Is there only me who knows what to do?" he asked.
No-one listened.
On the bridge (yes, there was a bridge on the ship - otherwise known as a control room - Alfred was about to be amazed by this fact later)…
France lifted the handset on the intercom. He looked particularly stressed but also at his most devious. He hoped he looked dashingly villainous.
"Bonjour! I am ze great …" he paused, trying to think of a brilliant villain name. He snapped his fingers at Pierre.
"Oui monsieur?"
"Quickly, Pierre… I need a good nom de villain…"
"Le Grande Pantalons, monsieur," Pierre said. Really, he didn't want any part of this.
France tutted, swished his blond hair and waved his weapon of choice at Austria.
Austria shoved the 'weapon' out of the way. "Damn idiot," he said.
"Non, what shall I call myself?" France said.
"Damn idiot," Austria repeated.
England snored at their feet.
France sighed. "I am ze White Panther! I have…" he paused and looked at his 'hostages', "…fourteen hostages," he lied.
"I am a hostage, monsieur?"
France patted Pierre on the arm reassuringly.
"You'll never get away with this," Austria said, echoing what the others were thinking (the ones who were conscious at any rate).
France shrugged, but waved his weapon at one of his 'hostages' - the ferry captain - "You will liaise with them for me, but you will tell them what I tell you to tell them or I will kill you."
The captain should have looked alarmed, indeed if any other 'terrorist' had said the same, he would have, however, it was a foppish looking man waving a baguette at him who said this. "Really?" he said.
France waved the baguette at him, "Ah you think this is my only weapon!" he turned to Pierre, "Pierre, give me my banana!"
Pierre sighed and dug around in his briefcase, "It's actually my banana, Sir. My wife…"
"French pervert," Austria muttered.
Pierre blushed.
"Oh Pierre… I had no idea you and your wife were so interesting…" France said seductively.
It should be noted for the readers, exactly how this 'hostage situation' came into being. France had put his 'false flag' into operation by contacting the emergency services telling them that the American terrorist they were after was in fact on board. However, things did not go exactly to plan…
"I told you, mon cher, that this false flag would work. Get ze Special Forces onto ze ship to look for ze American and we can escape with my dear Arthur and Roderich," France had told Pierre.
"You mean you gave his description to the police?" Pierre had asked, appalled.
"Mais oui! Je suis clever, non?"
"Well…" Pierre had begun to point out that because the Special Forces/Anti-Terrorist Squad had been airlifted onto the ferry, the ferry had stopped and probably would not enter the port.
"Oh mon dieu!" France had exclaimed, propping the unconscious England against a wall, wiping his brow and ignoring Austria's continued protestations (France had been talking about him as if he were just a piece of baggage, which is what the Austrian felt like). "Ze ship has stopped!"
France had then commented, "Oh… But at least they will arrest the silly American and then we can be on our way," and then he watched in dismay as America dashed past with a loony grin on his face not being arrested or chased by the Special Forces but with them.
And so it came to be, that Francis' solution was take hostages and demand the ferry be taken straight to Calais, a chauffeur-driven limousine to take him directly to Paris and the American to be arrested.
But it was never going to be easy.
For a start, he had no weapons to speak of. His hostages were disinclined to co-operate with him and even worse, did not even look scared. Some even looked bored.
"Tell zem if zay come in I will start shooting," France told the captain.
The captain leaned away from him and looked very doubtful at this. "With what?" he asked.
France hit him over the head with his baguette, "Just tell zem!" he said, he then turned to Pierre, "You see Pierre, what I have to work with?"
"He says…" the captain began.
"Ze White Panther says…" France corrected him.
The captain started again, stopped and then said quickly into the handset, "Just storm the place! He doesn't have a gun!"
France hit him hard and was amazed when the Captain fell to the ground unconscious. "Mon dieu!" he said, horrified.
"You killed him, Monsieur!" Pierre said. "With a baguette!" he added, in awe.
"He's been knocked out, you stupid Frenchmen!" Austria said. He tried to wake up the Captain and then tried to wake up England. "We need water to throw on them both! England will get us out of this."
"Pierre, you talk to ze people… tell zem I am armed and dangerous."
"Oui, monsieur. Who are you again?"
"I am ze… er… Blanc Panthère," France told him impatiently.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am sure!"
"He says he is the Blank Panther," Pierre said uncertainly.
The voice on the other end of the phone obviously did not think this was right either.
"Non!" France shrieked. But Pierre continued.
"He says he is very dangerous… he has already injured someone. He could kill us all with something…" Pierre stopped and listened.
Francis dragged the body of the Captain out of the way, now he was sure he was just unconscious. "So untidy…" he muttered.
"You're an animal," one of his other 'hostages' told him.
France ignored him and motioned to Austria, "You will talk to zem. Tell zem I am a remorseless killer… but also that I am dashingly handsome. But not Blank… blanc as in white…"
"I know what blanc is… and you are definitely blank," Austria said.
France pointed the banana at him, "Talk to zem, Osterreich," he told him.
But Austria was trying to pull England off him, "Get off me, you lout," he said as England hugged his leg.
"Tinks… tell Bela I love her…" Arthur garbled in his sleep.
"Who is Tinks?" Austria asked.
"Tinkerbell. She is a fairy," France explained with a sigh, "Not that I believe in such things," he added.
"He says he is a fairy," Pierre added into the handset, completely misunderstanding.
"Non! Tell them I am a terrorist of great renown!"
"He is also a terrorist in a great gown," Pierre added quickly.
"Renown! Renown! You stupid Frenchman!" France yelled, hitting poor Pierre on the head with his baguette.
France then grabbed the phone from him, "I will parlez avec zem," he said. "Ahem, I need to speak to whoever is in charge."
"Yo dude! Francy-pants!"
"Sacre bleu!"
"Yes man, sacred blue," America nodded (for it was he).
On the ferry behind them and swiftly catching them up, Scotland was making his unusual presence felt in the bar.
"Aye, I have a God-awful brother who didnae even want me as a best man!" Scotland told whoever was listening - two lorry drivers, a travelling salesman and a group of year 7s on a school trip to France who frankly thought they'd hit the jackpot when the rather bedraggled transvestite walked in and started ranting. Needless to say, their teachers were desperate to pull them away.
"Are you Scottish?" a child asked Scotland.
"Aye! I'm as Scottish as they come! I was born and bred in Glasgow, my heart beats for the Highlands. It is the Highlands! My tears are bonnie Loch Lomond. My brother is a ne're do well and is an awful man."
"Is your brother Scottish?" someone else asked.
Scotland loved having an audience for his grumpiness. He crossed his stockinged legs and lost a high heeled shoe in the process. He didn't notice. "Naw… He's English. He's bloody rubbish as a Nation. I shoulda been the United Kingdom but naw… he's the favourite." He then began to sing a very bad, out of tune version of 'Flowers of Scotland'. He paused to tell the barman who was staring at him that he was 'married to a big 6 foot Russian so dinnae start flirting with me'. The barman hurried away, feeling a little nauseous.
Down in the depths of the ferry, Russia slept in the drivers' seat of the campervan, holding a car jack to his chest (it was his new weapon) unaware he was 'married' to a Scottish transvestite.
Over at the Cock and Gun hotel…
Spain and Greece (the latter still half dressed) crept into the foyer, a mere 3 hours after leaving the nightclub via a toilet window.
They had caught a bus - the wrong one as it turned out and then hitchhiked back with a lorry driver, who had told them how unsafe the world was at the moment - "what with ferry hijackings and postal vans being robbed , nothing and nobody was safe anymore". The two Nations had nodded and looked at each other worriedly.
Just outside Calais, the major news agencies were circling the 'hijacked' ferry for the big news story of the day.
America told France, "Dude, the BBC, France News and even CNN are covering this!"
"I am a celebrity!" France seemed delighted.
"You're a wanted man," America said (he almost sounded jealous).
"Of course I am! Everyone wants me!"
"The police say they will swap a hostage for something - in good faith."
"I will swap a hostage for a crate of wine - Beaujolais 1968 - and an interview with the BBC," France said, checking his hair.
America cut off the handset and turned to the officer stood next to him, "Guy's talking crazy. He says he wants wine and an interview."
"Are you really a trained CIA negotiator?" the French officer asked him.
"Dude! Course I am! You ask Herbert Hoover…"
"He's dead."
"No way!"
"This White Panther… we don't have any security data on him at all."
"Nah, he's probably new."
"New?"
"Yer know… it's probably a hobby," America told them. Forgetting somehow to tell them he knew the real identity of the 'White Panther' and that this 'terrorist' was really a rather camp and foppish Frenchman armed with nothing more than a baguette, a banana and quick wit.
The French officer doubted all this and also began to doubt America's credentials.
America was still cogitating on the fact that Herbert Hoover was dead, "Man! Herbie dead…"
"Tell the perpetrator that we want to talk to him and that we want assurances that the hostages are still alive."
America sighed, "I liked Herbie… Frankie Roosevelt was better though…" he said as he sadly picked up the handset.
"We're not here to talk about past American Presidents," the officer said impatiently.
"Jack Kennedy was great. It was a shame what happened in Dallas… That guy on the grassy knoll was…" America began to say but was cut off by France.
"Where is my wine, L'Amérique?" France said.
"Woah there! I'm just digesting this information that Hoover's dead."
"I'm not interested in your domestic travails," France said.
"Guys here," America nodded to the French officers stood next to him (who all winced at the 'guys') "… want to know if the hostages are okay?"
"Of course zay are!"
"They also say you're a perp…" America tried to recall the word.
"I know everyone zinks I am a pervert… eet eez not true. I am addicted to l'amour. In fact I am a victim of love!"
"I dunno dude… oh yeah…" America remembered, "… They say they want reassurance that the hostages are okay. Hey! Is Artie in there?"
"Of course they are okay… except for one who I might have accidentally knocked out."
"You? You couldn't knock your way through a cardboard box."
"I am ze great Le France!" France all but screeched.
"Do you know him?" one of the French Special Forces asked America.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"Kinda."
The French officers shared a look, one of them took the handset off him, "Who is he? How do you know him? Is a danger?"
"Wait? What? Who? Him? Nah! He brought me up… well him and Artie…" America began to explain.
"Like a same sex couple?"
"Well yeah…"
"So this terrorist brought you up. He's your adoptive father?"
"He was my older brother… he tried to feed me fancy food and then Artie gave me fish and chips and sorted out my taste in food. He even taught me how to make a cup of tea! It only took 50 years!"
The French officers looked appalled. One of them put a hand on his shoulder, "We can get you counselling and help."
"No time, man! Gotta apprehend this terrorist dude!" America said, completely forgetting that the 'terrorist dude' was France.
The handset buzzed.
"I'll get it!" America yelled bursting (not literally) with enthusiasm.
"Non, I will talk to them," one of the officers said.
"Aw man!"
"Hallo?"
"I am one of the hostages. I am terrified. The man… wait…" a voice said in an Austrian accent, "… I can't read that, Francis, you'll have to write clearer… hang on…"
There was mumblings as the hostage on the phone consulted and then came back on, "He says he is the White Pants…" the voice sounded bored. "Okay okay but I can't read the bloody thing… the White Panther… a notorious…"
"We've never heard of him."
"… But also quite secretive master criminal…" the voice continued and then complained in a whiny German accent, "You said, Francis, that you would unlock these cuffs if I talked to them and got what you wanted…"
"Is he armed?" the French officer asked.
"Well he has arms…" the voice said uncertainly.
"Many arms?" the French officer asked, totally misinterpreting.
"Two. How many do you think?"
"Are all the hostages alive and well?"
"Erm… I wouldn't say 'well', to be honest. I've seen much healthier specimens in a mortuary."
"Are they alive?" the officer asked, getting impatient.
"I suppose so. They're not dead," the voice said, unhelpfully.
"We'll exchange one hostage for a crate of wine," the officer said.
The voice mumbled to the 'White Panther', "He says he wants a dish of snails in white wine and an interview with the BBC."
"Hey! I'm getting peckish… but snails?" America all but yelled.
"Non," the officer said. His credulity in this 'terrorist' was so far stretched now it was close to snapping.
"Oh come on! I've been in here all of… twenty minutes… with this moron and handcuffed to an unconscious English idiot."
"Who are you?" the officer asked.
"Count Roderich Edelstein von Hapsburg."
The French office slammed the handset down and glared at America. "Arrest them all! This is a complete wind-up," he told the rest of the officers.
America nodded, "Too right, dude."
"And him!" the officer pointed at America. "For some reason he's the mastermind behind this whole thing. I wouldn't be surprised if this was some decoy for a big heist somewhere else."
America found himself, for the second time in 24 hours, in handcuffs.
"Break down that door and let's see who this White Panther really is."
The door was summarily broken down to reveal a Frenchman brandishing a banana in one hand and a baguette in the other, a very cross Austrian in half a pink bunny costume handcuffed to an unconscious Englishman, an unconscious ferry captain, an embarrassed Frenchman who pretended he knew nothing and two sleeping football fans.
"You are all under arrest!"
France collapsed dramatically (but quite elegantly) and Austria said gratefully, "Oh Gott sei Dank!"
The postman hurried up and interrupted, pointing at America, "He kidnapped me! He's a vicious robber! There were another two who stole my van…"
"Who are you?" America asked.
The sun rose over the port of Calais on the dawn of a new day - Arthur's wedding day…
Next chapter
The supply teachers from hell