America sat in the summit bar, drinking one slurpee after another, working haphazardly on the working paper he was supposed to be drafting. The bartender was becoming more and more skeptical of the nations' bill, however. National debt wise, it was quite clear he wouldn't be able to pay it for several years.
Suddenly, three countries approached him, dressed in black, with masks over the bottom half of their faces. One carried a dart gun; the other two were unarmed, but they all looked prepared for a battle, if need be. They surrounded America, who continued obliviously slurping and smiling. "Oh, hey, I—what are you doing?!" The nation with the gun had poked it into the larger country's back. "Is this a kidnapping?"
"Be quiet, and no harm will come to you," one of the masked countries advised in a whisper. "We won't hurt you."
"Oh, okay…" the large nation said slowly, as he was frogmarched down the hallway. "Is this some sort of secret—"
"Shut up!"
As he was whisked into the tiny conference room and plunked into the chair at the far end of the table, America noted each face on the left side of the table: Moldova, Armenia, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Poland, Czech republic, Slovakia, Slovenia, and many others, all formerly Eastern Bloc nations. And then, on the right, Germany, Italy, Italy Romano, Spain, Greece, England, Austria, and many other powerful European nations. The other assembled nations all looked towards America briefly, and a few muttered embarrassed greetings. None of them appeared to know what was afoot, and he was in the dark as much as them.
The double doors slammed open; a familiar voice said, in the clichéd tones of a movie star, "Let's beat back the Russian bear together."
A collective gasp issued from the lips of all present; it was a person they knew, for sure, but how he had changed! His hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail beneath an olive-green cap; his fancy blue and red uniform was gone, replaced with a crisp gray wifebeater, and a digi-camouflage jacket and pants. The cuffs of the pants were tucked into full-sized, steel-toed combat boots, a dark green shade that incidentally complimented the jacket buttons. France had also rubbed some camo paint on his face; while not making it blend in, it certainly emphasized the look of heroic resolve currently in place there.
A snort from across the room brought ever nation back to their senses; England's nose had begun to bleed profusely. He stood and sprinted from the room, muttering something about noxious fumes. Germany nodded approvingly, while Italy shrank a little from this new, militaristic France. Funny, thought America. Why is he all camo'd up, but doesn't carry a gun?
"Fellow nations," France boomed, "I suppose you're wondering why I'm all dressed like this, but not carrying a gun." Heheh, bingo. "That is because I refuse to carry them. They do not fit my nation's laws, since I don't have a permit. What I am asking of you, though," and his eyes lingered on Moldova, "is to fully support me. I am proposing sending in a special-ops team." NO! "That's right, gentlemen. To Russia's house."