I walk into the room. America is crying against the wall, his arms bound behind him. I broke him. As I walk towards him, he begs me to let him go. Am I a joke? I feel my heavy plastic hockey stick hidden behind my back and come up with a witty phrase.
"I hear your country is pretty big on... plastic surgery." I whip out my hockey stick from behind me, and he yells. I smile. He'll remember me now.