Thank you for putting up with me! Finals were hard, but I got through. Here is an update!

Please be forewarned: that there might be some sensitive racial comments here. Nothing too harsh, but I will tell you now that this is just the very very tip. I am a minority in America, so I know very well how race relations account for a grand part of American history, and that is what I wish to portray it as; a fact of life. I do not endorse these sentiments, but they must be talked about in order for us to overcome.

IF YOU ARE RUSSIAN! Hi. American's weren't really nice to the Russians (and vice versa, I would say) but that was the way things rolled. Russia (the USSR) might come off as a villain here, but I do know that each side did their villainous things (don't worry, you will see America do terrible things too). And so therefore the perspectives of each country do give us a bias. All my readers should remember that the world isn't perfect or decidedly good and evil. It is mostly somewhere in between.

Also, my Russian, French, and German sucks balls. Sorry if I completely destroyed these languages. I haven't spoken French for years (or read or written it) so I've lost the practice. My friend speaks some German (starting her second year in the language) so I can only get basic help from her. Sadly, I have no Russian friends to help. I wrote this thinking "I need more Russian friends..." I had one, but he disappeared on me. And he was soo cute too... he went off to college in the east coast :(

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Great Balls of Fire

as performed by: Jerry Lee Lewis

1957

What could America say to his boss in these times? Poor old man was sitting there in his great big leather chair, looking at America too seriously, and maybe almost sadly. America sat in a less grandiose chair on the other side of the presidential desk, staring straight back but not feeling too comfortable about it.

Eisenhower looked very sickly. Not that he was, probably wasn't sick at all. But America noticed that no matter how robust and young (relatively) his bosses came in, they always came out incredibly haggard, old, and withered looking. And it all seemed that America kept his youth magnificently, if it did not increase with every term. Except for that time... god Hoover really fucked up his face, he had ugly pimples and dark circles and wrinkles everywhere. Thank god Roosevelt came in when he did, cleaned up his face right good.

He shifted a bit, not removing his eyes from America, and smiled before saying, "You were always so much trouble. Harry always thought you were too much trouble. I would think that it couldn't be that bad, you were great in France, I thought he was being dramatic. But no, you are too much trouble. Tell me, where is it that you find the will to destroy my peace?"

"Sincerely, Ike," America crossed his legs and brought his arms up over his chair, stretching out a bit before settling them back down on his lap, "I try, you know, to keep it all together. I do. But there are just times when you gotta live it up! When you gotta take life by the... well, just live it, you know! I can't help that all my people are too rowdy for their own good."

Eisenhower chuckled and finally stared back down at his work again. He took out a pen from the drawer at the side of the desk and grabbed the first paper on the table to start his work, "Well, I suppose I can't blame you. I knew what you were like going in, all my life."

After coming back from the White House, America took a quick shower. Soon his new favorite show was to come on, and he wanted to be nice and refreshed before he sat down to watch it. He supposed he could have invited some friends over to dance along with the music, but Ike left him a little bothered and thought it better to just relax and listen to some good rock an' roll.

Coming out of his room dressed in a plain white shirt and pants, he walked down the narrow stairs to the first floor of his house, drying his hair with a towel. He turned on the television as he passed into the living room, the floor lightly thumped with every step of his bare feet, the same tempo as the little gadget by the far window that kept beeping at a low steady pace. After setting the station, he went into the kitchen to grab some orange juice. He drank it straight from the glass container and set it back into the refrigerator. There was half a wrapped chocolate bar on the table and because of habit America grabbed it, opened it, and started to eat. If the war had taught him anything, it was to appreciate chocolate.

He walked back into the living room to sit down on his new Italian made sofa, little beep beep still going strong, and by now due to normality, left mostly ignored. Getting comfortable he propped his feet up on his expensive little French made coffee table.

"If you listen to Sputnik any longer you will go mad, Америка."

The chill that raced through his body was like the one he felt in Bastogne. Unnerving, unforgiving, and lethal. His action was numbed, he wanted to grab a hidden gun from under the sofa but felt frozen everywhere. All the slowness; his brains could have been splattered all over the floor, all over the little French table, blood all over the elegant Italian leather, and he would not have felt a thing. Would not have enough life left to realize that there would be no life left.

America knew that voice, that perfect "r" trill in his name, that precise pronunciation for every goddamn letter in a word, that serious undertone laced among the childish voice, and could only wonder, because he could not really move under the entire fear of it all, just how in the hell did he get inside? Were his aids not aware of who this man was? Did they not ask for his name? Did they not know that anyone with even a remotely Russian sounding name was persona non grata to him?

His limbs came to, his face he could now feel to have control over again. He removed the surprised look he knew he surely had plastered all over his mug to one of impassivity, of perfect tranquility. It would not do to be surprised by your enemy, even if you were. It would be best to look as if he were expecting the USSR to pop out to begin with, like he was expected over, like this was a thing he was prepared for. Let the ice emanating from behind him roll off. If America were to die, he would be dead by now. No, the USSR was here for something else.

"How are you inside? Who let you in?" America turned slowly, perhaps it was all a trick of the eye, an old sound stuck in his ear... but no it was not. There was Russ-- er the USSR in front of him, smiling quite charmingly, if not empty, seating himself next to America on the sofa, as America forgot about watching American Bandstand with the Sputnik beep like a metronome to the music in the background.

"This –" the USSR pointed to the television, "maybe my youth can appreciate, da? Dancing... but maybe work is better use of time. Американцы always carefree and dancing, how will you keep up with Soviets?" America could not help but feel that the USSR was also mocking his present predicament; so carefree was America that the most red of reds was inside his house sitting on his sofa, smiling.

"I'm glad that you worry about me so much, comrade!" America sneered at the use of the word, while scooting a bit partways from the USSR's knees, "but you know, when capitalism is the name of the trade, people can work and have fun without having to worry to keep up with anyone, it is in fact the other way around. Or will you say Mayak was a success?" He stood up on frozen legs and rounded the sofa a bit stiffly, pretending to be looking for some liquor to serve, but was actually trying to find a way to contact the CIA or something – there were secret buttons he had around for situations likes this. If he could not kick out the USSR were it not better then to record all the information before he left?

"Mayak? Oh, capitalist scum, you bring up Mayak? What if information got out, will it not – how do you say... endanger nuclear programs here?"

Finding the little radio recording button stuck to the roof of his liquor cabinet, America pressed the button and grabbed two bottles, one of vodka and the other of whiskey, and a glass. What was easier to do than loosen some tongues with alcohol? Whatever that damn Russ-- the USSR thought about him, he was rather smart when he wanted to be. His "whiskey" was nothing more than colored water, to keep him sober while offering other drinks to keep the guest drunk. Oh, he was rather genius when he wanted to be.

He set the vodka bottle down on the small coffee table between the sofa and the television in front of the USSR, knowing that big old Vanya was not the type to care for a glass if it really came down to it. It is not like America drank much vodka anyway, it was mostly kept around for diplomatic relations.

The USSR looked at the bottle and seemed rather surprised, "Stolichnaya? Were from?" he picked up the bottle and noticed it was new, unopened.

"Old Russian Jews. They still got a taste for your crap. And your language."

"Do they? Rather strange, as I am not very... lets say kind to Еврей."

"I know." America looked at him rather sharply and sat himself down as far away from the USSR as the sofa would allow. American Bandstand dancers were filling the television with a lot of smiles and twirling dresses. They were all kicking around their feet, bopping to "Great Balls of Fire" and America could not think a more apt song for the moment.

The USSR opened the bottle with a nice big pop and brought it up to his lips. He chugged a bit of it down before setting the bottle on the table, giving a contented sigh, "Maybe you are not lost cause, da? Maybe you come join Soviets some day?" the USSR gave another condescending smile (he never ran out of those).

"Pfft. What have you been thinking, old friend? Join you, was für eine dumme idee!" America took a drink, watching that smile turn upside down. The USSR hated when he was spoken to in German. And French just as much, "Je préfère mourir que d'être de nouveau avec vous."

"It is unpleasant to speak English, bastard language. We agree to not use other languages, da? I do not know if they settle well."

"Whatever." America sipped from colored water again, watching the dancers on screen finish up. The news was coming on, something small about Little Rock...

Holy shit! How could he forget!? He was supposed to help Ike with that one, no wonder Ike looked exasperated earlier today. Fuck! The damn commie was here now, it was best to not be too aggravated, but he was supposed to have finished that by today, be on his way to Arkansas to see that everything was more or less in order. This crap was serious.

"Listen, commie bastard that I hate with all of my heart, I need to get to work. I just remembered some important confidential stuff that needs to get looked at, and I can't very well have the enem– our most esteemed friend here looking over my shoulder while I do it. Enjoy the vodka, take it with you, hope you choke on it." America made to turn off the television and show the USSR the door (which the USSR probably had no idea were it was located, since he broke in...) but suddenly an amazingly large hand grabbed his arm before he could stand up to follow through on it all. Bastogne chill crawled up that hand. How could America at any point have loved settling into that cold hand? He had been a stupid youngster, too infatuated with the glamor and strength of older men. What was he but the USSR's old pedophile love interest? He was the Lolita to the USSR's Humbert Humbert. It was no wonder that Nobakov was a Russian in love with America.

"But, capitalist pig that I hate with all of my... self, I came for congratulations, personally from you. Friend to friend, for Sputnik. Will you not drink with me?"

America jerked his hand away from the strong grip, very painful, "Like I've said, worthless Russki, I've got more important crap to do than congratulate you for your nuclear can in space. Contrary to popular belief and your personal delight, you are not the entire source of my most aggravating problems."

"Ah! Could it be comrade that you speak about small problem with your Africans? How very strange that this problem came back, da?"

By now America was putting everything away while trying to figure out which way was best to forcibly remove the USSR from the premises with only small physical harm inflicted on his person. He knew that someone from those dark spy agencies was probably already listening in, wondering why the USSR would bother with knowing about his Afri– wait! How did he know about that? What did he mean by problem came back?

"What?" America responded back very smartly.

The USSR leaned back into the sofa, took another long swig from the Stolichnaya, and looked back up at the now still America, "I remember, back when you had more genius, that your Civil War was over something like this, da? Did you not come in tears to Vanya? You were reliable then."

And incredibly horny, America thought. He looked straight at those purple eyes, settled within a visage of strong features: the pointed nose that sat a bit out of place, the dark thick eyebrows, the rounded cheeks, thin lips. The USSR was all boyish strong masculinity, handsome only when one had been staring after a while and decided that if not for the angry eyes he looked like a kindly overworked but well fed business man.

To be called a business man, the USSR would kill America.

"It is better to not talk about those times. This time is not like that. Now leave, you have intruded upon my patience enough to warrant suspicion, if you breaking into my home was not enough to do so. I ask you to leave." America inched closer to the katana he had hanging off to the wall left of the television. An antique he had taken from Japan when he was in charge of that man's home. It was not as if Japan had anymore use for it anyway.

The USSR also noticed the katana and America's proximity to it, and his hand itched to take hold of his pipe and start a little fun. But his bosses had warned him now was not the time to start trouble. Once he was assured that there were internal problems brewing within America, he was to leave and report. Oh and what troubles they were! Surely tiny now, but they had the capability of becoming something big. As the USSR knew from experience, the people do not settle well into oppression. These new troubles were like a (super) late Christmas present for him; it was when America was divided that he was most fragile and vulnerable, the USSR had seen this first hand.

That done (for he only came to visit dear America because he missed the angry scared look on his face) he had no choice but to bid farewell to his most beloved enemy and ultimate prize, "Then I will leave, do not be angry. Maybe visit will help better security, da? The USSR is always helpful, now Америка knows there is no one watching window to your room. It is best place to come in. Appreciate my help." The USSR nodded, settled the little left of the vodka on the french coffee table. He stood and gave another harsh smile to America before turning and walking out of the living room, down the hall, opening the front door, and slamming it shut.

America ran to his window facing the front yard and noticed a black car coming to pick up the USSR just as he was visible on the sidewalk. This had been thoroughly planned. What was that bastard planning?

Why did the USSR remember the Civil War?

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READ!

Short? Yes, but just building up for the shitstorm that is to come. I think I'm making up the USSR involving itself with the early Civil Rights movements, or whether they were interested at all (they probably were). In the sixties these movements spawned many socialist movements and many militant groups whom the Soviets where probably really interested in, so I was trying to line this up. Could be that they weren't interested at all, but the United States Government readily feared that socialist groups would get together and overthrow the government during that time, no joke. They sent a lot of people to jail over this stuff.

I am interested in starting another story (don't know why, ain't even halfway through this one) called "The Wars of a Nation" revolving around America's wars: The Revolutionary War, War of 1812, the Mexican-American War, Civil War, the Spanish-American War, WWI, WWII, Korean War, Vietnam War, Desert Storm, Operation Enduring Freedom, and Iraqi Freedom. You know, for about 250 years as a country, the US has had a lot of wars, haha. You can unofficially thrown in the Cold war in there too. I plan to make two chapters (or three) on each, focusing on America as a soldier in each. If anyone is interested in co-authoring this with me, please say so in the reviews! I think there will be romance (after all, there are allies and enemies in war) maybe with various countries, or even with other Americans (I think Alfred would be horny for his own people sometimes).

So thank you for reading up to this point, and please review! Your comments make me look at my writing and see where I can fix it, what I can do to make it better.