Privyet, Mister France,
I see.
Oh, Madrid told me that if you send mail again to tell you 'Viva la Furia
Roja,' da?
I can tell they are close. Madrid loves talking to him.
Da, of course. Please tell Mister Ispaniya that Father is distracted by a
guest and won't be invading the land any time soon. At least, I hope not, or
I'll be very annoyed with Father.
Da svedanya.
Moskva
((It is! It just takes forever to make, apparently.
Creeper: She couldn't figure out how to properly roll the phonetic 'r.' Her
attempts were funny, though! Some were so funny that everyone around us fell
over laughing.
Al: I don't blame them, either. I sounded like a dying cat trying to purr!
Pfft, fail.))
Moscow,
Oui, it's moi, France. …France is better than Spain at football…
And Antonio loves talking to Madrid. I admire their relationship. It's beautiful, really. L'amour!
I'll tell Antonio when he wakes up…poor thing is very stressed out right now. I'll let you know if I see anything resembling the Russian military here in Spain, merci.
Au Revoir
France
P.S. Spain's only responding to Romano and Hungary right now, so you'll be stuck chatting with me until he feels like speaking to others again.
I heard!
Creeper: Pfft, I would've loved to hear that. I can't roll my double "R's" and I'm in Spanish IV…pathetic, non?
Al: Hey, I would've laughed too, so good thing you don't blame 'em! That is a fail…