Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and its characters.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, alerted, favourited: PikoPiko-Chan, Silver FoxWolf, citrine sunflower, Canyon's Rose, chickenkitty, ZeroLuver567, Lady Sandra of Sealand, Tamarutaca, 101Icestormxx.

Warnings: Crack, cartoon violence, swearing, France, Agony Aunt Iggy

Chapter 4 - Notorious

Leningrad, Russia

Russia was not happy. And when Russia was not happy, the whole world, or certainly the people in his immediate surroundings were not happy. Who was this 'Big John' person anyway? Big John's Pink Flamingo Hideaway? What kind of a gay place was this? And why did the words Pink Flamingo ring a bell? He was annoyed for many reasons. That a rumour was going around Leningrad and the KGB that he'd been beaten up – by mere humans no less and that Estonia and Ukraine probably knew more about it than they were letting on. But apart from by standing over both of them and threatening them, he would not be able to get anything out of them (he was loath to do this, Ukraine was difficult to intimidate) and he was also steaming because he'd upset his 'little sunflower'. She seemed to have gone into default 'scared' mode and would barely look at him. Just as (he thought) he was making some progress with her.

So he looked up this Pink Flamingo Hideaway in the Leningrad phone book and, clicking his fingers at Toris, picked up Mr Pipe, threw on his coat and stormed out of the house, Toris followed with a sense of foreboding.

Estonia and Ukraine exchanged fearful looks.

"I hope to God, they don't tell him about my deals, otherwise I'm done for," Estonia said.

London, England

"... So what do you think I should do?" America asked England, poking the icing on the buns with his index finger, his mouth full of Haribo starmix sweets (he had a weakness for British confectionary).

He had no idea really why he was asking England for love advice. But then again he didn't know who else to talk to. There was his brother, Canadia of course, but he seemed more and more distant and unavailable. Since he'd brought this maid, Aveline or whatever her name was to work for him, Alfred had barely seen him. There was France of course, but that Nation's advice was always the same – "You should declare your love to the world. Ask them to show you their butt." America did not think that this would go down too well with a woman of Belgium's refined taste.

"I've rung her loads of times but she says she's out," he mumbled naively through a mouthful of heart and star-shaped sweets.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Arthur said.

"How's that going to help me? I mean I offered to take her to the movies..."

"Yes, but you talk all the bloody way through. That time you took me to see Ricky..."

"Rocky."

"Yes, what a load of rubbish."

"And I offered to buy her a Big Mac," Alfred carried on.

"Well, how on earth could she resist you?" Arthur said sarcastically. "You have to treat a woman with consideration and respect."

"I rang her and told her I had tickets for Disneyland," Alfred continued. He really could not understand it. Wasn't he the Hero? He had the looks, the money, the body. He generally didn't have much trouble attracting women.

"You need to grow up. She said you were immature?" Arthur said.

"Yes, I mean honestly! That's just below the belt. I'd just got to level 10 on the Jedi trainer light sabre game. That's not for kids."

"Dear Lord."

"I know, right? And I beat Tony all the time at Space Invaders."

"I think perhaps what she means is that she wants you to grow up."

"What? Be a stuffed shirt like you? Go to bed at 10 o' clock with cocoa, smoke a pipe and wear slippers?"

"I'm not a stuffed shirt! I resent that analogy." However, Arthur did not deny the allusions to cocoa, pipe-smoking or wearing slippers.

"I didn't say you were an anagram."

"Analogy, it's a ... oh I give up. Perhaps if you weren't dressing up all the time as an Earl of the Sixth or whatever, she might take you more seriously."

"A Lord of the Sith. And I don't dress as a Sith Lord, that's the baddie. Fat commie dude would be Daft Aida. I'm Luke Skywalker. Get with it, Arty."

"Daft Aida?

"Oh okay, Darth Vader dude."

"I mean what on earth are you supposed to be today?"

"Indy."

"What?"

"Indiana Jones... I got the hat from Austria."

"You mean Australia?"

"That's what I said."

"I like the whip..." Belarus butted in, pouring another vodka martini for Arthur. She herself was drinking water. However, as it was the same colourless hue as her precious vodka, Arthur and Alfred didn't notice.

"Thanks, chick. Besides, what in the name of Obi-Wan, are you wearing?" Alfred addressed this last remark to Arthur.

"Erm, well..."

"I think he looks dashing," Belarus said, gently brushing flour off Arthur's tuxedo. Arthur had found that Belarus liked it very much when he 'dressed up'. They'd done the pirate costume, the Victorian gentleman, the English policeman's uniform and weirdly, Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh I get it, you're a waiter," Alfred said, most puzzled. The American loved dressing up – if he wasn't in his aviator flying jacket, he was dressed as a superhero. But he was unused to seeing Arthur dressed up – the English Nation was usually dressed in his boring middle-aged suit and tie.

"I'm not a bloody waiter!"

"A penguin?"

"I'm Bond, James Bond..."

Belarus swooned and leaned into Arthur and murmured, "Oh James... are you going to come up in a minute and interrogate me for secrets?"

"His name's Arthur..." Alfred shook his head. Honestly, these foreigners he thought, chick didn't even know Arthur's name.

There was a knock on the door. This time, Daisy, the tough guard-dog did actually bark which was ominous in itself.

"Who the bloody hell? Okay okay, Daisy, calm down..." Arthur got up, swayed a little. He was less used to vodka than he was to rum, which wasn't saying much, but it seemed to please Bela. However, to her disappointment he couldn't drink vodka neat - he tended to mix it with martini – or sometimes, to her absolute horror – with blackcurrant Ribena.

"Honhonhon, mes amies. How sweet this is!" came a silky voice from the door. "Ah petit chien. So cute. So adorable. So... argh! She bit me!" France started hopping up and down.

"Good dog, good dog. Here, have a biscuit," England was ecstatic. He'd actually spent the last month training his dog. Not house-training, not walking to heel, but to bite and growl whenever she heard a French accent.

But it was probably not so much the French accent that made the dog bite. Dogs are very sensitive creatures to moods and perhaps the clever dog sensed that France's intentions towards his master and mistress were not entirely benevolent (as a side note, Belarus loved being called a mistress).

The dog, probably possessing the highest IQ in the household, was entirely correct. Unfortunately, before Daisy could warn her master that the strange-smelling Frenchman was going to do something nefarious, she was picked up by her mistress and taken into the living room and given a doggy-chew.

Daisy barked and barked, "Dad! Mom! He's up to something! I don't like that man! His hands smell funny and he looks at Dad funny like that sex-mad Alsatian in the park looks at me!" (In doggy-eze of course, Daisy can't actually speak.) Stupid humans, Daisy thought, and gave up and flung herself down with her chew.

France was indeed on a 'nefarious' mission. It wasn't just England who could do magic and France had visited Norway and Romania – still on their 'honeymoon' in Bucharest and procured a potion. Said potion had been decanted into a rather nice bottle of Stolichnaya. 'He will be mine,' France thought. 'Oh yes, get that Belarus out of the way and he will come running back to me.'

Leningrad, Russia

Russia's black Volga pulled up outside 'Big John's Pink Flamingo Hideaway'. There was a sign outside that read 'Best Nightclub in Town'. Russia had no idea what that meant. Do people go to a special club at night, what about in the day? He was about to ask Toris what he thought, but then promptly forgot when a very ugly face appeared in the small hatch in the door at Russia's knock.

"What the hell do you want?" the ugly face asked.

"That is not very nice," Russia answered, "Is there a Big John in?"

The ugly man told Russia, in so many words, to go forth and multiply and slammed the hatch shut.

Russia frowned. He wasn't used to people telling him to go away and procreate. Russia stepped back, rummaged in his coat and brought out a pickaxe.

"I do not like rude people, do you, Toris?" Russia asked the Lithuanian, and proceeded to hack at the door.

Lithuania sighed and wished to God he was elsewhere, anywhere.

It took three hacks and the door was then karate-kicked down by Russia's size 14 boot.

The man on the other side of it was trampled as Russia promptly stomped over the door and entered the establishment.

"Hmmm, I do like the colour scheme though," Russia exclaimed happily looking around at the blood red walls. Russia's happy grin turned to a look of puzzled concern at the assorted young girls cavorting in various states of undress on the stage.

"What the hell? You don't look like you've come to audition as a stripper?" a man in a very badly fitted suit who had been leering at the girls said very stupidly to Russia.

"Nyet. I am not," Russia indicated the girls on the stage who were all trying to cover themselves up, and, sensing trouble, get out as quickly as possible, "Those girls look a little cold, it is not good to wander around in your underwear in December, nyet?" Russia said, obviously perturbed.

"Mind your own business," the man said rudely and then added to Toris, "Hey though, you're a nice little thing..." and indicated the Lithuanian's shoulder length brown hair, currently tied up in a plastic band.

Russia frowned, looking the man up and down and then said simply, "I don't like you."

The man was about to say something else but was karate-chopped in the neck by Toris. He hated being mistaken for a girl. He knew his hair was long, and he often tied it back into a pony-tail – usually when he was cooking.

Russia nodded in approval and waved to the girls as they hurried off stage, "Do svidanya, ladies," he chirruped.

"What do you want?" Three men in suits – very badly-fitted suits - stepped out of the shadows. "What happened to Mikhail?" one of them said indicating the prone, unconscious body of the victim of Toris' ire.

"We didn't like him," Russia smiled. "Are any of you Big John?"

"We work for him, what's it to you?"

"You are very rude. You should learn some manners." Here, Russia grabbed one of them by the neck and slammed him to his knees, "Perhaps you should apologise, nyet?"

The man finding himself held down by a hand with an iron-like grip, gurgled, "Let go of me!"

The other two men looked on in horror and then stared at Russia. Russia had a maniacal grin on his face, his purple aura was blazing and he looked as if he'd just stepped out of Satan's limousine.

One of them said, "Oh God!" and started to get his gun out.

"You believe in God? Very soon I will move you closer to Him," Russia chirped, his high voice at total odds with his demonic appearance. He shoved the kneeling man down so hard his neck snapped like a twig – what Ivan would have proudly called a 'Braginski Special' and then frowned at the gun pointing at him.

"Ha! Put your hands up. Both of you!" the man said.

Russia raised an eyebrow. Toris sighed, this was not going well, he thought. Resignedly he put his hands in the air but was not in the least surprised by the next events.

Russia reached inside his coat and pulled out ... a block of cheese. Russia sighed. This is what comes of rushing and not properly looking in your pockets before you put your coat on. It smelt a bit too. He wondered vaguely how long it had been there. Whilst he brooded on why he had cheese in his pocket, the man with the gun laughed.

"Haha! What are you going to do with that? What an idiot!"

Certainly, Russia did look 'idiotic' - for a few moments he'd got distracted and was looking at the cheese in his hand, scrambling through his torn memories as to why it was there.

Toris shook his head - that was the wrong thing to say. He'd never known anyone like his boss for killing or injuring people with so many diverse objects. A chip shop fork, a spoon - he'd once seen his boss strangle a person with a set of earphones. That person didn't live.

Russia frowned. The cheese had obviously gone off now and couldn't be used for anything. He wondered if he'd put it in his pocket thinking it was chocolate? He liked carrying food around, along with his vodka.

Then, he suddenly snapped back to the present and with unerring aim and inhuman force, he threw the one pound block of solid cheese at the man's head promptly rendering him unconscious.

"What the bleeding hell?" a voice yelled.

A large man who was probably slightly less ugly than the others came down some steps, obviously from some office somewhere. He was wearing a slightly better fitted suit and had a fat cigar in his mouth.

"He beat them up, boss," the remaining man said, rather unnecessarily, pointing at the two bodies.

"Da, I did. Are you Big John?" Russia asked.

"Yes, I am. What's it to you?"

"I am Big Ivan. General Ivan Braginski," Russia said simply.

"Shit," Big John said.

"Da," Russia agreed, the smile never leaving his face, and pulled Mr Pipe out of his coat. (At least it wasn't a bar of chocolate, knitting needles or a broken pen – all items residing in Russia's coat pockets – actually he could probably add these to the list of objects he'd injured people with.)

Big John and his henchman attempted to run. They did not get far. Russia, with his favourite weapon put paid to that silly idea.

Toris covered his eyes and then stepped back outside to wait by the Volga. He felt slightly sick.

London, England

"I have brought you a present, Miss Belarus," Francis purred.

"Oh, thank you... vodka," Belarus took the bottle from him. She wondered whether she should own up and tell them that she wasn't drinking vodka for the time being. But that would mean awkward questions. She decided to keep quiet.

"Well, I wanted to apologise for what I said..."

"You mean when you called me a cold-hearted bitch who could never make Arthur happy?" Belarus said, fingering a butter knife.

"Oui, but you have to understand..."

"Or that I will never love Arthur in the way that you love him?" Belarus said quietly, spinning the knife on its point.

"Oui, but you see..."

"Hahahaha! Francis and Arthur are sooooo gay!" Alfred yelled.

"Shut the bloody hell up. I am one hundred per cent heterosexual. I am not gay!" Arthur took the coke bottle from Alfred, slammed it back in the fridge and glared at him.

"Non, but he has slept with a man who is!" France exclaimed. He was about to carry on when he saw Belarus' murderous look, "I was joking! C'est amusant, non?"

"No, it's not," Belarus said, picked up the vodka bottle and waved it at Francis, "Thank you for the gift, but get out before I shove it up your puny French backside."

France squeaked, "Ah Biélorussie!" That threat did not sound inviting to the Frenchman and he was in no doubt that she would follow it through. It just stiffened his resolve that he would 'rescue' Arthur from her clutches.

"Yes, Francy-pants, just bugger off... but you can leave the vodka." England said, opening the door.

France swished his hair and minced past England. "I am here when you need me l'Angleterre. I am staying at La Bordello in Soho," he whispered to England and slipped a card into his hand.

"Of course you are, you bloody French pervert. Bloody hell, isn't that a knocking shop?"

"What's a knocking shop?" Alfred asked innocently.

"Never you bloody mind," Arthur said, slamming the door shut after the prancing Frenchman.

Belarus flung her arms around England, "You do not need him," she told him.

"I need another bloody drink, that's what I need," England said and opened the vodka.

"So I said to LouLou..." Alfred started to say.

"LouLou?"

"... Belgium, dude, keep up... You have to be a hero to go on the Magic Mountain log ride. I went on three times! Three times, dude! And I only threw up once. That's real bravery."

"Dear Lord."

Russia's house, Leningrad, Russia

It was late evening. Dinner had been cleared away, as well as the three bodies, and the usual evening pursuits were under way. Estonia and Lithuania were playing cards, Ukraine was knitting whilst Russia was trying, very unsuccessfully and as sneakily as he could, to get Latvia into his study and onto his lap.

She refused point blank when he indicated he wanted her to bring him coffee. And when he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her whilst she stood in the kitchen doorway calling for Boris – the blasted cat still hadn't returned since Russia's fight with the KGB – she'd flinched away and said "No," in a little scared voice.

Frankly, by now, Russia was getting fed up. It didn't occur to him that Lithuania had come back from the 'Pink Flamingo' nightclub and told them about Russia's fight. Also the fact that he'd come in with bloodied hands and red smears on his coat did not really aid his new romantic image. Latvia had been sickened and frightened. But Russia, fuelled by a litre of vodka, was largely oblivious to this. So when she tried to pull away, he clung on and pulled her as gently as he could back into his chest. But gentle to Russia is not gentle to a little Baltic. Latvia found it hard to breathe and she struggled fruitlessly. Russia murmured, in what he thought was his best seductive voice, "You will be mine tonight, Aija."

Leningrad Hospital

A large man, commonly known as 'Big John', local Mafia boss, head of the largest Mafia syndicate on the Baltic coast, was laid on a hospital bed. He'd just returned from surgery where he'd had to have several steel pins inserted in his broken legs. One arm was also in plaster and his head was wrapped in bandages. For some reason, when he'd mentioned the name Ivan Braginski, the local police were reluctant to take details. So Big John procured a telephone and made some calls. One such call was made to his cousin, Don Tortilla, the Mafia Don in Naples. This Ivan Braginski will wish he'd never messed with the Mafia...

Author's Notes:

Haribo Starmix – a popular brand of confectionary/sweets in Britain

Ribena – a very popular fruit juice drink in Britain – comes in various flavours but blackcurrant is probably the most popular (it is very nice with vodka) but is normally diluted with water.

Bucharest – capital of Romania

It says in canon I believe that Norway and Romania are both capable of magic

Stolichnaya – a popular brand of vodka

Do svidanya – goodbye in Russian.

Volga – a popular car in Soviet Russia, also the name of a river. But Russia didn't arrive at the Mafia's nightclub on a river.

Chip shop fork – tiny little wooden forks given away in British Fish and Chip Shops – they are notorious for being extremely blunt and useless (unless of course you're Russia)

Knocking shop – slang British term for brothel

Naples - a city in Southern Italy

Feel free to review/comment/PM

Sorry for the long chapter - next one should be shorter

Next Chapter – more sexual tension – a wandering in the mind of Russia, also Prussia and his van