Disclaimer: How many times do I have to say that I don't own Hetalia or Avenue Q? Because I really would like to stop...Anyway, please enjoy France's performance of "I'm Not Wearing Underwear Today"!
Francis examined his reflection in the cracked mirror of the dingy bathroom of the comedy club "Funny or it's Free" in which he would be performing onstage later that night. The lighting was poor what with the fact that the cramped space was illuminated only by a bare bulb swinging precariously above his head that looked as though it was about to fizzle out in any second in addition to being covered in what was more likely than not several years worth of accumulated dust and fly faeces, but even so, his beauty still shone through like a beacon of light. Hell, he liked the peeling walls covered in hastily scrawled graffiti, the insect-filled cobwebs lining the water-marked ceiling and even the barely functioning toilet that was browning either with either age or shit stains. Probably both. The ugliness of the room only served to make him look even better in comparison, which appealed mightily to the rather vain Frenchman.
What was he doing in the grimy restroom of a hole-in-the-wall Manhattan comedy club, you ask? Well, for the past few days, Francis had been spending the majority of his time riding the subway all day in the hopes of perhaps meeting his soul mate. Yes, he indeed believed that amongst the masses of obese people reeking of onions and ass and stressed Wall Street stock brokers clad in rumpled suits who bore the grim expressions of people who were ready to throw themselves out of their office window's in order to eat the asphalt so that they wouldn't have to once again see the DOW Jones plummet that he might perhaps stumble upon the person that he would spend the rest of his life with. Certainly, and upon finding them, he would take them into his arms and oh fuck it: He was really just a serial groper who got his jollies by fondling hapless subway riders and then running off while giggling like a schoolgirl.
Unfortunately for him and fortunately for anyone who had to use public transportation, Francis had been apprehended earlier today by the police whilst in the middle of putting his hand up the skirt of a short, serious-looking girl with long dark blonde hair and glasses. His fingers had barely grazed the smooth, supple flesh of her right buttock before she screamed bloody murder and swung her bag at his head, causing him to stumble back and into the subway pole behind him.
His head had struck it directly, knocking him unconscious and by the time he'd gathered his bearings, he'd found himself handcuffed and being led away by two police officers, who took him to the Seventh Precinct. He'd managed to get off with little more than a $500 fine, which he had paid immediately and within two hours he was once again roaming the streets. So, what the hell does any of this have to do with the fact that Francis was about to be performing a stand-up comedy routine in a derelict club with multiple safety and sanitary violations? Beats me, this is really just a way to fill up page space...Wait, no, this actually is relevant!
Anyway, while despondently wandering the streets in search of something to occupy his time, like a strip club or a sex toy shop (he really was in dire need of a new set of anal beads), Francis happened upon a urine-yellow flier taped crookedly to a street lamp. It read: Are you funny? If not, it really doesn't matter. Seriously, I don't give a shit. I have multiple citations against me due to safety and sanitary violations, so I pretty much just want to give a last hurrah and an epic 'fuck you' to the Health & Safety department before they shut me down. You heard that, Eduard from the bureau of food safety and community sanitation, you pasty-faced, four-eyed basement dweller? FUCK YOU. For more information call 1-800-SUK-DICK."-Alfred Fucking Jones.
As he'd squinted at the ridiculously tiny font (how else were they supposed to fit so much wording on a 4x4 inch sheet of paper?), Francis decided upon reading the words "fuck ", "suck", and "dick", which happened to be among some of his favourite words in the English language that he might as well give it a shot.
And so, here he was, admiring his reflection in a grime-coated mirror with a huge crack running down its center in the middle of an unbelievably filthy bathroom while readying himself to entertain strangers on stage in a manner that didn't involve him dropping his pants to his ankles and waving his junk at all of them so that they might get a good look at the 'B' (for his surname, Bonnefoy and for the fact that he was quite the beast in bed, if he did say so himself) shaved into his pubes.
Speaking of which, it was nearly time for him to go onstage. Straightening his tie, Francis winked and flipped his perfectly coiffed golden hair before turning around to read the message written across the third wall of the room.
"For a good time call 212-660-2245. P.S. She likes it in her poop chute," he read to himself. "Ohonhonhonhon; this number is definitely going in mon petit carnet noir!" He said, pulling a pen and a rubber-banded notebook out of the pocket of his suit jacket which was stuffed to full capacity with what looked to be hundreds of phone numbers and addresses. Quickly scribbling down the number of his latest butt-slut conquest, Francis stuffed the notebook back into his pocket, patted his crotch (it was therapeutic for him) and strolled out of the bathroom.
As he sat on the stool provided for him on the stage, Francis surveyed the crowd, which consisted of exactly one person, an irritable-looking young man with extremely thick eyebrows, deep green eyes and a facial expression that clearly said "I'm only here for the free booze" sitting at one of the cheap plastic tables.
Considering the state of "It's Funny or it's Free (i.e. the fact that it was a complete and utter shithole), Francis supposed that even one person in the audience was a great turn-out. And besides the eyebrows, which were in themselves somewhat charming if he ignored the fact that they were roughly the size of Hershey bars, the man was very attractive despite the unapproachable expression on his face. Francis grinned to himself. Time for the old charm.
"So mon cher, have you heard the one about the woman and the magical dildo?" Francis asked, waggling his eyebrows. Oh yeah. Real winning line right there.
"The name's Arthur, not cher, you bloody frog and yes, I have heard that hackneyed excuse of a joke. God, I knew that this place was going to blow but I didn't think it'd be this bad," the man snapped.
Francis merely smiled coyly. "Blow, eh?"
Arthur's face reddened. "Oh sod off, will you! If you're going to be a pervert onstage in a comedy club, why don't you try and be at least somewhat funny?" He said, taking a swig of his drink. He shuddered. "Dear God that's nasty. What the bloody hell did the bartender do, piss in the cup and then dip his sack in it for extra flavour?
He turned his gaze back on an insulted-looking Francis and smirked. "I know that my idiotic twat of a half-brother Alfred is letting just anyone perform tonight before he gets shut down, but my God, you're absolute shit. The only thing entertaining about your act is watching you flop," he drawled. He took another gulp of his drink, downing the remainder in one shot. Arthur gestured towards the bartender, a bored-looking, silver-haired pretty-boy youth who looked barely out of his teens. "Hit me," he called.
Shrugging, the boy picked up a sixteen-ounce bottle of whisky and chucked it at Arthur, hitting him square in the face. "OW! What the fuck was that for, you androgynous little cunt?"
"You said to hit you," the bartender, whose nametag read Emil, responded tonelessly.
"I didn't mean literally!" Arthur shouted, clutching his rapidly swelling eye.
Emil shrugged. "I'm Icelandic," he said, as if that explained everything, which it sort of did. Catching the disturbing look that Francis was throwing him, he picked up a double-barrelled shotgun from beneath the counter and aimed it at him. "Stick to harassing the English douche or I'll blow your eyes out of your skull and make him screw the sockets."
Laughing nervously, Francis waved his hands. "Now now mon cher, no need to-He stopped short when he heard the gun click.
"I said," Emil muttered lowly, "stick to Groucho Marx's and Simon Pegg's love child over there. Unless you want me to blast another hole up your ass?"
"Tch, that sick bastard would probably enjoy having a second arsehole," Arthur muttered. "He'd be able to get buggered twice as often..."
Francis began to sweat. He had a shotgun aimed at him, his sole audience member would probably applaud when he took a bullet to his face, and the stool he was sitting on was starting to hurt his ass. How am I going to remedy this situation? He thought desperately. And then, it came to him. With song! Voila! Francis, you are un genius! Even better, because I have the perfect thing to sing about! Il est trés bon que je ne suis pas sous-vêtements!"
Leaping to his feet, Francis kicked the stool aside, causing it to fall off the stage and hit Arthur, who wound up nursing a split lip in addition to his blackened right eye from where it struck him.
"I'm going to murder that cocksucker by the end of the night," he mumbled as he held a napkin to his bleeding lower lip.
Heedless to the fact that he currently had two people out for his blood, Francis cleared his throat and began to sing in a surprisingly rich, if rather smarmy-sounding tenor. Then again, if it didn't make people at least somewhat uncomfortable, than it just wasn't Francis, plain and simple.
"Oh, I am not wearing underwear today!" He sang.
"Ugh, why would you even mention that?" Emil demanded, looking revolted.
"I concur; we all could have done without that highly disturbing revelation," Arthur agreed.
Ignoring them, Francis continued, belting out "Non, I am not wearing underwear today,"
"Not that you probably care,"
"Much about my underwear,"
"You're right, I don't," Emil deadpanned.
"Belt up, frog!" Arthur added. "The thought that the only thing separating your herpes-riddled prick from me is a few measly centimetres of cloth is enough to make me want to put that shotgun to my head."
"Oh, don't be so collet monté, mes amis!" Francis shouted, obviously enjoying their discomfort. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes:"
"Still none the less I must say,"
"That I'm not wearing any underwear todaaaaay!"
When he finished dragging out the last syllable, Francis looked beamingly at his audience. "So, what did you two beauties think?" He asked, flipping his hair over his collar.
"I think I'm going to call the cops," Emil said.
"And I think that I'm going to be ill," Arthur muttered, looking a bit green around the edges. He turned towards Emil, who was about to dial 9-11 on his cell phone. "Do you think you might ask for an ambulance as well?"
Emil paused his finger above the 1 button to stare at him. "Are you that sick?"
"No," Arthur said calmly. "I just figured that it would be prudent, seeing as how I'm going to put this imbecile in a coma right now." He then proceeded to pick up the stool that Francis had accidentally kicked at him and chucked it at the Frenchman. It whistled dramatically through the air before striking Francis full in the face and knocking him flat on his ass.
As the Frenchman laid groaning and clutching his nose, Arthur stepped serenely up onto the stage, dragging the chair beside him before bringing it down on Francis' prone body with a resounding thwack, WWE-style. He brought the chair down on him five more times before tossing it aside, panting with exertion.
Moaning in pain, Francis still had the gall, bruised and bloodied as he was, to lift up a hand and squeeze Arthur's ass, at which point the irate Englishman began to strangle him while pounding his head against the floor of the stage and screaming every curse in the English language and even a few in Gaelic.
While Arthur manually cut off Francis' oxygen supply, Emil was having an odd conversation with the 9-11 operator.
"Er...Yes, this is Emil," he said confusedly. "How the hell do you know my name? My number is unlisted." He paused, amethyst eyes widening. "Lukas? You're a 9-11 emergency operator?" Emil coughed. "Well, this is awkward, to say the least." He paused and then rolled his eyes. "Look, can we discuss this later, please? Now is really not the time...What? No, I am NOT calling you Storebror!" His face flushed angrily. "Damn it, Lukas, I'm not ever going to fulfil your creepy-ass little brother fantasies, you incestuous freak! EVER! What the...Oh, for shit's sake, JUST GET ME THE POLICE AND AN AMBULANCE, DAMN IT!" Emil's pale complexion turned a brilliant shade of magenta at Lukas' next statement. "What do you mean you won't send anyone over until I agree to go out to dinner with you? YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" He screeched. Breathing heavily, he nearly slammed the phone onto the counter but was stopped by an interesting proposal from Lukas. "A threesome with the crazy Belarusian chick next Wednesday? Hm...I'll think about it. Now can you please send the cops over? Okay, thanks. Uh...Yeah, sure...Are you freaking serious? That's it, I'm hanging up now. Bæ."
Flipping his cell phone shut, Emil shoved it into the pocket of his jeans before turning around towards Arthur, who had stopped choking Francis and had instead settled for hog-tying him with some electrical wiring that he'd torn out of the wall.
"The cops should be here in ten minutes," he said. "Nice knot-work, by the way."
"Thanks," Arthur said, wiping his brow. "I've won a few knot tying competitions in my day," he added.
"Oh? Hey, did you know that this guy's a convicted sex offender?" Emil said in the casual tone that one might take when discussing the weather.
Arthur whistled lowly. "No fooling? Well, can't say that I'm surprised."
"Yeah, I looked him up on my iPad while I was talking to the 9-11 operator. Francis Bonnefoy: wanted in fourteen states on charges of groping, soliciting prostitutes, indecent exposure, sexual harassment, and something called obsessive relational intrusion."
"Is he a rapist?" Arthur asked. He looked as though he would like nothing more than to stomp the unconscious Francis' balls into paste beneath his shoes.
Emil shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. "Nah. More like a pansexual nymphomaniac who just doesn't know when to quit," he said.
Before they could discuss the matter any further, their conversation was interrupted by the shriek of a siren. "Oh look, the cops are here." Emil squinted. "And the ambulance, too."
He shook his head as he and Arthur were questioned by a tall, bespectacled police officer whose face seemed to be permanently fixed in a death glare while Francis, who had just regained consciousness, took the opportunity to grope one of the EMTs who was carting him away on a stretcher.
"Man, what a crazy night," Emil muttered.
"Eh, I've had crazier," Officer Oxenstierna mumbled in his thick Swedish accent.
"Really? Pray tell," Arthur drawled disbelievingly.
"Ja. I once woke up in the middle of a ten-way orgy that included two rodeo clowns and a giraffe. Had no idea how I got there. We were all covered in barbecue sauce and I was being serviced by two men, two women and the giraffe." He sighed wistfully. "Best and craziest night of my life."
Arthur and Emil stared at him in shock with their mouths hanging open to nearly the floor.
"...You win," Emil said quietly.
"Indeed," Arthur murmured and then threw up all over the floor.