I can't digest the sun… Do I get to kiss the pineapple now?
It seems like some of you are conflicted on this, so let me spell it out!
Yes, of course the cosmic registrar notes me as the "boniest and paliest of own-butt-kissers." I was allowed to see that information when I first learned all that "Greatest Man Who Ever Lived and Died or Never Did Either, et cetera" nonsense. At the time, I was pretty delirious. I'd just finished rolling down the lowly road and wondering if there was any place to go, and when I got to somewhere I thought I was in Hell, so I laughed and laughed at these infos for a good ten minutes. Ach, they recognize me! Groß Preußen, whose ultimate sin is repeatedly kissing his own butt! Where do I sign? To whom do I show my bloody smile and crazy eyes, and do I have to report to Socrates or Gary for the eternal bum-boiling?
Actually, according to the most objective records, my ultimate sin was remembering my nation body couldn't get fat and then eating all the Lebkuchen in Nuremberg one night in 1909. Sounds anticlimactic, but when I say I ate all the Lebkuchen, I really mean I ate all of it. The finished frosted hearts, and the bags of flour with the potential to become frosted hearts.
Still not as bad as Germany's ultimate sin, which was remaking Fichtls Lied.
So knowing I'm a certified Kissenassen on multiple levels, you might think I'd want to stay up all night and talk to you, either about your own daily issues or definitely about mine.
But for those in the camp of "Prussia would enjoy a good CLOTHES-ON cuddling session and then make me go to bed at a decent time so I could function the next day," you would be in the right.
If the Great Me decided to return your affections, figure out how to use my cosmic clearance and wiggle-worm through the delicate copper-coated circuitry of the universe's elevators to find you and court you and let you officially call me your Awesome Freund, you would have to follow my rules. There are few of them, but I don't want to see a single t-shirt, hair tie, headscarf made out of a towel, or prayer shawl on the floor, and I want you getting to sleep at a decent time! I'll cuddle you extra to make sure that happens!
Number one, if you don't have a regular sleep pattern, you won't have regular dreams about cute birds and endless public toilets and being an Icelandic wizard plotting to blow up Britain and My Rocking CLOTHES-ON Body! (I'll be real at this point, but also still in your dreams. You're obsessed, kesesese!)
And also, I want to make you breakfast.
So that's the explanation! All good? Any other pressing questions? Do you want me to rub your feet or your neck or put little swirly flower clips in your hair? Actually, Germany's really good at foot massages! I was frozen for the entire Cold War! The reason I'm so flexible now is because he got between my pinkers and squeezed out all that excess saline solution from my foot pores! I could send him your way!
Maybe I should just talk about breakfast more.
In one sitting, I can stomach almost as many pancakes as Canada, (though he probably cheats with his own kind of reality-warping.) I always wake up hungry for sausages and Schrippen with jam and cheese, maybe an entire jar of Nutella spread with my sword on a bun that I can shove in my whole mouth at once.
I like breakfast. It's a time to shake the schleepies from my hair and sit in the last tinglings of dreams while my belly warms up to coffee and my blood sucks the chocolate. When I lived with Germany, we had this consistent rapport, where I'd tell him what I dreamed about, and he'd remind me of his plans for the day, and then I'd make some bureaucrat joke, and he'd call me an ignoramus, and then I'd have to justify my reason for existing, which would make him sad inside even though he didn't show it, and at that point I knew I was getting cake later so I got clearance to be annoying as possible.
America doesn't understand the subtle charm of breakfast. He just calls it the "first phase of his million calories party," which from my vast experience sounds like an innuendo. We don't often spend breakfast together. I suppose today that would be impossible anyway.
Can I have a moment to think now about why I'm floating in space? I was reminded of the staying-up-late question and had to answer that, but now I'd really like to think about how just a few minutes ago I was in my fridgeroom, rendering my 3-D image, and now I'm suspended out in the darkness of space.
I can't induce the State of States and sense for the other nations. That would require touching Earth's surface. The next best thing is to flip myself around and get a sense of my current location. Right now all I can see is the overwhelming black, except for all the dark matter, which isn't actually dark. It's just very dimly lit because it's mostly 1970s elevator shafts. I note a few bright points that have to be planets. My lungs hitch when I spy one of them - must be the vestige of my dependence on geothermal energy. That's the Earth!
How did I get here? Must have been a positioning issue at the last point of reconstruction. I forgot to observe myself in the fridgeroom, and I spontaneously appeared everywhere at once. Good thing a speck of dust observed me within my own solar system!
Speaking of "solar," my t-shirt feels a bit toasty, and my hair's a bit staticky, and my eyelashes are starting to stick together.
I swim around in nothingness, breathing in the hot fumes of Hell until I'm flipped completely around and staring right into an endless undulating flaming humming sphere of superheated gases. At least, I can tell it's a sphere because in my eyes, objects of mind-boggling size always look manageable. Holy Schniznitsch! I'm face-to-face with the Sun! And it's surprisingly not vaporizing me! No specialized shielded spaceship, no super-techy exosuit, not even a visible field of whatever-energy is keeping my skin safe from the heat, but the searing kelvins don't even hurt that much!
Oh, I can feel the full five thousand degrees as waves of toxic ultraviolet radiation blast into my face at incredible speed. My cuticles are getting a little crispy, and my knees are twitching to stay out of the neutrino stream. This plasma surrounding me is thousands of degrees, and I'm just sinking, breathing, kind of enjoying the stuff as it emanates and splutters, threatening to knock out all life on Earth the next time it spins into a favorable direction…
My eyes light up helium-pink. My sharp white teeth come unfurled from predator lips. I cross my arms and sucker-kick the nearest electromagnetic snarl. It breaks with an audible fwoooosh! and spirals into itself before crashing into the sun's bubbly surface and brightening the solar storms surrounding it. Crackling winds thrum even louder and hotter under my wide Prussian smirk. Prussian — a word the sun doesn't know and doesn't care to learn.
"You're lucky I'm not a poet," I growl with a voice even deeper than the radio static ripping my arm hairs out. "I'll leave art to the artists about you creating life on Earth and threatening to end it. My question is, Why aren't you shivering in fear at the sight of what I've become?"
Easily, I finish floating to the uncertain surface. It's amazing! The gravity's so strong here that my flesh is all squishing down into my feet! Before I become a pancake, I bounce back up, spreading my arms wide as I learn to fly on jets of plasma high as twenty Earths. I spiral around and soar through the visible loops of tangled particles. Scattered flames collect and converge on my fists. I shake them all around and then shoot myself back, sunfire blasting from both open palms. My heart beats strong as ever. Without oxygen I still feel as alive as ever! Or dead. Or both at once and twice as powerful.
"You sun of a beach! You know how my eyes stung and my skin reddened and cracked from just a moment out in your light! I was born to war and pestilence, but to have that extra quirk of my body, you cursed me from the beginning! And look now! I've come to meet you up close, and you can do nothing to hurt me. I don't burn. I don't even tan. I'm indestructible before the one thing which could best destroy me. The sun itself is a loser before the Great Prussia! Kesese, the other empires only got so far!"
I suck in a load of solar mass and spit it out all over the photosphere. It splatters and sparkles so majestically! Explosions resound like nothing I've ever heard before!
I throw my head back and laugh, teeth gleaming from the sparks still flying out of my throat. My voice has gone all squeaky from the helium, but at least there's gas inside me again! Almost like home.
Even that mango-guava-dragonfruit aftertaste.
My eyes go wide. That was DELICIOUS! A little light on the banana for my liking, but a gulp of the sun tasted even better than a real tropical fruit smoothie! A roasted slice of pineapple on a bed of fried papaya! This must be why all the fruits at the equator taste so tongue-tingly sweet! They're absorbing the original taste of the sun!
Well, one more gulp couldn't hurt, right? I already told the sun why I'm mad at it. It wouldn't be so bad to taste it a little more.
I throw my arms forward and jet up into space, a thousand, ten thousand, hundred thousand kilometers above the photosphere into the spicy corona. Must be where peppers get their kick! I schlurp up the radiation, then focus on a swirling tendril of prominence nearby. Pouncing, I seize it in both fists and suck it down, savoring every wonderful flavor combining in my mouth and burning down my throat. Spicy mango? Tropical salty savory avocado? Extra sweet and tangy banana surprise? Wow, I'm getting hungrier!
My belly gurgles, and I deliver. With a swish of my wrist, I pop the sphere of gravity's influence and watch the white-hot plasma bubble and ooze out of the sun's body like a warm, fruity soup. A few moments later, and I can't tell whether it's my own saliva or ten-thousand-degree Hawaiian Punch I'm licking off my fingertips. Who knew the sun itself was a coconut cream egg!? My true Prussian blood prefers meat for cold winters, but this stuff, oh! The novelty of this stuff!
Oh… my belly is not liking this stuff…
Hoping not to repeat the bathtub incident, I force my jaw shut and hunch in on myself. My latest fiery meal continues to swirl around my body, and I cringe.
The thick celestial dust doesn't want to dissolve as quickly in my mysterious black hole of a stomach. I feel bloated beyond belief. Excess banana-gas gurgles and bubbles up my throat until I release a burp that's actually audible on the heated clouds of dust out in space.
I peer down at myself. Big mistake. My stomach is all I can see. It's all I've become. My cone-like arms puff out a thousand kilometers away on either side of my marshmallow neck. My back has swelled out, and my kissable butt has merged with the sphere of my churning belly to create a perfectly planet-shaped Prussian stuffed with sun.
The sun laughs at me in radio-wave language, and I scowl.
"Oh, now you're, mmmmphh, urp, really happy I'm not a poet! An earth creature can't handle the sun's power! Got it! Got… mmmmhhh…"
Something's seriously wrong. Besides inflating to the size of the Earth, of course. Flabby hands pat around and feel my tight, bubbling skin. Bubbling? The stuff's churning inside me? Like it's starting to fuse into heavier elements? I learned that much from watching public television at America's place.
Ach, and the physical part of me can't stand the sensation. I feel like a mango has formed inside my stomach, and it's growing and growing and melting and gassing up and lighting on fire and socializing its electron shells. The rest of my stretched-out organs agree. This is so not like going to Oktoberfest with Germany and drinking beer until our nation bodies are overwhelmed with Bavarian influence and grow round and plump in an instant! His does, anyway! Mine just gets kind of squishy, but it's the same feeling! And now I'm not feeling that feeling. Now I'm not feeling so good.
I'm flying faster around the sun now. With a bigger body, I'm swerving on my own path of orbit. My limbs wiggle. My stomach groans and makes whatever noise you'd call superheated plasma sloshing about. I need to deflate. If I'm not yet powerful enough to digest celestial bodies, then I can at least spit out what I've swallowed and start from zero.
Or…
Uh…
Maybe I can just… let all the sun stuff start fusing into heavy stuff in my system and kind of… float downward toward the other end…
[After a careful deliberation, the National Board of Review has determined it necessary to cut this content lest it produce negative effects on the impressionable audience. Being the nature of this production is for entertainment, "pure and simple," we attest that its creative license may be restricted for the health and safety of general audiences.]
"And then I farted out the sun," I tell America. He's just finishing his own champion meal of jellybeans with ketchup.
"Dude, this is why I don't eat breakfast with you."
~N~
Not only does he look older in the new season, but now America's new character song sounds like a quality fun time party and not just screeching and rave noises. Baby just gotta think about the implications of his jellybean ketchup and he'll become a real man. 3.
(Go read my new sardonic one-shot about America, "Inviting Violence!")
Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net August 29th, 2021. Reposters more cursed than Prussia's sun adventure. Reviewers tropical.