I launch the Reverend into space… Why is Britt's eyeliner so scary?

I know you can't look directly at me, because that would mean you're observing me and I would be coalescing out of ozone and office chairs and ripping your universe's reality a new one by suddenly existing where no awesomeness existed before. (Damn quantum superpositioning. You find a safe way to summon me and I'll come right over, Gilbabe! For now it's just the pens I leave you in the campus tunnels and the unusual ubiquitousness of the number 26.) But I know you're imagining me right now. You're viewing me in the Anticanon. And I know I'm kind of fuzzy and indistinct because, as Fritz would put it, the minds of young girls tend to fabricate more than analyze, and I won't blame you if you imagine me with an eight-pack and non-hairy nipples, but to my point, you can kind of see me right now as you're reading.

So you know what I look like, right? Muscles. Cheekbones. Sharp teeth and veiny hands. Some kind of nipples… under my clothes. That good stuff. That tough stuff that tells you not to mess with the most immortal of immortals, the original steel-type, the sire of dreamboats and beefcakes, Preußen!

And I'm just one example of the toughness we nationfolk exhibit. We're the toughest beings alive. During the Enlightenment, all the sciencey and history-y types started calling us "Aggregate Man." One made of many, with all their fortitude combined into a collective reflection of the population. My colleagues thought the proto-PAMNAC was cool and good. I was conflicted because at the same time they started studying nation biology, they still thought it was a good idea to remove people's teeth and buttholes to cure depression, or some shit.

England really thought he could create a world without asses. He was wrong. And also he is an ass.

We can perform incredible feats of strength. Survive years without food or sleep. Appear and disappear, change our names and personalities, lose and regrow our fingers, talk to animals, bathe in lava, the list goes on. You can't kill us with swords or bombs or bees or lava pits, (unless you had a big enough lava pit, but that is a subject for another time.) And yes, if we travel by airplane or boat our bodies throw a shitfit from a lack of rocks under our feet, but we can survive even that pain if our people believe in us enough.

It wasn't until today when I learned even an Aggregate Man with an indestructible heart will whine and scream in pain when he's forced to binge-watch a baby cartoon in a hot locked basement with a slowly depleting oxygen supply.

"Hey England," I grunt.

I tower over him, having taken over his gaming chair and forcing him to take a turn on the basement floor. He's wrapped up in a banana-patterned blanket, dark bags under his eyes and stomach distended from all the salty snacks he's eaten. His hair is messier than usual. His green eyes are completely glazed.

"Please," he pleads. "Don't say it. Please don't say it again."

"England, did you know…"

"No."

"That this was based…"

"NOOOOOOO!"

"On the Railway Series written by the Reverend W. Awdry and the television program created by Britt Allcroft?"

That's it for England. We've been down here for hours. There must be enough CO2 to blast through the bedrock and create a pretty awesome lava pit. My eyes have been growing droopy as well, and the only reason I'm not writhing and sobbing is because I've tempered my body for these situations, and I understand that I have to keep my sanity.

Because watching the animated Thomas reboot, Thomas and Friends: All Engines Go, with England is just something you have to do with England, because otherwise he'll do it by himself and probably actually die.

I pause the current episode to check our status. We've seen the Tunnel of Zoom and the lighthouse and the recycled mountain location and the electric train charging station so many times by now that I've got the whole thing mapped out in my head. This would be an epic binaural beats track to help Germany sleep! It's numbing and mindless and has trains!

"Why are they using their wheels as hands?" England croons. "Mattel said they wouldn't use the wheels as hands. They're using the wheels as hands. Gordon has an American-style coupler. Henry is just a recolored Gordon. They drew Edward as a fucking 6-6-0 instead of a 4-4-0 like he's supposed to be. Fucking Skiff the Railboat gets a speaking role but Emily doesn't."

"Ja, ja. I agree. But I've only had the baby Diesel for five hours, and if anything happens to him I'll incinerate Roderich and then myself and then you."

England doesn't react to the threat. He just rolls over and starts humming the cartoon's theme song to himself. It reminds me of the way I caught America tenderly singing the Clifford theme song on the toilet the other night, and then flushing and cursing out the reboot.

I really gotta get back to Bonn.

"I wonder what Reverend Wilbert Awdry would think if he saw this," I tell England. "Do you think he'd hate it, or just not care anymore what's done with his characters?"

England dry-heaves at that suggestion. "Reverend Awdry's rolled so much in his grave he's reached China by now. Nevermind that he was cremated."

"Reverend Awdry is launching his coffin into space," I clarify.

"Oi, the poor man. First in 2000 with the movie and Britt Allcroft's terrifying eyeliner. The humanity."

"The engine-ity," I add. "Well, we're basically done. You wanna go get plastered?"

"I'm fairly certain that if I saw a human being right now I'd start screaming in his face about Awdry's legacy."

"Well if you're all right with sleeping on the floor, I'm gonna get something to wash the memories down. What was it I used to say in the nineteenth century? I kill, I drink, and I forget. Not quite relevant here, but eh."

My companion's fallen asleep, so I float up and phase through the ceiling and walls of England's house. It's already dark outside. Oxford's waking up to night life, whatever that may be for the ancient waistcoat-wearing academic types.

I fly invisible over the city, letting intuition lead me to the nearest strong English spirit. I'm in the spirit for a spirit. I'm a spirit in the spirit for spirits!

Which does make me wonder…

I really shouldn't. All four UK brothers are very protective of their historical figures, and I'm not even sure how I would properly summon one, but it's worth a shot if I can satiate a craving to know just what the Reverend would think of those stretch-and-squash abominations with wheels for hands.

"Heh. Not like England knows about my powers anyway. A little graveyard fussing wouldn't hurt. COSMIC PRUSSICUS!"

I hunch in on myself and snap my fingers, hoping a spell like America's will channel my weird magic better. There's the familiar crusty heat as my body disintegrates, then a wicked chill as my particles teleport away. My non-physical ears pop and my non-corporeal stomach clenches.

"Ach!"

I materialize and land in a spot of crinkled crass under the moonlight, my left hand brushing a cold headstone moist with mud. My eyes adjust to 3-D again, and I make out the name engraved. Reverend Awdry. From what England's told me, his ashes are buried here in Gloucester. I shiver. So many jokes made about Germany coming to visit me in one of these places. It's uncanny when I both exist and don't exist at the same time. I can breathe and touch the headstone, but I could just as easily warp myself into a dream and vanish from reality altogether. I'm not bound to linear time like these poor human souls. No nation is, really, but nations only have the Earth's baggage, and not the whole universe's.

I gotta know, though…

"Reverend Awdry, will you listen to the Greatest Man Who Ever Lived and Never Died? I want you to appear before me now. Take my power and make it so!"

I wave my arms in the most mysterious way I can! Unfortunately, nothing happens, and the owls start hooting to mock me.

"Maybe it's not so simple to summon a clergyman. Ach, but I was a priest once, and I wasn't too holy. Spent a human lifetime in the confessional mentioning pissing on Poland's castle. Hm, the Reverend was a prolific author. There's bound to be a record of his personality and essence in the Archives of Archexod. But I'm not allowed in there. The only way I could talk to Fritz again was by time-traveling! And there's no way I could tell the old Reverend what his legacy would turn into… how it would emotionally crush his homeland… maybe that's it!"

I snap my fingers with all my might. In a flash of blue, the sleeping, sweating England pops into existence next to where I kneel. Then I bloat my consciousness. My mind flies away from the world while my body stays put. Reality goes fuzzy. Dimensions open all around me. I'm looking for… found them!

I may not be a Railway Series purist, but England is. He's read all of the Reverend's books and seen Frau Allcroft's series and understands why it's such an outrage for Skiff to have more lines than Emily! And because England has such passion for some silly little make-believe train land, he's got an absolutely FAT amount of love energy connecting him to the Reverend's work and the Reverend himself! And because England is the Aggregate Man, that means every one of his citizens who knew the Reverend or know his work feed into that love energy as well! Memories, experiences, good feelings and nostalgia.

My eyes glow their brightest neon pink, focusing in on that thick miasma of O-faces and gold dust. Bracing myself, I reach in and grab some. It's soft in my hands, like a wad of cat hair made of dreams. Spindly silver fibers stream off my fingers and flutter in the wind.

"Pff, England, your head is a cotton candy machine."

"You wot, mate?" he groans.

"Em, you-rate, mate!" I reply, quickly flicking his nose so he falls asleep again.

I twist and twirl England's love for Thomas around in my hands, wadding it up and flinging little balls of it onto the gravestone. I even needle-felt some with my fingers, watching it grow into the shape of a tiny engine — its natural lattice structure.

"Now, I may not have the essence of the Reverend, but I should be able to artificially create it using the memories and feelings of England's people. Just… like… this," I finish, molding and weaving the threads together until they begin to shudder and shift on their own. The golden glow grows brighter, O-faces wider, maps drawn worse and controllers much fatter. All thoughts and feelings coalesce into a single solid body sitting on the gravestone.

The Reverend! Real and in-person!

I can tell you he's real and in-person because I'm so startled by his appearance that I reach out and squish his cheeks, manipulating his old man jowls and tugging on his neatly-combed hair the same way America does to me to make sure I'm alive when I slither out of the fridge every morning.

"England?" he inquires, poking my friend's drool-slathered cheek.

"You know him?" I ask.

"Well of course I know him. He taught me oh-so many things about railways when I was a boy. Put the interest in me, I'd say. And who would you happen to be?"

"Me? I'm the Great Prussia, of course! I summoned you back from the dead on behalf of England, 'cause he's really depressed about All Engines Go, and we both wanna know what you think of it!"

"All Engines Go, you say?"

"Yeah! The new flash-animated one! Where all the engines are children except Gordon, and Skiff talks but Emily doesn't, and… and they use the wheels as hands even though Mattel said they wouldn't!"

"Oh, that series. You mean the one after BWBA. Yes, I know of that one," the Reverend says, voice whispery in the nighttime breeze.

"Ja! Do you think it bastardizes your characters, or was that already done years ago when Baldwin and Boomer toked up the magic in the mountain!?"

"There should be no competition there. Both are catastrophes, nevermind Ms. Allcroft's penchant for frightening eyeliner. Now, specifically about All Engines Go, I can tell you, Mr. Prussia, that you're the twenty-sixth magician in Britain to summon some version of me and ask about the subject since that series came out, and I'll tell you I'm divorced from caring about such a silly program."

"Huh? You don't care about it? But it's Thomas!"

"Thomas? Who's Thomas?" England drawls. I cover his face with the banana blanket.

"Oh, no it isn't Thomas. Thomas was a real tank engine, not some cartoon with no basis in reality. The ones who will take All Engines Go as high art aren't interested in its funnels and pistons. They'll only point out how the wheels are hands and the faces are goofy. You couldn't tell me how a railway works if you've only spent an afternoon watching All Engines Go."

"Well, I could tell you how a railway works because my brother and I built them! We used England's blueprints and invented horseless carriages, too!"

"And if you found that an exciting passion, then you wouldn't have to care about the obvious cash-grabbing wiles of a toy company."

"Right. But we watched the show anyway. Because of the cute baby Diesel."

The Reverend bites his lip. "Right. Please send me back to Oblivion, Mr. Prussia. Or, if you have the power, do banish me from this world entirely. Some of those other magicians have wasted their lives and lost their souls to receive my absent outrage over Skiff the fucking Railboat."

I nod. "Your wish is granted, Reverend! As the Greatest Man Who Ever Lived and Never Died, I'll seal your fate forever! You will never again be summoned back to this planet to have your opinion heard. Now SPEND THE NEXT TEN THOUSAND YEARS ON NEPTUNE, YOU RAIL-TRACK-LICKING BLODGER!"

Striking a pose, I snap my fingers, and Awdry blasts off! The old man screams as he whizzes away into the clouds and far beyond the old industrial smoke still in the atmosphere. I wave him goodbye, then glance down at England, starting to stir again at my feet. Scheiß in die Wände. Can't explain this as my own doing. It'll have to be his.

Another finger snap manifests a bottle of the strongest English spirit into my left hand. I smash it over the gravestone and slip the jagged bottleneck into his loose right hand. Then I crouch down behind the nearest tree and wait for him to awaken.

I wonder if America has ever summoned Norman Bridwell to his bathroom…

~N~

Toke up the magic in the mountain.

I have an adult Thomas fan friend and to be supportive I binge-watched All Engines Go with him in his hot dorm room with the door closed. Only four hours in did he suggest to open the window for fresh air. It's also true that my dorm neighbor was singing the Clifford theme song on his toilet the other night. And then flushing and cursing out the reboot. Go to college, kids. There are famous towels and Danny DeVito shrines and sometimes you eat omelets for three days in a row.

Published by Syntax-N on FanFiction . Net December 10th, 2021. Reposters cURSED. Reviewers LET'S GO!