"Should we go yet?"

"Not yet. I haven't heard him come in."

"But it's uncomfortable in here!"

"Belt up, America."

"Ngh, I'm just gonna find a more comfortable position…"

"Oi! Get your bloody hand off of my ass, you tosser!"

"S-Sorry! I-I-It was an accident!"

"A likely story."

Before America could respond with a witty jab, the door to the bathroom opened and England, having sneaked a quick peek over the top of the stall he and America were crammed into, spotted their target. Silently, he ushered for America to begin phase one of their hastily thought up plan.

Thankfully, their target was too unobservant to notice the Brit crouched on the toilet seat in the background and hurriedly trying to reclose the stall door.

America pursed his lips in contemplation before putting on the biggest, brightest, least fake-looking smile he could muster and strolling up to the current bane of his existence. "'Sup, dude?"

The teenager, now clued in to what the fuck was happening, offered a smile of his own and responded with, "Uh, hi."

Booyah. Took the bait.

England opened the stall door a crack and watched America, sliding off the toilet and stalking up behind the unsuspecting boy when the other nation gave him the signal. Just as he knocked him out with a well-placed punch to the back of the head, America grabbed the box they'd stashed underneath the sinks and stuffed the unconscious body into it. "Are you ready to leave?" England asked, rubbing his knuckles.

He nodded. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Canada grabbed a shovel and pulled on his winter coat, preparing to go outside and clear off his porch and sidewalk from the eight fucking feet of snow that had somehow accumulated in the hour since the last time he'd been out. As soon as he opened the door, which resulted in a nice icy blast of air and snow to the face, he noticed a package on the doorstep and chose to forgo shoveling in favor of bringing it in and opening it.

Right before he opened it, he spotted a note on the top of the box—which was now jumping. What the fuck did he get sent?

Sighing, he adjusted his glasses and began reading the note.

"Dear Can—Cak—Cave—Country above America on a map of the world,

Because we are fucking sick and tired of him, we've decided to send him back to you. The fact that you had the audacity to allow him to come into existence in the first place blows our minds, but now it's just getting far too out of control. You need to learn how to properly address and execute quality control, because this is just fucking ridiculous.

We're fine with Rush.

We're fine with Nickelback.

We're fine with Celine Dion.

Hell, we're fine with Nelly fucking Furtado.

But this? This is unacceptable.

Consider this a warning. Keep your musicians in check, or World War III will look more like the World vs. whoever-you-are.

The World"

Oh. He understood now. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he pressed his lips tightly together and exhaled through his nostrils. Eyeing the box—which was still jumping, by the way—carefully, he hung his head and sighed in defeat.

"Welcome back, Justin."