"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America."

U.S. Constitution, Preamble
Ratification of the U.S. Constitution (June 21, 1788)

The young blond teenager let out a cheerful whoop and launched himself onto his bed, unable to rid his face of the wide grin occupying it. "What an awesome day!" he said to no one in particular, closing his eyes and flipping onto his back. "With the new Constitution, I'll finally be a full-fledged country!"

As he shifted slightly, a crinkle from underneath him made him purse his lips and sit up, finding a now crushed letter sitting unobtrusively on his bed sheets. Cocking his head to the side in confusion, he picked it up and squinted at the messy handwriting; deeming it totally freaking unreadable, he opened the envelope and started work on deciphering the rather terrible penmanship.

Nearly an hour later, he had successfully decoded the letter.

"It's from England," he muttered, astonished. "I thought he hated me after the whole Revolution business…" Shaking his head, he lit up the lamp on his bedside table and scooted closer to the pitifully dim light.

"America," it read. The former colony pouted. What, no 'dear?' "It has come to my attention that you have finally, after ripping my heart out and shattering it into millions upon millions of irretrievable pieces, become your own country. While I cannot change the past and ensure that you never declare independence from me, the least I can do is provide you with some advice when it comes to being a successful nation.

"Included is a comprehensive list of what to do while on the path to becoming a successful country. Read it, frame it, hang it on your wall, carry it with you wherever you go—I do not care. I simply thought it a gentlemanly thing to do, seeing as you were once my charge.

"It is not my goal to walk you through the steps to become the most powerful nation in the world, nor is it my job. If you choose to ignore my help, so be it; just do not expect open arms if all you know comes crashing down without warning.


America sighed. "Stick in the mud, much?" he asked, rolling his eyes and grabbing the second sheet of paper included in the envelope. Giving it a quick once-over, he scoffed and tossed the sheet onto his nightstand, laughing at England's attempts and heading downstairs for something to eat.

#6: Do not attempt to monopolize the North American continent; borders change often, and disputes amongst countries often escalate into war. Unless you are arguing with the French—they tend to submit quietly and retreat.

Mexican—American War (1846-1848)

Mexico scooped up another forkful of rice and ate it, poking at his beans absently while chewing. Before he could finish the last bit of his meal, the bane of his existence came bounding around the corner with a cheeky grin and a cowboy hat. "Hey, Mexico~!" America said, waving at the irritated country. "What's new?"

To hell with it, Mexico thought, adjusting his glasses and half-glaring at America with tired brown eyes. "Nada," he replied, "but may I ask why you are down here, America?"

His smile faltered noticeably. "Well, you see… it's about Texas." Blue eyes, every bit as open and beautiful as the sky they represented, flickered over to Mexico's glasses. "It's kinda, well, mine. At least after '45 it was."

"I think not."

Sighing, America took off his hat and wiped his forehead. "Look, dude, let's be smart about this. We're smart guys, right?"

A snort. "He visto a mierda de perro más inteligente que tú," Mexico deadpanned.

America blinked. "Dunno what you said, but I'll assume it was a compliment. Anywho, I'm gonna have to ask you to relinquish ownership of Texas, since it's no longer yours."

"If you want it," Mexico said calmly, pushing the glasses up his nose again, "you will have to fight me for it, gringo. And I assure you, los Estados Unidos—I intend to win this fight."

Frowning, the blond teenager crossed his arms over his chest and let out a long hiss of air through his nose. "Fine. You want a war? You'll get one." With that, he turned on his heel and left, cowboy boots clicking against the packed-down dirt as Mexico dismissed the other nation's threat.

. . .

On April 25, 1846, President James K. Polk received word of an attack on a 70-man squad of American soldiers, on American soil. The group had been ambushed by a 2,000-strong Mexican cavalry detachment while on patrol in the disputed territory—north of the Rio Grande, and south of the Nueces.

Having been informed by Polk, one could assume that America was beyond pissed off at his southern neighbor. So, on May 16 of the same year, the United States declared war on Mexico.

Two years later on February 2, 1848, the two countries found themselves seated across from one another and agreeing on terms of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. America looked rather pleased with himself, but Mexico looked livid.

"'Kay, so I get Texas, Upper California, and New Mexico, and you have to recognize the Rio Grande as the border between me and you," America said, reading the treaty before setting it back down on the table and holding out a hand expectantly. "Hand 'em over, Mexico."

Swearing under his breath in Spanish, Mexico took off his glasses and dropped them unceremoniously into America's waiting hand. "Will that be all, America?" he grit through clenched teeth, resisting the need to strangle the cocky son of a bitch wiping Texas on the hem of his shirt.

"Huh? Oh! I almost forgot." America slid on his newly acquired glasses and stared at Mexico. "You get $18,250,000 for your troubles. If you'd've ceded sooner, it would've been more. My boss will contact your boss about getting that sorted out. Later!"

When the personification of America turned around to head back to his own country, Mexico seriously considered throwing something heavy and possibly fatal at him. After America had been gone for a little under an hour, the realization of the state of his nation hit Mexico full-tilt. "Dios mio," he groaned, dropping his head down onto the table and banging his forehead, "I've just lost fifty-five percent of my land."

#5: If the situation arises, do not beg for help from other countries should a war begin on your soil and involve only your people. Especially help from France, seeing as he is but a useless git with a surprisingly lucky military streak.

Civil War (1861-1865)

"What the bloody hell is this shit, England?" America demanded, momentarily reverting back to the British accent he thought he had lost nearly one hundred years prior. Teeth grinding, he slapped a piece of paper onto England's desk and glared at his former mentor. "I know you're still pissed off about that Revolutionary War bullshit, but really?"

England just leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. "I've no idea of what you are speaking, America," he answered coolly, staring his ex-charge straight in the eyes with an unreadable expression.

America's face reddened as his fists tightened. "You're selling warships to the Confederacy, you ass! What happened to remaining neutral?"

"You're upset because I'm not explicitly helping you." The flushed nation's face softened at England's words. "But I am not helping the Confederacy, either. I'm simply doing business. You make it sound as though you want my assistance…"

Spluttering like an idiot, America replied, "You just… I don't… What… No, I don't want your help! I can do this on my own! And if I did need help, like hell would I ask you! Shit, I'm probably better off with France's help—at least he's not helping the Confederacy!"

"Au contraire, mon cher," France purred, sauntering into the room with his usual seductive swagger, "I zink not. I am seizing Mexico to avoid 'aving to fight in zis war. Neizer I nor Angleterre will fight zis war for you; it is your country, your people, and your problem. Fix it yourself, Amérique."

He couldn't believe it. "France, I don't understand… You were willing to help back in 1776, so why not now?"

Wrapping an arm around America's shoulders, France said, "Oui, I was, but zat was because we were fighting against Angleterre. Your current dilemma shouldn't 'ave to be our problem, non? We do not recognize ze Confederacy as its own country, and neizer should you, mon petit Amérique. Zis is your war—don't expect any outside 'elp."

"Fine." Shooting one last glare at his ex-guardian, America shrugged off France's arm and left, hands shoved into his pockets and pouting.

. . .

Confederacy gnawed on his bottom lip, taking off Texas to rub his tired, weary eyes and sigh heavily. "Our best bet is probably to force Britain and France to join the war on our side," he said, exhausted, still rubbing at his eyes. "Any ideas?"

"Let's embargo cotton shipments," one Southerner offered, scratching his cheek. "Maybe we can start some sort of an economic depression in Britain; damn Brits wouldn't know what hit 'em."

Tilting his head sideways, Confederacy nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I guess that could work."

. . .

Dropping his forehead onto the table, Confederacy held back a choked sob before lifting his head and dropping it again. "Fuck, it didn't work!" he swore, banging his head again. "Damn Egyptians and their fucking cotton…"

#4: Do not get into petty arguments with Prussia over who is more awesome. Both of you are pathetic, insufferable idiots. So is France.

North German Confederation becomes part of the German Empire (1867-1871)

Tweeting, Gilbird picked up a small pebble and dropped it on his sleeping owner's head, chirping impatiently before repeating the process with progressively larger rocks until Prussia woke up with a loud, "Fuck, man!" and rubbed his sore scalp. He couldn't stay mad for long, though, as Gilbird began rubbing himself against the German-speaking nation affectionately. "What is it, boy?"

The small yellow bird whistled and flew over to the wall clock, hovering beside the timepiece and tweeting five times.

Prussia's eyes widened. "Scheiße!" he exclaimed, bolting up from his lying position on his bed and promptly tripping over the clothes strewn about his floor, searching for a clean pair of pants and a shirt for his lunch date. "Damn it, I can't be late!"

As he waddled down the stairs, still trying to get dressed on the way, Germany shot the albino a strange look before going back to his conversation with one of the aides.

"Mein Gott, mein Gott, mein Gott!" he muttered to himself, mounting his horse as he pulled on his last shoe and galloped off toward his meeting place.

When he arrived at the restaurant, he tied his horse to a post outside and shuffled through the door to the eatery, glancing around and spotting a head of blond hair. Calming himself, he walked smoothly over to America and sat down.

Blue eyes glanced up as a smile broke out on the youth's face. "Hey, Prussia."

"Sorry I'm late," he replied, ordering something with potatoes and sausage when the server came by.

America just smiled wider. "It's okay," he said, honestly fine with it; after all, Prussia had been the one to train his soldiers before the Revolutionary War. It was the least he could do. "It's been a while since we've talked. Last time I saw you was the Revolution, when your guy was teaching mine. What was his name again?"

"Friedrich Wilhelm Rudolf Gerhard August von Steuben."

The blond laughed. "That's the one. I still can't pronounce his name."

Waving it off, Prussia said, "No problem, no problem. It takes a special kind of awesomeness to be able to pronounce German that well."

As the tension in the air started to grow, the server brought Prussia's meal and left soon after, feeling the uncomfortable aura around the two. "So, let me get this straight," America said with a forced laugh. "You don't think I'm awesome?"

"Did I say that?" Prussia asked through his teeth, stabbing the shit out of his potatoes while still keeping a smile on his face.

A slender eyebrow rose. "You were implying it."

"I did nothing of the sort."

Snort. "Well, I'll have you know that I'm easily one of, if not the most awesome nation in the world. After all, I did gain independence from the British Empire, something unheard of before me."

"With help, though," Prussia calmly shot back, scooping up some of his potatoes and glaring at America expressionlessly.

Cheeks reddening slightly, America leaned back and crossed his legs. "So, what's it feel like to be ordered around by your brother all the time, oh awesome one?"

Prussia choked on his food as a satisfied smile crept onto America's lips.

#3: If possible, hold a stance of neutrality when dealing with the rest of the nations and their wars; if it is just France, simply punch him in the balls.

World War I (1914-1918)

England tapped the pencil in his hand against his lip, humming his national anthem before saying, "B5."

"Miss," Germany replied, marking the box on his paper with an 'X,' pencil scratching against the paper. "J10."

A sigh. "Hit. C7."

"Miss." Damn it. "J9."

Shit… "Hit." Scratch, scratch. "A2."

Smirk. "Miss." Fuck…! "J8."

"Hit. You sunk my Lusitania." Wanker, he added in his head. He looked over at America, who had been entertaining himself with a stick and a piece of string. "Aren't you going to do something? There were at least one hundred of your people on my ship."

America shook his head, diverting his attention from his new play-toy to answer with, "I'm too proud to fight." Tossing the stick—string combo over his shoulder, he added, "I would like to ask that Germany, you crazy bastard, stop attacking passenger ships, because that's just not cool. I'm not gonna tolerate unrestricted submarine warfare."

Gawking at his former colony, England blinked a few times and said, "I honestly didn't think your vocabulary was large enough to accommodate such lengthy words. And it's 'going to,' not 'gonna,' you idiot."

Germany cleared his throat, calmly stating, "I will comply with your demands, America."

The younger nation smiled, a simple quirk of the corners of his mouth, and settled back into the couch he was lounging on. "Fantastic."

. . .

"Telegram, sir!" an English teen announced, scurrying over to England and waving a sheet of paper. "Intercepted from the Germans, sir! It was headed to Mexico!" He handed the sheet to England, who quickly looked it over before hmming and looking back up at his fellow Brit.

He nodded. "Thank you. I'll pass this off to Room 40."

The boy beamed. "You're welcome, General Kirkland!"

Sometime later, after the telegram had been successfully decoded (which wasn't easy in the least), England sent the decoded and translated telegram to Woodrow Wilson, the President of the United States. After reading what the telegram had to say, Wilson picked up the phone and dialed 'Alfred F. Jones,' better known as America. "America?"

On the other side of the call, America sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes with a yawn. "Mmm, yeah?" he replied sleepily, eyelids drooping.

"England intercepted a telegram from the Germans. They're resuming unrestricted submarine warfare on the first of February."

America groaned, flopping back down and turning onto his stomach to shove his face into the pillow. "Damn it! Is it that hard to uphold a simple demand?" He turned his head to the side, voice muffled no longer. "What do you want to do?"

"Stay neutral as long as possible, but if the Germans go through with their plans I'm afraid that's impossible." He sighed heavily through his nose. "We'll try outfitting merchant ships with powerful guns, but they won't do much if the U-boats are below the surface. I can't promise anything."

"Do it, then. I'm going back to sleep."

. . .

America stared at his boss with wide eyes and an open mouth. "Seven!" he nearly screeched, calming himself down and running a hand through his hair. "I… I can't believe it…! Seven fucking ships. They sank seven. Fucking. Ships. This is terrible."

Wilson nodded solemnly. "What do you propose we do, America?"

"I say kick Germany in the balls, but I suppose we could just break official relations," America replied, grabbing the phone on the President's desk and dialing Germany's number. "Germany? Is that you? Oh, it's Prussia, huh? Well, you're included in this too, so I guess I can tell you. No, no, it's not bad news—in fact, it's absolutely fucking fantastic news. Wanna hear it?"

Over in Germany, Prussia raised an eyebrow and said, "Uh, sure."

"I'm breaking up with you." A moment later, America added, "Asshole," for good measure before slamming the phone back down on the receiver. "There," he said, chipper as usual, "problem solved."

. . .

On April 6, 1917, Germany was rudely awakened by a phone call, which he answered with a groggy, "Guten tag?"

Back in America, the nation smiled cheerfully and said, "By the way, I'm declaring war on your sorry ass. Hasta la pasta~!"

#8: Never assume in regards to the economy. It can change overnight. Again, do not let France persuade you to allow him to "bail you out." You will not enjoy the outcome.

Great Depression (1929-1939)

"All is well and right with the world~" America said in a sing-song voice, lying on his bed and playing with his stick and string enthusiastically. "Economy's up, war is over, and I just bought myself one kickass fucking bomber jacket!" He nestled into his new jacket, inhaling its scent. "Righteous. Achoo!"

He wiped his nose with a tissue, sniffling back the snot run beginning to make its way out of his nose. Peculiar… very peculiar…

Grabbing another snot rag and blowing his nose, he murmured, "Hope I'm not getting sick or anything…"

. . .

Knocking three times on America's bedroom door, England frowned when he heard no reply and entered the room, finding a curled up and sniveling America cuddled underneath the covers. "E-England?" the sick nation sobbed, poking his head out from his blanket cocoon, bottom lip quivering. "Why aren't you sick, too? Everyone else is…"

England pulled out a bottle of medicine. "I'm only half-affected," he said, "because the South of England is prospering. Why are you crying?"

Sniffle. "I d-don't know! I j-j-just f-feel so depressed!" Then, quietly, "Hold me, England."

Just knowing he was going to regret it, England sorta-kinda-but-not-really-voluntarily slid underneath the duvet and wrapped his arms around his ex-colony. The last time he'd done this was when America was just a boy, scared by nightmares of ghosts and monsters. "Feeling better?"

America buried his face in England's chest, effectively staining his shirt with snot. Gross. "A bit. But I still kinda feel like shit."

Patting America on the head awkwardly, England said, "I'm sure you'll be fine once the economy rights itself."

Having already fallen asleep while holding England in a death grip, America couldn't reply nor could England get up and leave.


#9: Know when to ally and who to ally with. If a war is not taking place on your land, it is unnecessary to involve yourself; however, if that changes, prepare for war. Just do not surrender in the middle like France.

Pearl Harbor and America's entrance into World War II (December 7, 1941)

Sighing, China pinched the bridge of his nose and said, "It's been more difficult since France left, aru. We haven't been nearly as productive as we were before he surrendered."

England nodded in agreement, glancing back down at the world map spread out on the table and coloring in yet another country that Germany had decided to overtake just for the hell of it. He looked back at America, who was busy recreating Bernini's David using M&Ms and frosting. "Aren't you going to help, America? Or do you plan on sitting there and doing fuck all while the rest of us bust our asses?"

"I am not doing 'fuck all,'" he responded, not taking his eyes off his project. "I'm creating art. God. There's a stick in your ass, England—pull it out and do the world a favor, eh?" A whistle from outside the room gained America's attention, and he looked up just in time to be hit in the mouth with a rather painful rock. "What the hell? That was Pearl Harbor!"

Outside the door, Japan sneaked away quietly as America swore his little heart out and wiped the blood pooling at his mouth on his sleeve.

"An attack on American soil, aru?" China asked. "What are you going to do about it?"

America shot the older nation the universal WTH face and replied, "What the hell do you think, China? I'm fucking declaring war! This is unacceptable!"

. . .

"Germany," Japan said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone so the person on the other line couldn't hear him, "America-san has decrared war. What do you wish for me to repry to him with?"

Germany stroked his chin in thought. "Give me three days, then I'll give you my answer."


Three days later, Italy called America and more or less rambled on and on about completely unimportant shit before Germany snatched the phone from the clueless Italian and calmly declared war on the United States of America.

"Well, fuck you, too!" America replied, snarling even though the other country couldn't see him. "I'm declaring war on you as well! Be prepared to have your asses handed to you!" He slammed the phone down on the receiver with a loud, "UGH!" and clenched his fists tightly, stomping out of the room and back over to where the rest of the Allies were sitting.

. . .

August 6, 1945

'Bout to go blow me up some Japs. Bitch deserves it, too. Hittin' Hiroshima today with the "Little Boy," and Nagasaki on the ninth with "Fat Man." Boom goes the dynamite, baby.

America adjusted his aviator goggles over his eyes, looking down at the Japanese populous before grinning maniacally and pressing a button. "Daddy wants a big boom, Little Boy. Daddy wants a big boom…"

#2: As much as possible, avoid making every damn thing you do a competition against another country. Not everything needs to be a race for it to be important. If it just so happens that you are competing against France, feel free to kick that frog's ass before rubbing it in his face.

Space Race (1957-1975)

"The Cold War. A war fought between the United States of America and the USSR, better known as the Soviet Union. It was cold. Hence the name.

"The hero of our story, a young man by the name of America, is valiantly opposing the dreaded Soviet Union to the best of his ability, but the commie bastards seem to greatly doubt his true power. In recent times, the war between these two world superpowers has taken itself to new heights: space.

"Yes, space, the great expanse of endless darkness always floating above humanity, perplexing man across the globe with its unusually unexplored reaches. Russia and the Soviet Union have their sights set on conquering the corner-less depth of the great beyond, but America is fighting back, unwilling to allow the USSR to become the world's most famous space pioneers.

"It is because of this that America has subconsciously entered himself into an unspoken race—the Space Race."

"America, who the bloody hell are you talking to?" England said, more irritated than anything. Blushing due to his embarrassment at being caught verbally narrating, America stuttered incoherently as England shook his head and sighed. "You are unbelievable."

As soon as England left, America started banging his head on the wall out of frustration. Taking out his telescope, he set it up in hopes that staring out at the night sky would calm his nerves a bit. But when he saw that tiny moving speck, which looked suspiciously like a satellite, he lost it and angrily dialed the commie bastard's number.

"This is Russia, da?"

He grit his teeth. "You little bitch! I can't believe you! You just… just… GAH!"

Russia smiled innocently. "You saw my little satellite, da? It is very nice, is it not?"

"Yeah, I saw your little sky-pimple, you damn commie," America growled, holding the phone tight enough to almost break it. "Mind explaining what the fuck it is?"

"It is Sputnik. I was not aware that you were incapable of doing the same. Perhaps you should become one with Russia; I can teach you then, da?"

America frowned. "Shut up! I can do that, too!"

. . .

"Oh, America. There you are," Russia said conversationally, finding the young nation outside and glaring at the darkness of the nighttime sky. "What are you doing?"

America shot back, "Nothing that concerns you, commie," and kneeled in front of his telescope before spouting a string of swear words and whipping around to shoot daggers at Russia with his glare. "Is there a freakin' guy in there?" he asked incredulously, referring to the little space pod that had been launched by the USSR.


A vein in America's forehead throbbed as he angrily snatched up his telescope and stormed back inside, muttering about the 'damn commies' and how much they sucked.

. . .

Looking smug, America sauntered into the entertainment area of the U.N. building and sat down on the couch next to Russia, monopolizing the remote. "Guess what, commie?" he teased, flipping the channel just as Neil Armstrong was climbing down the ladder.

"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

Taking Russia's silence as a prod to continue, he said, "I win."

#1: Whether the glass is half-full or half-empty is of no importance—what matters is whether or not France spiked it.

America's bi-centennial (July 4, 1976)

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you." America looked up from his almost-sip of punch to see an albino with an eyebrow raised. "I'm pretty sure France spiked it."

America snorted. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, for starters, Italy's just repeating 've~' and clinging onto Germany for dear life…"

"He does that anyway. Plus he didn't have anything to drink."

"Okay… well, Romano's busy sucking face with Spain, all the while having a hand shoved down my poor amigo's pants."

He paled a trite. "I can see how that would be grounds for suspicion, but that certainly doesn't mean I'm not going to drink this punch. Whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, right?"

Prussia shrugged. "Suit yourself, dude. I'm gonna go be awesome somewhere else."

Dismissing what the former nation had said, America chugged the glass.

. . .

An hour and twenty glasses later, America was about ready to start stripping in front of everyone. Stalking up to Canada, he slid into the now blushing and alarmed blond's lap and attached himself to his brother's neck. "A-America…?" he squeaked, clutching Kumajiro closer to his body as America went to town on his neck. "Wh-What are you doing?"

"Just tryin' to enjoy myself on my birthday," he murmured into Canada's ear, nibbling lightly on the lobe. "You need to loosen up, dude…"

Canada choked back a moan at the other's ministrations, shutting his eyes tightly and trying to pretend that no, his brother was not drunk, no, he was not in his fucking lap and moving around like oh God it feels good, and no, he wasn't getting turned on by the semi-consensual molesting.

And he totally wrapped his arms around America's waist because he didn't want him to fall.

And he totally made out with him because he thought it would tire him out so America would fall asleep and Canada could push him off.

And he totally let himself be dragged off to America's room because he thought that the journey there would make him sober up enough to stop.


Canada's a terrible liar.

. . .

"Hey, America?" Hungary called out, wandering around aimlessly. "I can't find your… bath… room…"

On her trek throughout America's damn huge house, she'd accidently stumbled upon the nation's bedroom, where he was busy pinning his all-too-willing brother to the bed and raping his mouth. Lucky for her they didn't spot her, and after a moment she scurried away with a hand clamped over her nose.

"Ohhhhhhh, my Goooooooooood," she muttered dreamily, bumping into Japan on her way back to the main party.

He stared at her. "Hungary-san?" he said, worried. "Is there a probrem?"

Before she could explain the situation, she fainted from blood loss, muttering one last word before blacking out: "Yaoi…"

#7: Pay off war debts as soon as possible; if you do not, it may cause significant trouble in the future. Also, pay France back with money, regardless of how much money a striptease would save.

America's debt hits record $11 trillion (March 17, 2009)

The clerk smiled at America, flipping his red bangs out of his face and motioning to the games the nation had chosen. "Ever played those ones before?" he asked, still smiling genuinely. He seemed to really enjoy his job.

"Nah, but my friend Kiku said they're hella awesome," America replied, thinking back to when Japan had shown him the Japanese versions of the games. "He got 'em straight from Japan."

Scanning the games, the clerk said, "That's how I play mine, too. In Japanese and at one in the morning, just to piss my roommate off. That'll be $106.72."

"I have a credit card."

"Cool." He took the card from America's hand and swiped it, frowning when the machine said the card was invalid. "Hey, I'm having trouble with the card. Should I call up your bank?"

America bit his bottom lip. "Uh, sure."

Five minutes later, the cashier had finally gotten a hold of the bank and proceeded to choke on the soda he was drinking before glancing back at America with widened green eyes. "You're $11 trillion in debt?"

Shit. Cover story, cover story, cover story… "Heh heh, funny story… the banker's a friend of mine, so the $11 trillion thing is just a joke. I'll just, uh, leave these here, and come back when I get this sorted out, 'kay?"

. . .

"Why didn't you tell me I was $11 trillion in debt?" America screamed into his cell phone, walking toward his house. "Damn it, Tim, that's the stuff I should know about first!"

"Look, America, I—"

"SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS DOING?" he screeched, cutting the Secretary of the Treasury off and shutting the phone after promising to talk later. Frantic, he ran up to the people trying to tow his trusty Ford out of his driveway.

One of the men blinked at him. "Your stuff's being repossessed," he explained, "because your debt is insane. Sorry."

"…can I at least keep the house?"


"Damn it."

. . .

Just a couple hours later, the moving men had left and it was just America, sitting on the edge of the curb and wanting to die a most horrible and painful death because the world's superpower should not have a crazy-ass debt like he did.

He sighed.

Maybe China could take him in, or something.

Tony probably had room in his summer UFO. After all, he was back on his home planet for a family reunion.

Dropping his head onto his pulled up knees, America grumbled, "Could this get any worse?"

Then he got hit by an asteroid.



































































It started snowing.


I quite literally BUSTED MY FUCKING ASS writing this. Seriously. I had to go outside to start up my car and was in a hurry to come back in and write this bitch, and of course, slipped on some ice sitting nicely on the driveway.

So yes, I did literally bust my ass while trying to write this.

Enjoy, motherfuckers. :)

P.S. Care to guess who the game store clerk was? *eyebrow waggle*