Oh what guaranteeing sounds!
Much more tolerable than the earlier arguments.
Now hearing just the terrified screams of his fellow nations, along with the ever so joyous sounds that went squish, squash, crack…
He giggled to himself with every squish,
He beamed proudly with every squash,
Mostly, he felt superior with every sickening crack.
He held up his pipe, readying to throw it back down with another blow. His pipe's clean, silver appearance was no longer, now taking on a rather old, rusty look due to the blood, some of the warm, wet substance dripping down onto his stained, gloved fingers.
He was sure he held various bloods in his hand.
He stood up once hearing the reassuring crack that his current victim was dead, the once screeching nation, now disturbingly limp at his feet, and looked around.
Among the corpses, he eyed for anyone still screaming or crying. When he'd find one, he'd walk over.
He didn't like all the shouting from earlier.
It annoyed him.
He didn't like all the crying as he swung his pipe.
It irritated him.
He did, however, like the squish and squash and crack.
It reassured him.
The last country in the room besides him stared with wide, tearful eyes. Seeing he was coming over to him, he bolted.
For the door.
He was doing the world a favour, ridding of these idiots. How many countries had already tried to open the door, already knowing it was locked?
Before the nation could brush his fingers against the golden handles, pain shot through his backside, and he fell in a mixed pool of blood.
With the nation on the ground, he raised his pipe back and began to throw it down continuously.
He had broken through skin.
The victim cried and screamed.
Blood was seeping through many wounds, organs and veins being punctured.
The victim began to choke, gurgling in desperate attempts for air.
Bones have been found.
The victim became deathly silent, lifeless eyes staring back with lingering tears.
And he brought his pipe up.
Fresh blood dripping down the abused weapon, slipping through his gloved fingers.
He scanned the room of bodies, people that had just been breathing and living an hour before, for hundreds of years, sodden in red.
They were immortal, not invincible.
It really was a beautiful colour.
Seeing it decorate his bland coat, he wondered why he didn't wear the vibrant shade more often.
The room was quiet, bodies still, laying sprawled all over the floor with obvious visible broken bones and heavy wounds to which that beautiful lively red continued to seep out of, dyeing the carpet more in its vivacious glory.
Squish, squash, crack
Everyone got what they deserved. What they longingly had coming to them. America in the mouth, France on his hands, England on his shoulders, China on his legs, Germany behind the head, Japan on the lower back, Italy on his stomach and so on.
With his pipe, he had finally conquered every country.
He chuckled softly to himself, licking the blood off his weapon. That had been really fun.
The thrill of catching the frightened nations, to beat them to their deaths one by one.
True, some had been senseless enough to fight back.
Switzerland and England whipped out their guns, one of the two had nipped his shoulder with a bullet, he wasn't sure who. He had been busy with Poland who attempted to grab his pipe, then once hearing the crack of the blonde's neck, he was hit with China's wok.
But he just smirked. They couldn't fight him. And their resistance only resulted in a more horrifying death for them. He had made sure of it.
Squish, squash, crack
That was all it really took.
My, my…it was as if they had always supposed he was never serious when he'd chant,
If only they'd heeded his warnings.
He carried around a heavy lead pipe.
He would sing-song about killing.
He enjoyed the pain of others.
He was feared by most nations.
He had even stalked some.
He endlessly brought up the offer – no – the demand for them to join him.
And those had been plenty of warning signs.
It seemed his large appearance had shadowed the fact that he was really just a stick.
And every stick eventually snaps.
Squish, squash, crack
What joyful sounds they were! His sinister smile never faltered as he walked over to the doors, kicking about anybody in his way, earning him some nauseating, disgusting, sloshing sounds.
But it only had his smirk grow.
He slipped the key out from his thick sleeve, easily opening the door with a beam of pride. He walked out the door, turning towards the cold bodies that still bleed in the now red-splattered room.
He carried on his smile, appearing as innocent as ever, if not for the blood staining his clothes. That will be quite a pain to wash out.
"Now you become one with Russia, da?"
And he turned off the lights, closing the detailed wooden door, clutching his pipe.
That silence was too much for him in his cold world.
"Squish, squash, crack…"