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hetalia2009-08-07 10:27 pm
[Fanfic] Crackaholics Anonymous please sign here
Author: d_riderkohaku
Character(s) or Paring(s): America, Australia, England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Ireland, Canada, France, New Zealand, Prussia, Germany, and Italy. Hints of FrancexCanada?
Rating: PG-13 for France, and Canada's mouths (no, not like that)
Warnings: Crack. Lots and lots of crack. No plot, very OOC, very over the top metaphors and references, and generally all around bad writing. Why wasn't I shot before I finished this? Blatant stealing from many famous(?) works. Try and find them all! :D
Summary: My excuse to write a glorified, Narmalicious food fight. In a world where cooking is serious business, The Commonwealth nations of the United Kingdom, New Zealand, and Australia have banded together in an effort to take down America with what they make the worst of. Their food. In retaliation, America has formed an alliance with France and Prussia to take down this unholy alliance of Nightmare Fuel. How will Canada choose between his brothers? From Delurker's Inc comes a fanfic of love, revenge, brotherhood, and hair. This summer, Alfred F. Jones meets Crackaholics Anonymous. Coming to a computer screen near you. Much more epic than it sounds.
We don't have a crack tag?
---
It was quiet. Too quiet.
So quiet, one could almost hear the sizzle of beef patties as they cooked to juicy, heavenly perfection. Oh wait.
Alfred grumbled, shifting his weight slightly as he used one hand to flip said patties on the mini-grill in front of him. The mini-grill combined with the old Revolutionary War uniform he was wearing clashed together in anachronistic goodness. He peered over the brush he was currently crouched behind, binoculars making
‘Rocks and trees, and trees and rocks, and rocks and trees, and trees and rocks, and rocks and trees, and trees and rocks, and water…’
Sighing, he ducked down once more and put down the binoculars as he turned the grill off. Opening a bag he had placed beside the grill, he pulled out buns, a few slices of cheese, lukewarm bacon, onion rings, and just to be healthy, a slice of lettuce. Putting together his triple heart bypass, he fished a journal and pen from his pants. With grease dripping onto his uniform, he began to write.
Day 5
Clear skies. Scantly wind. Brush at foot of hill. River to left. Lat: Unknown. Long: Unknown. Tested new grill. Makes good burgers. Bored.
Francis isn’t here yet. Still no sign of Arthur. Getting worried.
-The Hero
Putting away the journal, he took the last bite of his burger, wiping his hand on his uniform as he picked up his binoculars and bag and stood up. Walking to the nearby river, he knelt down and splashed some water on his face. As he rested on his haunches, a hand clasped his shoulder, causing him to almost fall into the river with a (manly) scream. He turned around angrily and saw Francis waving blithely at him with a grin, a large knapsack in his hand.
“What the hell was that!” Alfred shouted. Francis laughed.
“Pardon, Alfred. I was not expecting such a reaction.”
Alfred scowled, feeling his face get red. He tried to change the subject. “Have you seen Arthur yet?”
“Angleterre? You could say I saw him,” his face darkened, “he destroyed my camp.”
“Wha-“
A sudden, sharp pain flared through the left side Alfred’s head. What the hell, had a shooting star decided to do a bombing run on his head? Did Tony drop something from his ship? Were Martians invading Earth?
“Amerique, are you alright?”
“Ow, yeah,” He blinked a few times and once the starbursts had cleared from his vision, he looked around for the offending projectile. He spotted what looked like a piece of lumpy charcoal with paper wrapped around it beside his feet. Picking it up, he realized it wasn’t charcoal but a very, very, very burnt scone. Frowning, he unwrapped the piece of paper, Francis leaning in to read it as well
Look to my coming on the first light of the fifth day, at dawn look to the east.
P.S- Nice grill.
As if the last line had been a gimmick pulled directly from The Matrix, the bush Alfred had been crouching behind just minutes ago went up in a spectacular explosion of fire, shrapnel, and charred greenery. Alfred and Francis aren't cool though so they stared at it. And Alfred stared, and stared, and stared. Deep down inside, he felt something die. It was as if a million Fourth of July celebrators had cried out in horror, and then suddenly silenced. A problem had been detected, and Alfred F. Jones had shut down to prevent further damage to his (already scarred) mind.
Alfred fell to his knees, “But its noon!” he cried. Another charred scone fell beside Alfred. In his state, he wouldn’t have noticed it due to its great ability to camouflage with the scorched grass and brush if Francis hadn’t picked it up. He opened the message, read it, and showed it to Alfred.
Prepare for glory.
And like a B-movie action film that shall be shown in about three hundred cinemas nationwide and forgotten in less time than it takes to lick to the centre of a Tootsie Roll, a group of red coats appeared, screaming, over the crest of the hill with Arthur at the lead. Looking closer, he realized the group consisted of Jack, Thomas, Cadfael, Ian, Patrick, and Connor.
Alfred swore they were running in slow motion.
He should have been running as well, but all he could think was, ‘How did he get everyone in those uniforms?’
They were far from regulation though. Jack in particular appeared to have something strapped to his back (a large candy bar?), his hat flying on stampede strings as he whooped and yelled at the top of his lungs. Only Arthur and Ian were actually in a standard uniform, Ian with a tartan kilt and Arthur in a Grenadier’s uniform, green eyes blazing.
As they got closer, they reached behind themselves to pull out slingshots. Alfred saw them reach into a pouch tied to their belts and realized with horror that they were carrying more scones.
“Ready, aim, fire!” Arthur shouted and a second later, Alfred and Francis felt the true fury of British cooking. Cranberry, strawberry, clotted cream, cheese, dates, and even vegemite filled scones flew at them with startling accuracy. The vegemite in particular (Jack’s own creation) managed to land in Francis’ hair. Francis howled in agony, grabbing his hair and staring at the offending goop in disgusted, horrified shock.
“Batard!”
In rage and retaliation, Francis ran towards him, reaching into his knapsack and pulling out two croissants. Throwing them like boomerangs, the pastry weapons of French doom both hit Jack square in the face. Understandably, Jack was also enraged so when he reached Francis, he grabbed the huge bar of Tim Tams off his back and proceeded to swing it at the Frenchman. In return, Francis reached back into his knapsack and pulled out a baguette. The two proceeded to parry, block, and swipe at one another, throwing eclairs and fairy bread whenever they could.
Alfred could only stare dumbstruck as the others continued their charge at him. At that moment, he heard a voice he thought he’d never be glad to hear.
“Never fear, the awesome me is here!”
A new challenger had arrived! Gilbert stood a few meters away beside a catapult, grinning wildly under the shade of his tricorne hat. Ludwig and Feliciano stood on either side of it; Ludwig looked a few seconds away from facepalming while Feliciano waved cheerily at Alfred who was gaping at the trio.
Gilbert grinned, red eyes flashing wildy, “Come on boy, have you forgotten everything I taught you in 1777? In order to win you must go beyond the impossible and kick reason to the curb! That is the Prussian way! Bruder, fire ‘em up!”
Gilbert jumped into the cup of the catapult, Ludwig sighing as he released the mechanism and watched Gilbert fly through the air, laughing maniacally as he did so.
“Eat kraut!” Gilbert drew huge handfuls of sauerkraut from his clothing, blinding Connor and Patrick with aerial hits to their faces. Where he had kept the sauerkraut, we don’t want to know.
He landed with a thud on the two Irish nations, drawing out dollops of mashed potatoes while they were still stunned and adding them to the mess of sauerkraut on their faces. When they threw him off, Connor and Patrick reached into another pouch on their belts, also taking out heapings of mashed potatoes. The three nations, united in their love of potatoes, proceeded to dish out large amounts of the pulverized vegetable at each other, smearing it liberally wherever they could.
All the while, Alfred continued to stand there, mouth agape, like a deer caught in the headlights that were the remaining four nations about to pulverize him with sconey goodness. Thankfully, fate had other plans for our heroic nation. A shadow passed over Alfred’s head and the earth shook as a huge, fluffy polar bear landed between him and the might of British Cooking.
Alfred stared, “Mattie?”
And indeed it was Matthew sitting astride the bear, dressed in the uniform of his mounted police. He turned his head to Alfred,
“I’m here to eat pancakes and kick ass… and I’m all out of pancakes.”
He turned back to the four nations, “Kumajirou, roll out!”
And the bear proceeded to turn into a huge transformer that single-handedly crushed the opposing nations with laser beam eyes and sonic screams of “Who?”.
Kumajirou ran forward, Matthew jumping from his back when he got close enough to Ian, Cadfael, and Thomas. Pulling out two bottles of maple syrup marked ‘extra strength’; he proceeded to squeeze large amounts of it on the ground in front of the three nations. Once they ran into it and became stuck like animals in the La Brea Tar Pits, he pulled out plates of poutine and threw a few fries like darts at their heads, each one hitting spot on before he threw the entire plates at them.
“Traitor! You're supposed to be on our side!” Thomas yelled, wiping cheese from his face as he threw ANZAC biscuits at Matthew. They hit him in the eyes.
“I’m allergic to coconuts you hoser! And NAFTA says no!” Matthew yelled back as he threw extra fries at him.
Now with everyone else distracted, the only person left from the initial charge was Arthur. Convenient. Undaunted by the sudden entrance of Gilbert and Matthew, he raced towards Alfred foregoing his beloved scones for slices of beef from a Sunday roast. Using the momentum from his run, he leapt onto Alfred and slapped him a few times with the beef. It was at this time, with gravy getting dangerously close to his eyes, scone filling mucking up his clothing, and Arthur sitting on his chest did Alfred regain his ability to speak.
“What the hell Arthur?” He gasped. Arthur might not have looked like it but he was pretty heavy. Must have been all the fish and chips.
“Surrender?” Arthur asked, a wicked grin on his face. Even with slices of roasted cow in his hands, he could be pretty imposing.
“Never!” Alfred shouted, knocking the beef out of Arthur’s hands. While he was caught off guard, Alfred managed to shove him off his chest. Getting to his feet, he dug his hands into the bag he had thankfully kept with him. As he watched Arthur get up, he narrowed his eyes and closed his hands around something in his bag. Arthur had gone too far, that grill had been the best one yet.
“For glory, for freedom, for honour, for hamburgers!” Alfred yelled, throwing beef patties at Arthur followed by chicken nuggets and bacon.
“This means war!”
And all around was seen the scene of carnage. Potatoes, scones, patties, croissants, and Timbits flew in slow motion to the tune of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World, pun fully intended. Matthew went down with a fatal scone and three scoops of mashed potatoes to the chest (no one knew if it had been Connor, Patrick, or Gilbert who did it), and Francis ran to him, falling to his knees to cradle Matthew’s prone body in his arms as he screamed, “Non!”, like he had just been burnt and put into a large metal contraption without anaesthetics, then learnt the love of his life was dead.
By the end of the day, every nation was lying out of breath on the mushy, lumpy battlefield. Their once immaculate uniforms were spattered and caked and birds were quickly flying in to scavenge the wreckage that was a world orgy of food. Ludwig sighed as he surveyed the scene before him.
“Ve~ we should have joined in, it looked like fun!” Feliciano said happily by his side.
Ludwig groaned, wondering how he would move everyone and clean up the whole field without calling international newspapers on the event. Also, how would he move the catapult without Gilbert’s help? Sighing again, he began trying to pick up the nations and moving them to the car parked several meters away, starting with his brother.
From some bush thirty yards away, a faint beep was heard as Kiku closed his Panasonic camcorder, a happy grin upon his face.
---
Character names:
Cadfael= Wales
Connor= Nothern Ireland
Ian= Scotland
Jack= Australia
Patrick= Ireland
Thomas= New Zealand
Wondering why Australia is named Jack? It was the most popluar boy name there. Same with Thomas though it was among the top most popular.
...Please don't kill me?
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