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hetalia2009-08-13 09:47 pm
fuzzy-san.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-08-13 09:47 pm
[fanfic] America/England, part four
Title: In which America works.
Summary: America, much more lovey-dovey than usual (we chalk it up to the new man in office), says ‘mm’ a lot, England is his usual pathetic, horny self, and oh yeah, there’s a world conference going on. Also starring Japan (equipped with HondaVision), Germany (equipped with impenetrable seriousness) and a host of other nations (equipped with general ridiculousness). Obama, Robo-Shinatty, and Agent Smith also make appearances.
Characters/Pairings: England/America (main), mentions of Germany/Canada, Poland/Lithuania and Germany/Italy. The rest of the nations show up here, too, even if they're not mentioned directly.
Rating: PG-13 for language this chapter, NC-17 overall. But we're past that bit now.
Warnings: moderate OOC, scanty knowledge of current events, sex, ridiculousness, America’s mouth. Also, sap. Oh, the sap.
A/N: Holy shit is this fic ever bipolar. Remember how the last chapter was all buttsex? Here it gets funny. Or hopefully. It tries.
Part one.
Part two.
Part three.
It is recommended that you read the previous part over before continuing on to this, because the author neglected to put in a smooth transition between installments.
All caught up? Read on!
Neither of them think much at all beyond that, and then it is seven-forty and America is pressing him into the mattress, and then eight o’clock comes just before England does, and America just after him, both of them for the second time that morning. They are both too distracted by each other to consider the time at eight fifteen, all afterglow and sleepy kisses and by eight-thirty they are both fast asleep.
Nine o’clock comes. America sighs in England’s ear.
Nine-thirty comes.
The secret service comes.
A delegation of England’s had already affirmed that he was safe and sound in his own room, and decided for privacy’s sake that they would send a representative to fill his place at the conference. The CIA, however diligent they were (or weren’t) in monitoring their nation, had been reprimanded just the other day for tackling a McDonald’s worker when he attempted to get America’s attention when he left his wallet at the counter. They were also slightly confounded by Kiku’s subtle rewirings of various cameras and recording devices, which now no longer fed to their computers and headquarters but to a file on his laptop.
In any event, they weren’t quite in top form that morning at nine thirty-two, when after determining beyond a reasonable doubt that, a) their nation was neither in his room, the conference, or any neighboring establishments, b) he was without all of his personal affects (including his beloved iPhone, which he had nicknamed) and c) another nation (who, however long ago, had been at one time an enemy of the United States) was also missing, they broke down the door of Arthur’s room.
It started with a loud bang that was the first of two failed attempts to kick the door in, and which woke England with a start. Looking at the clock, he panicked, took America by the shoulders and, knowing what a sound sleeper he could be when he really tried, shook him firmly. Another bang.
“Whazzat?” America mumbles, head lolling back. “Gerroff. ‘S the banging for?”
“You bloody git, we’re missing the conference and someone’s trying to –”
The final bang finds the doorjamb in splinters and three armed, black-suited young men rushing into the room with their weapons drawn and expertly pointed. One of them throws himself onto England, who goes tumbling to the floor with a shout, and the other two grab America, begin hoisting him up towards the exit. It is all quite like a scene from a Hollywood action flick, until America starts waving his hands and England gives the officer (currently pinning him in a position eerily like the one America had him in a few hours ago) on top of him an introduction to the filthiest curses he can think up. (Agent Smith, he is called, though neither nation knows it, and his head will ring for days with those curses, a voice so powerfully disgruntled it puts him in mind of pirates and punk rock and angry headmasters all at once. He will never meet another person who can cuss with half that intensity or inventiveness until his to-be-wife, Jane Sullivan, shouts down a taxi for spraying her with dirty water as it passes through a puddle in the road: they will be married within the year, and they will have two children, for whom he will give up his career in the Service and join the PTA instead, though he will always love his country, will always be quite willing to take a bullet for his nation, or hold what he is not yet aware is Great Britain himself to a hotel floor at gunpoint, like he’s doing now.)
“Stop, stop, get off!” America is shouting, “that’s England, you stupid fuck, get off!”
It takes them a few seconds to register all this, and the two men on America let go before agent Smith does.
“You’re sure this man isn’t a threat?” he says, bewildered.
“It’s fine! Jesus, you guys, get out of here!” America makes shooing motions. The two suits at the door (there are five in the room, now, and America can see three more in the hall) nod crisply and give an ‘area’s secure’ into their headsets.
“Will someone get this bleeding sod off me,” England spits, and America hauls Smith up with a clap on the shoulder.
“It’s fine,” he says again, “uh, good work, guys. Never do this again.”
“You have to understand,” one of them says, “national security was-”
“I’m not gonna hold him back,” America says, gesturing at England, “and do you ever not want to see him pissed. Er. I mean. No that I think he’s ever going to get more pissed than he is now. You really should leave, because I seriously will let him kill you.”
That clears them out quickly.
England dresses as quickly as he possibly can, muttering oaths under his breath all the while. America doesn’t even bother to pull his pants on before dashing out the door (and England yells after him until he hears the neighboring door slam: of course, America is going for clothes, thank God). Less than a minute and they are racing together down the hall, America cackling like this is all a particularly hysterical joke, England glowering so fiercely that when they burst into the conference room, no one so much as cracks a smile.
It’s a testament to the power of his glare that even Francis doesn’t say a thing, despite the fact that they are very late (and while America has been known to sleep off hangovers or have a temper tantrum in his own room during a meeting, England is never late) and very disheveled (both their suits are rumpled, and their hair sticks up at such angles that Nantucket is actually indistinguishable from the rest of America’s hair, and Texas dangles rather precariously at the end of his nose).
Germany clears his throat. “If the both of you could sit down, I’d like to continue.”
Sit they do.
Continue he does.
“God, that was close,” America whispers to England, after they take their seats. “Thought we were gonna get in trouble.”
“I’m not talking to you,” he hisses. “At least pretend to pay attention.”
America sticks out his tongue and turns back to Germany, whose usual monotonous drone is completely unaffected by their sudden arrival. The rest of the nations, however, are all throwing curious glances down the table at the both of them. England sits rigidly straight and tries to smooth his hair down some. America leans on his elbow and smiles at everyone.
“Now then,” Germany says (after what seems like quite a bit shorter time than usual – but then England did miss most of his speech). “Questions.”
“I’ve like, got one,” Poland pipes up, snapping his gum. “If, like, I got in sooo much trouble the other day being in Leit’s room, uh, why do they totally get away with it? Totes not fair.”
“You got in trouble for shorting out the electricity on the second floor! It wasn’t because of what room you were in!” Estonia says, scowling. “What in the world possessed you to put your blowdryer in the bathtub?”
“Okay, like, straightener, and what? I wanted to get clean and I wanted my hair to look nice. Not even my fault that I dropped it. Besides, nobody cares about what happened to your stupid computer.”
“Questions,” Germany growls, interrupting Estonia’s rebuttal, “are to be on or relating to the presentation. Outside matters may be discussed after the meeting is over.”
“I seem to remember a threat about noise,” France puts in, giving England a lewd smirk. “Something about ‘keeping it down,’ non? And yet who was it that awoke me at seven thirty this morning screaming oh god yes please –”
“Shut up, you wine-swilling frog, if you want to see tomorrow.”
“Both of you will kindly refrain from such vulgarities during the conference, or you will be barred from attending,” Germany says coolly.
“Also,” America adds, “that was me. And I never said ‘keep it down’ to you. So ha.”
Everyone (including Germany) stares. America remains unruffled.
England presses his fingers into his temples against an oncoming headache.
“And also it was morning, too,” America adds, while everyone is silent, “so it wouldn’t matter, because –”
“As I said,” Germany says firmly. “Outside matters are to be discussed –”
“Germanyyyy. How come they get to do it at seven?” Italy whines over him. “You never let me near you past five a.m!”
“Don’t tell me you’re still seeing the potato bastard!” Romano shouts, drowning out Germany’s reply. Down the table, the Baltic countries have begun to argue about something. America turns to Canada as the nose level rises.
“Hey, never got to ask. Who were you with last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Canada mumbles, blushing. “It – it was purely diplomatic.”
“Oh yeah? So the sex was bad?”
“Nothing like that. Please don’t ask me, America.”
“Hey, you can ask me how England was.”
“I’d rather not.”
“And when did we discuss whether we’d speak on this?” England interjects.
America grins. “Didn’t. What’s there to say? You were awesome. Hey, Canada, England was awesome.”
Both countries go red. “Anyway, you don’t have to tell me how it was, just say who.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Come on, I’ll ask Kiku,” America cajoles. “You know he has tapes of it.”
“Please don’t.”
“I will. Hey, Kiku!”
“Alfred, please.”
England smacks him. Texas goes flying. Russia grabs it before America does.
“I think this would look nice on me,” he says, putting America’s glasses on. “I would not mind a colony somewhere warm.”
“Hey, give that back.” America leans across the table, reaching for Russia’s face. Russia bites at him, comes within a centimeter of taking a finger off.
“You called for me?” Kiku is saying, leaning forward in his seat as well.
“Oh, yeah, can I go through some of the videos you took last night?” America asks, still making threatening motions at Russia (who no longer has Texas: China grabbed it while he was trying to nip America’s fingers off, and he is now just smiling as America pokes him blindly).
“I’m afraid it will cost you,” Japan says serenely. Canada has been protesting the entire time, unheard until he says, desperately, Germany, it was Germany, leave me alone.
“Oh yeah? You slept with Ludwig? How did it go?”
“You said you wouldn’t ask!”
England presses his fingers harder into his temples. The table shakes as Spain falls onto it (evidently Romano is angry about something). China has traded Texas over to Japan for the newest Shinatty-chan action-figure miniature, which is doing flips on the table (and spouting lines from the anime it procured three months ago in a robotic voice). He claps and laughs delightedly. Russia tips it over and laughs as well as it kicks the air helplessly. America pesters Canada about his activities last night. Belarus (who has spent the entire meeting standing completely immovably at Russia’s side) pokes one of her hairpins through robo-Shinatty’s eye. China wails. Russia collapses in a fit of giggles.
Japan passes Texas back to America with a knowing smile. The Italy brothers argue about Germany, who is shouting for order (which, it is plain now, he is never going to get). North and South Korea are screaming at each other, barely held back from blows by a shaking, crying Latvia and the British representative (who, at England’s arrival, politely rose from is seat, but did not leave the room, and had been taking notes in a corner until it became apparent that he would be better serving his nation by preventing heavy artillery fire in the conference room). Greece strokes a cat in his lap with a glazed expression, ignoring Finland’s sneezing and Sweden’s death glare. All this is only within England’s direct line of view. He does not bother trying to see what the countries far from him at the table are doing, but they must be doing something, because everyone has begun to shout to be heard.
The noise level quickly reaches a critical point. Either the building is going to collapse, or they are going to stop of their own accord when their ears start bleeding.
“I can’t believe I got out of bed for this,” England complains under his breath. America hears him, somehow.
“Yeah. Me either. And I left my phone in my room, so I can’t even play games or anything.” He heaves a sigh. “Think anybody’d care if I went and got it?”
“I don’t think they’ll notice. Get me some asprin while you’re up.”
“Sure thing.”
America leaves (with no show of secrecy, given the chaos around him, only bothering to duck when a shoe goes flying) and returns to a no less noisy scene, Japan now holding up his hands as North Korea shouts at him over South Korea’s shoulder.
“Chill,” America says, patting the North on the head as he passes, then drawing back when he is spit at.
“I’ll have no western aggression, either!” North Korea yells. “Stay out of this, you stupid yankee fuck!”
“Jesus,” America mutters, ducking around him and back to his seat (which has been knocked over and probably used to hit someone while he was away). England is cradling his head on folded arms. “Here. Pills for you.”
“Thank you,” England mutters, taking four and grimacing. “Beginning to think we should just call it a day.”
“Nah,” America says confidently. “I called for backup.”
Backup takes exactly thirteen minutes to arrive, and in that time, North Korea bloodies South Korea’s lip with a well-placed swing of his fist, managing as well to kick Japan in the shin before America hauls him back and shoves him into a wall: they argue, diplomacy decreasing as rapidly as the volume increases, until they are just cussing and threatening at the top of their lungs. Various nations take various sides, but most of them are against North Korea. He gets louder and angrier at every voice against him.
It is looking to turn into an outright brawl when the doors open and America’s president steps in, followed closely by bosses from around the world.
Most nations are surprised to see them. A few that have been using Twitter in the past few minutes are expecting them, but the rest just gape.
“I think,” Obama begins, “we should take it from here.”
__________________________________________________________________
Continue on to part five?
Summary: America, much more lovey-dovey than usual (we chalk it up to the new man in office), says ‘mm’ a lot, England is his usual pathetic, horny self, and oh yeah, there’s a world conference going on. Also starring Japan (equipped with HondaVision), Germany (equipped with impenetrable seriousness) and a host of other nations (equipped with general ridiculousness). Obama, Robo-Shinatty, and Agent Smith also make appearances.
Characters/Pairings: England/America (main), mentions of Germany/Canada, Poland/Lithuania and Germany/Italy. The rest of the nations show up here, too, even if they're not mentioned directly.
Rating: PG-13 for language this chapter, NC-17 overall. But we're past that bit now.
Warnings: moderate OOC, scanty knowledge of current events, sex, ridiculousness, America’s mouth. Also, sap. Oh, the sap.
A/N: Holy shit is this fic ever bipolar. Remember how the last chapter was all buttsex? Here it gets funny. Or hopefully. It tries.
Part one.
Part two.
Part three.
It is recommended that you read the previous part over before continuing on to this, because the author neglected to put in a smooth transition between installments.
All caught up? Read on!
Neither of them think much at all beyond that, and then it is seven-forty and America is pressing him into the mattress, and then eight o’clock comes just before England does, and America just after him, both of them for the second time that morning. They are both too distracted by each other to consider the time at eight fifteen, all afterglow and sleepy kisses and by eight-thirty they are both fast asleep.
Nine o’clock comes. America sighs in England’s ear.
Nine-thirty comes.
The secret service comes.
A delegation of England’s had already affirmed that he was safe and sound in his own room, and decided for privacy’s sake that they would send a representative to fill his place at the conference. The CIA, however diligent they were (or weren’t) in monitoring their nation, had been reprimanded just the other day for tackling a McDonald’s worker when he attempted to get America’s attention when he left his wallet at the counter. They were also slightly confounded by Kiku’s subtle rewirings of various cameras and recording devices, which now no longer fed to their computers and headquarters but to a file on his laptop.
In any event, they weren’t quite in top form that morning at nine thirty-two, when after determining beyond a reasonable doubt that, a) their nation was neither in his room, the conference, or any neighboring establishments, b) he was without all of his personal affects (including his beloved iPhone, which he had nicknamed) and c) another nation (who, however long ago, had been at one time an enemy of the United States) was also missing, they broke down the door of Arthur’s room.
It started with a loud bang that was the first of two failed attempts to kick the door in, and which woke England with a start. Looking at the clock, he panicked, took America by the shoulders and, knowing what a sound sleeper he could be when he really tried, shook him firmly. Another bang.
“Whazzat?” America mumbles, head lolling back. “Gerroff. ‘S the banging for?”
“You bloody git, we’re missing the conference and someone’s trying to –”
The final bang finds the doorjamb in splinters and three armed, black-suited young men rushing into the room with their weapons drawn and expertly pointed. One of them throws himself onto England, who goes tumbling to the floor with a shout, and the other two grab America, begin hoisting him up towards the exit. It is all quite like a scene from a Hollywood action flick, until America starts waving his hands and England gives the officer (currently pinning him in a position eerily like the one America had him in a few hours ago) on top of him an introduction to the filthiest curses he can think up. (Agent Smith, he is called, though neither nation knows it, and his head will ring for days with those curses, a voice so powerfully disgruntled it puts him in mind of pirates and punk rock and angry headmasters all at once. He will never meet another person who can cuss with half that intensity or inventiveness until his to-be-wife, Jane Sullivan, shouts down a taxi for spraying her with dirty water as it passes through a puddle in the road: they will be married within the year, and they will have two children, for whom he will give up his career in the Service and join the PTA instead, though he will always love his country, will always be quite willing to take a bullet for his nation, or hold what he is not yet aware is Great Britain himself to a hotel floor at gunpoint, like he’s doing now.)
“Stop, stop, get off!” America is shouting, “that’s England, you stupid fuck, get off!”
It takes them a few seconds to register all this, and the two men on America let go before agent Smith does.
“You’re sure this man isn’t a threat?” he says, bewildered.
“It’s fine! Jesus, you guys, get out of here!” America makes shooing motions. The two suits at the door (there are five in the room, now, and America can see three more in the hall) nod crisply and give an ‘area’s secure’ into their headsets.
“Will someone get this bleeding sod off me,” England spits, and America hauls Smith up with a clap on the shoulder.
“It’s fine,” he says again, “uh, good work, guys. Never do this again.”
“You have to understand,” one of them says, “national security was-”
“I’m not gonna hold him back,” America says, gesturing at England, “and do you ever not want to see him pissed. Er. I mean. No that I think he’s ever going to get more pissed than he is now. You really should leave, because I seriously will let him kill you.”
That clears them out quickly.
England dresses as quickly as he possibly can, muttering oaths under his breath all the while. America doesn’t even bother to pull his pants on before dashing out the door (and England yells after him until he hears the neighboring door slam: of course, America is going for clothes, thank God). Less than a minute and they are racing together down the hall, America cackling like this is all a particularly hysterical joke, England glowering so fiercely that when they burst into the conference room, no one so much as cracks a smile.
It’s a testament to the power of his glare that even Francis doesn’t say a thing, despite the fact that they are very late (and while America has been known to sleep off hangovers or have a temper tantrum in his own room during a meeting, England is never late) and very disheveled (both their suits are rumpled, and their hair sticks up at such angles that Nantucket is actually indistinguishable from the rest of America’s hair, and Texas dangles rather precariously at the end of his nose).
Germany clears his throat. “If the both of you could sit down, I’d like to continue.”
Sit they do.
Continue he does.
“God, that was close,” America whispers to England, after they take their seats. “Thought we were gonna get in trouble.”
“I’m not talking to you,” he hisses. “At least pretend to pay attention.”
America sticks out his tongue and turns back to Germany, whose usual monotonous drone is completely unaffected by their sudden arrival. The rest of the nations, however, are all throwing curious glances down the table at the both of them. England sits rigidly straight and tries to smooth his hair down some. America leans on his elbow and smiles at everyone.
“Now then,” Germany says (after what seems like quite a bit shorter time than usual – but then England did miss most of his speech). “Questions.”
“I’ve like, got one,” Poland pipes up, snapping his gum. “If, like, I got in sooo much trouble the other day being in Leit’s room, uh, why do they totally get away with it? Totes not fair.”
“You got in trouble for shorting out the electricity on the second floor! It wasn’t because of what room you were in!” Estonia says, scowling. “What in the world possessed you to put your blowdryer in the bathtub?”
“Okay, like, straightener, and what? I wanted to get clean and I wanted my hair to look nice. Not even my fault that I dropped it. Besides, nobody cares about what happened to your stupid computer.”
“Questions,” Germany growls, interrupting Estonia’s rebuttal, “are to be on or relating to the presentation. Outside matters may be discussed after the meeting is over.”
“I seem to remember a threat about noise,” France puts in, giving England a lewd smirk. “Something about ‘keeping it down,’ non? And yet who was it that awoke me at seven thirty this morning screaming oh god yes please –”
“Shut up, you wine-swilling frog, if you want to see tomorrow.”
“Both of you will kindly refrain from such vulgarities during the conference, or you will be barred from attending,” Germany says coolly.
“Also,” America adds, “that was me. And I never said ‘keep it down’ to you. So ha.”
Everyone (including Germany) stares. America remains unruffled.
England presses his fingers into his temples against an oncoming headache.
“And also it was morning, too,” America adds, while everyone is silent, “so it wouldn’t matter, because –”
“As I said,” Germany says firmly. “Outside matters are to be discussed –”
“Germanyyyy. How come they get to do it at seven?” Italy whines over him. “You never let me near you past five a.m!”
“Don’t tell me you’re still seeing the potato bastard!” Romano shouts, drowning out Germany’s reply. Down the table, the Baltic countries have begun to argue about something. America turns to Canada as the nose level rises.
“Hey, never got to ask. Who were you with last night?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Canada mumbles, blushing. “It – it was purely diplomatic.”
“Oh yeah? So the sex was bad?”
“Nothing like that. Please don’t ask me, America.”
“Hey, you can ask me how England was.”
“I’d rather not.”
“And when did we discuss whether we’d speak on this?” England interjects.
America grins. “Didn’t. What’s there to say? You were awesome. Hey, Canada, England was awesome.”
Both countries go red. “Anyway, you don’t have to tell me how it was, just say who.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Come on, I’ll ask Kiku,” America cajoles. “You know he has tapes of it.”
“Please don’t.”
“I will. Hey, Kiku!”
“Alfred, please.”
England smacks him. Texas goes flying. Russia grabs it before America does.
“I think this would look nice on me,” he says, putting America’s glasses on. “I would not mind a colony somewhere warm.”
“Hey, give that back.” America leans across the table, reaching for Russia’s face. Russia bites at him, comes within a centimeter of taking a finger off.
“You called for me?” Kiku is saying, leaning forward in his seat as well.
“Oh, yeah, can I go through some of the videos you took last night?” America asks, still making threatening motions at Russia (who no longer has Texas: China grabbed it while he was trying to nip America’s fingers off, and he is now just smiling as America pokes him blindly).
“I’m afraid it will cost you,” Japan says serenely. Canada has been protesting the entire time, unheard until he says, desperately, Germany, it was Germany, leave me alone.
“Oh yeah? You slept with Ludwig? How did it go?”
“You said you wouldn’t ask!”
England presses his fingers harder into his temples. The table shakes as Spain falls onto it (evidently Romano is angry about something). China has traded Texas over to Japan for the newest Shinatty-chan action-figure miniature, which is doing flips on the table (and spouting lines from the anime it procured three months ago in a robotic voice). He claps and laughs delightedly. Russia tips it over and laughs as well as it kicks the air helplessly. America pesters Canada about his activities last night. Belarus (who has spent the entire meeting standing completely immovably at Russia’s side) pokes one of her hairpins through robo-Shinatty’s eye. China wails. Russia collapses in a fit of giggles.
Japan passes Texas back to America with a knowing smile. The Italy brothers argue about Germany, who is shouting for order (which, it is plain now, he is never going to get). North and South Korea are screaming at each other, barely held back from blows by a shaking, crying Latvia and the British representative (who, at England’s arrival, politely rose from is seat, but did not leave the room, and had been taking notes in a corner until it became apparent that he would be better serving his nation by preventing heavy artillery fire in the conference room). Greece strokes a cat in his lap with a glazed expression, ignoring Finland’s sneezing and Sweden’s death glare. All this is only within England’s direct line of view. He does not bother trying to see what the countries far from him at the table are doing, but they must be doing something, because everyone has begun to shout to be heard.
The noise level quickly reaches a critical point. Either the building is going to collapse, or they are going to stop of their own accord when their ears start bleeding.
“I can’t believe I got out of bed for this,” England complains under his breath. America hears him, somehow.
“Yeah. Me either. And I left my phone in my room, so I can’t even play games or anything.” He heaves a sigh. “Think anybody’d care if I went and got it?”
“I don’t think they’ll notice. Get me some asprin while you’re up.”
“Sure thing.”
America leaves (with no show of secrecy, given the chaos around him, only bothering to duck when a shoe goes flying) and returns to a no less noisy scene, Japan now holding up his hands as North Korea shouts at him over South Korea’s shoulder.
“Chill,” America says, patting the North on the head as he passes, then drawing back when he is spit at.
“I’ll have no western aggression, either!” North Korea yells. “Stay out of this, you stupid yankee fuck!”
“Jesus,” America mutters, ducking around him and back to his seat (which has been knocked over and probably used to hit someone while he was away). England is cradling his head on folded arms. “Here. Pills for you.”
“Thank you,” England mutters, taking four and grimacing. “Beginning to think we should just call it a day.”
“Nah,” America says confidently. “I called for backup.”
Backup takes exactly thirteen minutes to arrive, and in that time, North Korea bloodies South Korea’s lip with a well-placed swing of his fist, managing as well to kick Japan in the shin before America hauls him back and shoves him into a wall: they argue, diplomacy decreasing as rapidly as the volume increases, until they are just cussing and threatening at the top of their lungs. Various nations take various sides, but most of them are against North Korea. He gets louder and angrier at every voice against him.
It is looking to turn into an outright brawl when the doors open and America’s president steps in, followed closely by bosses from around the world.
Most nations are surprised to see them. A few that have been using Twitter in the past few minutes are expecting them, but the rest just gape.
“I think,” Obama begins, “we should take it from here.”
__________________________________________________________________
Continue on to part five?