[Drabble] Drabbles in Russian History [4]
DRABBLES IN RUSSIAN HISTORY
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
» Rating: T
La Cucaracha
Musing on the history of the infamous Blattella germanica, one sees a definite pattern begin to emerge...
A high, piercing shriek sliced through the frosty pink St. Petersburg dawn, emanating from an upstairs parlor of the Winter Palace and echoing through the halls and courtyards to bounce off cobblestones and frighten the pigeons gathered there.
Katarina danced in place, her dressing gown hiked up her knees, and continued to scream, words at this point completely indecipherable. At the breakfast table, a pot of overturned tea steamed gently and Natalia sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, scowling in sleepy annoyance. In between them a tower of muffins had fallen onto and over the tabletop, icings and nuts scattered across the Turkish rugs and French parquet.
In the middle of the mess was a bug.
Ivan burst into the room, hair mussed and missing a slipper. "Daragiye, shto sluchilas'?"
"Brother, there was an insect on Katya's blin'," Natalia stated matter-of-factly.
"Aie! Targan! Targaaan!"
"Sister is overreacting," Natalia opined coolly. She brought her teacup squarely down on the hapless thing with a very final crunch.
"Katushka, idi suda," Ivan sighed. Katarina flung herself, crying hysterically, into his arms. He patted her head, absently.
"... damn Prussian cockroaches."
A few hundred miles away, the nation of Prussia chased a small, skittering black shape across the terra cotta tile of the conservatory. It ran beneath a low stone bench, which Gilbert didn't quite manage to jump, and from there into a decorative drain. "Verdammt!" he growled.
"So was, my dear Gilbert! For everyone one you see there are thousands hidden," the monarch sitting at the glass table next to him intoned, sipping slowly from his morning coffee. "It makes no difference to kill just one."
Gilbert, laying full-length across the stone seat, turned to glower at his boss. "My dear Frederick, I beg to disagree; the only, and any, good Russian cockroach is a dead one!"
A few hundred years later, Northern Italy found Germany waist deep in his kitchen cabinets, spraying with something that was quickly filling the room with a thick bluegreen smog.
"Ve~, Doitsu, ch-che cosa è questo?" Feliciano coughed out.
An indistinct, somehow metallic grunt was his only answer. So he waited.
Fidgeted.
"Doitsu~"
"Hn."
"Doitsu~!"
There suddenly emerged from under the counter a terrifying spectacle: in place of Ludwig's head a contraption all horrid glass goggles, leather straps and ominous whistling tubes. Feliciano let out a squeak of pure fright and nearly fainted on the spot.
Voice echoing within the confines of his gas mask, Ludwig growled, "Was, was? I need to get rid of these damn French cockroaches before they get in the Wurst, Italien!"
Always a Johnny-Come-Lately, some decades after that the United States of America opened his storeroom door to have a bit of a mope, only to screech loudly as several dark flecks scurried away from the light and into the shadowy reaches of the room.
"DAMN GERMAN COCKROACHES! Matthew! Tony! SOMEBODY GET ME THE BUGSPRAY!"
That's right. Blattella germanica, ladies and gentlemen! The cockroach who assumes the name of whichever country you happen to be fighting!