(Untitled)

[mygodmyright]

[ knock knock knock, Marshall Street. England's going up and down the hall with an empty measuring cup, knocking on random doors. What's he after? A simple cup of sugar/baking soda/whatever. It changes with every door he knocks on. This would be a completely normal friendly neighbour sort of routine, except for the fact England's slightly

Comments

[mygodmyright]

[ it's a beautiful door, if I say so myself ]

Might wanna get your door checked out, mate. It's looking a bit hack--

... none at all?

[mygodmyright]

[ pause pause pause ]

Blimey, that does me no good; I can't bake a pie with blood.

[ ... ] Blood pudding, then? Your blood, or Sweden's?

[mygodmyright]

[ moseying on after Denmark, staring more at the cake batter and sugar on the floor than anything else ]

... what was it over this time?

[mygodmyright]

[ JUST PLOPPING DOWN ON THE FLOOR. Delicious floor sugar England doesn't even notice ]

Brother's are like that, aren't they? Stupid useless lummocks... all they do is fuck things up the wazoo.

[mygodmyright]

You can have Scotland, if you'd like. America as well, I suppose. I reserve all right to come over and beat the tar out of him, though. But only when he deserves it... which honestly is all the fucking time.

[ sniffle. thinking of America and his douchetastic behaviour this past week makes England kind of... sit and whine more. but he gets up and tries to shovel sugar into his measuring cup. he succeeds, somewhat. ]

[mygodmyright]

He's my useless lump of a brother. I should have listened to the fortune teller back in Fitzrovia and traded him in for the elephant man.

[ pausing to scowl at Denmark ]

I don't need a bloody spoon; I'm doing perfectly fine without one.

[mygodmyright]

... do you have any preference between the two?

[ making shooing motions at Denmark and the spoon. ]

I don't trust your silverware.

[mygodmyright]

America is the biggest pain in the arse I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. Even Ireland pales in comparison, and he throws rocks at my window every morning.

[ taking a moment to think about that, before snatching the spoon out of Denmark's hands ]

... as long as I don't get your blood mixed in.