Family Ties [Part 8]
Title: Family Ties
Characters (in this chapter): Scotland, a bartender, the people of Glasgow, England, Wales, America.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Pfft. Oh god, I think this might be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
The streets of Glasgow were alive with people. It was nine o’clock on a Friday night, and so far there had only been three brawls, two drunk driving crashes and ten arrested drug dealers. All in all, James was ready for a night out on the town, having just finished his paperwork. Being an independent country was hard, and he deserved a break. He drove through the high street, avoiding people stumbling into the road already.
‘Nice to see they’re enjoying independence.’ the Nation thought, watching like a proud father as three men linked arms and belted out an off-key version of the national anthem as they stumbled down the street.
He pulled up outside the Plaid Scotsman, one of his regulars, mainly because it was a house rule to order in Scottish Gaelic. It seemed to be peaceful for now, though someone was already belting out “My Way” on the karaoke. Striding in like he owned the place (and for a brief stint back in 1845, he had), he sat at the bar eyes flickering just once to the football on the telly. It was just minor league stuff, but a good distraction all the same.
“Ach! Jimmy, when’d ye show up!” laughed a friendly voice, attracting the Nation’s attention. The elderly bartender was a good friend, and one of Scotland’s little secret keepers. One didn’t attend the same pub for three centuries without getting noticed. The two Scots shared a grin.
“Always been ‘ere. Ye been at the winery again, Ted?” He prodded, chuckling. Ted rubbed his suspiciously red nose and chortled back.
“Ah, I’ve been caught.”
Ordering a lager in Scot-Gaelic, the Nation watched the bartender go down into the cellar to get to the specialty stuff Scotland wanted. James peered at the football with half an eye, wondering why the pub was so quiet tonight. Eventually, the football match finished, and Ted still hadn’t come back.
“Oi, Ted! Ye alrigh’ back there?!” Scotland called. He was met with disturbing silence. Jumping off his barstool, the red head followed down into the dimly lit cellar. “Ted?” there was a sharp intake of breath.
“Jim?” it sounded weak, and Scotland sped up. He found the man leaning against the wall with a hand to his head. The Nation placed a hand on the elderly man’s shoulder.
“What happened?” he asked, as Ted raised a shaking hand to gesture at the barrels of alcoholic drinks that lined the cellar walls.
“Jim, I’ve been robbed.” He uttered, half sobbed. Trademark eyebrows rose.
“Robbed?” Scotland moved cautiously over to look inside the barrels. How could he have been robbed, if the containers were still here?
Something small and green and bright shot out and nearly hit Scotland in the face. He muffled a swear and jumped back, head whipping round until he spotted it; a tiny green pixie, giggling at him from the foot of the stairs, before it zoomed up and out of sight. Finally able to look in the old wooden container without losing an eye, Scotland really did let loose a curse this time.
The booze was gone.
The lager, the beer, the gin, the whiskey, the vodka, the rum. Every bottle and barrel was empty to the last drop, dry as a bone and about as tasty. They had even taken the alcopops, for crying out loud!
Scotland burst out of the pub doors to find chaos on the street, and not the usual Glasgow kind. All the alcoholic substances had simply disappeared, people were yelling at others for stealing their drinks. It seemed like only Scotland could see the pixies, the English pixies, flitting about here and there with evil, high-pitched laugher like demented children.
“Och, yeh’ve done it now, Artie.”
-----
“Authorities and scientists are still looking for the cause of the disappearance of all the alcoholic substances north of the Scottish border.” Read the newscaster in a measured and controlled tone of voice. “Researchers are baffled, and while many have theorised this to be an effect of global warming and the boiling point of alcohol, they are still stumped by the specificity; the very second the liquid substance was passed over the border between England and Scotland, it literally vanishes. Reports of green lights in the sky have lead to some accusations of extra-terrestrials. All that is currently known… is that the collective Scottish hangover is going to last quite a while.”
“Pffff-hahahahaha!” England had been laughing for the past twenty minutes, and every time he tried to stop, some scientist would come on screen and present a convoluted theory and made him laugh at the stupidity. Wales had laughed for the first few minutes too, but was now just down to smirking victoriously.
“He’s not going to take this lying down, you know.” He commented, picking up Arthur’s empty tea mug.
“Hehe- I know but it’s- ssnnrrk- so funny!” the Nation snickered, breaking into fresh laughter at a clip of a street fight immediately after the event. The phone rang, and England struggled to control his giggles before he picked up, giving a barely understandable “Kirkland residence, Arthur speaking.”
“Are you drunk again, Iggy?” came the ever familiar sound of America’s voice. Unfortunately, this comment set England off again.
“N-no, just-” he collapsed into fresh cackling as Wales took the phone.
“He’s not drunk, Alfred.”
“Oh, you’re that Wales guy!” chirped America. “What’s up with Iggy?”
“Nice to see I’m remembered.” Wales deadpanned, eyebrows arching. He continued as his technical nephew stuttered apologies. “He’s just finding a prank he pulled extremely amusing.”
“Oh right. He has a sense of humor?”
England heard that, somehow. “A refined and unique sense of humour, thank you very much!” Then went back to smothering his laughter.
“Yeah whatever. Anyway, I’m hearing stuff about aliens at your place, but Tony says he doesn’t have anything to do with it, so you’ve either got some new visitors, which is totally cool and all but needs to be sorted out by my FBI or something pretty soon so I’ll be over-”
“Alfred, they’re not aliens.” Wales interrupted the babbling Nation before the headache could start building.
“But there are reports of green lights in the sky!”
“They’re pixies.”
An awkward silence.
“Oh geez, not you too.” That tone, condescending and exasperated, like he was talking to a misbehaving puppy rather than his uncle. Wales had some pride too, you know.
“It’s true.” He kept his voice level. America made a snorting sound.
“Right, sure. You’re just getting a little senile, it’s fine, happens to the best of people. Nations. Whatever. I’ll just put it down to being one of those weird Brit things, like that football you play without protective gear. What’s up with that game huh? Makes no sense.”
“Rugby. It’s called rugby. And by the way, Alfred, I heard it’s impossible to say ambaldestalta three times fast.” He added casually. “The greatest British people have tried it. I bet even you can’t.”
“Sure I can, I’m the hero!” It was almost mean to take advantage of how much Alfred trusted people on his own side. Almost. “Ambaldestaltambaldestaltambaldestalta- AAAAAAAH!!”
The phone went dead. Wales placed it back on the hook.
“The Dragon Mother? Really Darren? Was that necessary?” asked England, tone scolding but face stuck in an amused smirk.
“Only her ghost.” Wales retaliated, sitting on the sofa besides his brother. “She won’t do anything more than fill the room with smoke and scare him into silence.” He picked up the remote and flicked off the news, ignoring England’s pout. “I want to see the footie results, don’t you?”
Notes:
- There is nothing special about the Dragon Mother or her name. I made it up on the spot. Most English folk law is like that.
- I couldn't find anyone who spoke Scots-Gaelic, let alone a translator online. The language is that unused. But if Scotland got his independence, I bet he'd love to have a language all of his own.
Part 9
Characters (in this chapter): Scotland, a bartender, the people of Glasgow, England, Wales, America.
Rating: 15
Warnings: Pfft. Oh god, I think this might be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Summary: Uh, I need to be banned from the kink meme or monsters like this happen? Essentially, Scotland leaves the UK, which gives Northern Ireland an excuse to up and out as well, which leaves England and Wales all alone.
The streets of Glasgow were alive with people. It was nine o’clock on a Friday night, and so far there had only been three brawls, two drunk driving crashes and ten arrested drug dealers. All in all, James was ready for a night out on the town, having just finished his paperwork. Being an independent country was hard, and he deserved a break. He drove through the high street, avoiding people stumbling into the road already.
‘Nice to see they’re enjoying independence.’ the Nation thought, watching like a proud father as three men linked arms and belted out an off-key version of the national anthem as they stumbled down the street.
He pulled up outside the Plaid Scotsman, one of his regulars, mainly because it was a house rule to order in Scottish Gaelic. It seemed to be peaceful for now, though someone was already belting out “My Way” on the karaoke. Striding in like he owned the place (and for a brief stint back in 1845, he had), he sat at the bar eyes flickering just once to the football on the telly. It was just minor league stuff, but a good distraction all the same.
“Ach! Jimmy, when’d ye show up!” laughed a friendly voice, attracting the Nation’s attention. The elderly bartender was a good friend, and one of Scotland’s little secret keepers. One didn’t attend the same pub for three centuries without getting noticed. The two Scots shared a grin.
“Always been ‘ere. Ye been at the winery again, Ted?” He prodded, chuckling. Ted rubbed his suspiciously red nose and chortled back.
“Ah, I’ve been caught.”
Ordering a lager in Scot-Gaelic, the Nation watched the bartender go down into the cellar to get to the specialty stuff Scotland wanted. James peered at the football with half an eye, wondering why the pub was so quiet tonight. Eventually, the football match finished, and Ted still hadn’t come back.
“Oi, Ted! Ye alrigh’ back there?!” Scotland called. He was met with disturbing silence. Jumping off his barstool, the red head followed down into the dimly lit cellar. “Ted?” there was a sharp intake of breath.
“Jim?” it sounded weak, and Scotland sped up. He found the man leaning against the wall with a hand to his head. The Nation placed a hand on the elderly man’s shoulder.
“What happened?” he asked, as Ted raised a shaking hand to gesture at the barrels of alcoholic drinks that lined the cellar walls.
“Jim, I’ve been robbed.” He uttered, half sobbed. Trademark eyebrows rose.
“Robbed?” Scotland moved cautiously over to look inside the barrels. How could he have been robbed, if the containers were still here?
Something small and green and bright shot out and nearly hit Scotland in the face. He muffled a swear and jumped back, head whipping round until he spotted it; a tiny green pixie, giggling at him from the foot of the stairs, before it zoomed up and out of sight. Finally able to look in the old wooden container without losing an eye, Scotland really did let loose a curse this time.
The booze was gone.
The lager, the beer, the gin, the whiskey, the vodka, the rum. Every bottle and barrel was empty to the last drop, dry as a bone and about as tasty. They had even taken the alcopops, for crying out loud!
Scotland burst out of the pub doors to find chaos on the street, and not the usual Glasgow kind. All the alcoholic substances had simply disappeared, people were yelling at others for stealing their drinks. It seemed like only Scotland could see the pixies, the English pixies, flitting about here and there with evil, high-pitched laugher like demented children.
“Och, yeh’ve done it now, Artie.”
-----
“Authorities and scientists are still looking for the cause of the disappearance of all the alcoholic substances north of the Scottish border.” Read the newscaster in a measured and controlled tone of voice. “Researchers are baffled, and while many have theorised this to be an effect of global warming and the boiling point of alcohol, they are still stumped by the specificity; the very second the liquid substance was passed over the border between England and Scotland, it literally vanishes. Reports of green lights in the sky have lead to some accusations of extra-terrestrials. All that is currently known… is that the collective Scottish hangover is going to last quite a while.”
“Pffff-hahahahaha!” England had been laughing for the past twenty minutes, and every time he tried to stop, some scientist would come on screen and present a convoluted theory and made him laugh at the stupidity. Wales had laughed for the first few minutes too, but was now just down to smirking victoriously.
“He’s not going to take this lying down, you know.” He commented, picking up Arthur’s empty tea mug.
“Hehe- I know but it’s- ssnnrrk- so funny!” the Nation snickered, breaking into fresh laughter at a clip of a street fight immediately after the event. The phone rang, and England struggled to control his giggles before he picked up, giving a barely understandable “Kirkland residence, Arthur speaking.”
“Are you drunk again, Iggy?” came the ever familiar sound of America’s voice. Unfortunately, this comment set England off again.
“N-no, just-” he collapsed into fresh cackling as Wales took the phone.
“He’s not drunk, Alfred.”
“Oh, you’re that Wales guy!” chirped America. “What’s up with Iggy?”
“Nice to see I’m remembered.” Wales deadpanned, eyebrows arching. He continued as his technical nephew stuttered apologies. “He’s just finding a prank he pulled extremely amusing.”
“Oh right. He has a sense of humor?”
England heard that, somehow. “A refined and unique sense of humour, thank you very much!” Then went back to smothering his laughter.
“Yeah whatever. Anyway, I’m hearing stuff about aliens at your place, but Tony says he doesn’t have anything to do with it, so you’ve either got some new visitors, which is totally cool and all but needs to be sorted out by my FBI or something pretty soon so I’ll be over-”
“Alfred, they’re not aliens.” Wales interrupted the babbling Nation before the headache could start building.
“But there are reports of green lights in the sky!”
“They’re pixies.”
An awkward silence.
“Oh geez, not you too.” That tone, condescending and exasperated, like he was talking to a misbehaving puppy rather than his uncle. Wales had some pride too, you know.
“It’s true.” He kept his voice level. America made a snorting sound.
“Right, sure. You’re just getting a little senile, it’s fine, happens to the best of people. Nations. Whatever. I’ll just put it down to being one of those weird Brit things, like that football you play without protective gear. What’s up with that game huh? Makes no sense.”
“Rugby. It’s called rugby. And by the way, Alfred, I heard it’s impossible to say ambaldestalta three times fast.” He added casually. “The greatest British people have tried it. I bet even you can’t.”
“Sure I can, I’m the hero!” It was almost mean to take advantage of how much Alfred trusted people on his own side. Almost. “Ambaldestaltambaldestaltambaldestalta- AAAAAAAH!!”
The phone went dead. Wales placed it back on the hook.
“The Dragon Mother? Really Darren? Was that necessary?” asked England, tone scolding but face stuck in an amused smirk.
“Only her ghost.” Wales retaliated, sitting on the sofa besides his brother. “She won’t do anything more than fill the room with smoke and scare him into silence.” He picked up the remote and flicked off the news, ignoring England’s pout. “I want to see the footie results, don’t you?”
Notes:
- There is nothing special about the Dragon Mother or her name. I made it up on the spot. Most English folk law is like that.
- I couldn't find anyone who spoke Scots-Gaelic, let alone a translator online. The language is that unused. But if Scotland got his independence, I bet he'd love to have a language all of his own.
Part 9