[Fic Fill] Telephone
Aug. 27th, 2010 01:10 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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hetaliasunshineTITLE: Telephone
AUTHOR/ARTIST:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iroh_fancier
RECIPIENT:pyrrhiccomedy
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: America, Russia, Richard Nixon, Alexei Kosygin
RATING: PG for language
NOTES: The prompt was Russia and America prank calling each other using the DC-Moscow "Red Phone Line." I... don't know how their respective bosses got to play such a huge part, and I apologize for not writing either of them very well. But, since it's a comedy fic, I figured scrupulous attention to the behavior of historical personages wasn't as important as bringing the funny. I hope you find it funny.
SUMMARY: Russia and America abuse their phone privileges.
America wasn’t even supposed to be in the Oval Office that morning. In fact, he’d been barred from the presidential chamber in his boss’ absence altogether, Tricky Dick not having particularly appreciated the army of origami dinosaurs America had created with his stationery last month. America frowned as he swiveled in Nixon’s chair. Trying to convince his boss that they were good will gifts for “our former enemy, Japan” hadn’t worked, either. Neither had holding one up and saying, “This is a diplodocus.” The guy really had no sense of humor. He bet FDR would’ve laughed. Teddy, definitely.
But it wasn’t like America had sneaked into the President’s inner sanctum just to play with his office supplies (although his paperclips made the best wire sculptures ever, for some reason). Not at all, he reminded himself as he inked a caricature of England on the end of a pink eraser.
He was here to keep the world safe for democracy.
On the President’s desk, just a few inches away from his blotter and the really awesome metal pens that he was always scolding America for touching, sat two telephones. One was normal. You could even call for a pizza on it, as America had found out shortly before his first ban from the room.
The other was anything but normal, seeing as was a direct line not only to Moscow, but to a certain cold, pale, fat and all-around unhinged asshole named Russia and his boss, whose sense of humor was even worse than Dick’s.
America clipped the finished wire dog onto the rim of Nixon’s coffee mug and turned his attention to this phone. “The Red Line,” he said and frowned. Why the guys at Harris couldn’t have made it red to match that fat commie’s stupid flag he’d never understand. But anyway, red or not, someone had to watch it while his boss was having lunch with France and his boss, or whoever was in town right now. Who knew if one of the bastard’s people, or even his unfunny chairman might call with some stupid complaint, like why there were missiles in Turkey or why it was always cold and stupid in Moscow, or whatever. And if they did while his boss was out listening to France insult the chardonnay, well, damn it, America would be the hero and pick up.
The only problem was that just watching the phone was really, really boring. Sighing, America tugged open one of the desk’s many drawers and rummaged around inside. When his fingers touched paper he grinned and pulled it out into the light. Ahh, yes! More stationery! His boss wouldn’t miss just a few pieces, would he? Probably not.
As America sneaked one of the metal pens out of its holder, however, the Red Line rang causing the young Nation to jerk back in alarm and the forbidden pen to… well… kind of sail through the air and hit the wall, where it left a silver mark and a splatter of black ink. Wincing, America turned his attention to the phone. “Forget that, champ,” he told himself. “You’ve got more important things to worry about now than a little spilled ink.” His hand shook just a little as it lifted the phone out of the cradle.
“Yeah?”
“President Nixon?” The voice on the other end was dark, heavy and cold as a Russian winter. It didn’t sound like Chairman Kosygin, or anyone on his board for that matter. America shrugged. Maybe the guy had a cold or something.
“This is America. What d’ya want, buddy?”
The voice on the other end chuckled. “I want to speak to a leader, Amerika. Not a child.”
America felt his cheeks and neck get hot. “Hey now, mister, there’s no need for that. My boss is, uh—” America glanced out the window, his mind scrambling for an excuse that didn’t sound lame. “He’s out reviewing our new awesome missiles right now”—yeah, that was the stuff! “—and he’s left me in charge here. So if you got something to say, you can tell me, OK?”
The man chuckled again, making America want to hit him right in the commie mouth. “He is reviewing your new missiles, you say?”
“Yeah,” America said testily, narrowly refraining from adding, “you wanna make something of it?” Colloquialisms like that, his boss had often cautioned, could be seen as an unintentional declaration of war, which would be both unconstitutional and a really, really bad idea.
“Good. Very good. You will be needing them soon enough.”
America felt his pulse kick up a notch, like someone had just shifted it into second. “Huh?”
“You remember, Amerika, the visit former Secretary Khrushchev paid to your country?”
“Which one?”
“The one where you forbade him from going to the happiest place on earth.”
America sighed. “Look, we told him again and again, we just couldn’t get that kind of security on the ground. It wasn’t personal or anything.” And it hadn’t been, but that hadn’t stopped America from talking about the wonders of Disney World whenever Russia was in ear shot for the rest of that visit.
“We disagree. For years now, we have tried to get your government to award our honored comrade with a posthumous membership in the Mickey Mouse Club and his own set of rodent ears.”
“Well, look,” America said, “It’s not like I don’t care”—though he totally didn’t—”But we can’t just give those things out like Hershey’s bars at Halloween, you know? Being part of the club’s a big honor—like being one of England’s knights or a Swiss Guard. Hell, even I don’t have one,” he added bitterly. “And I can sing the song better than half those stupid kids they’ve got on the show n—”
“Enough!” The cold voice barked, causing America to jump. “We are tired of your government’s excuses, capitalist pig!”
“Hey, hey! There’s no reason to call names, now!”
“Our scientists have devised a new nuclear missile—medium-long range, fast, able to hit a very specific target. Its guidance system is programmed by our fun-seeking technology. Am I being clear, Amerika?”
America had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hoped it was just because he’d been a hero and gone without lunch. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“Your corrupt and vacuous Western lifestyle really has made you stupid,” the voice grumbled. “In five minutes, we will launch these missiles for Disneyworld.”
It felt like the floor had just dropped out of the room. America placed a hand on the blotter to steady himself. “What?”
“In T-minus four minutes and 52 seconds we will annihilate your happiest place on earth!”
“N-no! You can’t! There are families there! Kids! The Tiki Room!”
“T-minus four minutes and 45 seconds.”
America dug his nails into the blotter and tried to keep the room from spinning faster than his thoughts. “Now hold on! Can’t we talk this out?”
“Oh, I’m afraid the time for talking is long past, my friend. As our late, great chairman once told you, ‘We will bury you!’”
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” America cried, knowing full well that he sounded young and terrified and no longer caring. “I mean…anything?”
The voice on the other end was silent for so long that America thought the line had gone dead or he just hadn’t heard the man hang up.
“Hello?!”
“Da. There is something you can do. If you want to save your precious Disneyworld, you must say ‘I love blini.’”
America blinked. “Huh?”
“You know. Crepes.”
Another blink. “Uh.”
“Pancakes, Amerika.”
Oh, so that was the rusky word for pancakes, huh? Well, it seemed easy enough. “I-I love blini.”
“I love borscht.”
America made a face. He most certainly did not love Russia’s beet soup. He’d had to eat a whole bowl of it the last time he’d had to go visit Russia and his boss, and as far as he was concerned, it tasted like ass. Still, being a hero called for some sacrifices. “I love borscht.”
The voice chuckled. “Very good. Now, say ‘Better red than dead.’”
America felt his jaw drop at least five inches. “Oh, now, you’ve gotta be kidding.”
“T-minus three minutes and—”
“All right! All right!” Make that a lot of sacrifices. America swallowed, reminding himself that this was ultimately for the good of his people. The good of democracy. The good of Pirates of the Caribbean. “Betterredthandead.”
“Nyet, Amerika. Say it properly. Slowly.”
“Oh come ON!”
“T-minus—”
“OK, fine. Better red than dead. There. Are you happy.”
“N-not quite. Say ‘I love Das Kapital.”
“Huh?” The voice on the other end was changing. It sounded higher now, as if the deepness was being forced.
“S-say, ‘I love the proletariat!’”
America frowned. “Who is this?”
“Sing the Internationale!” The voice broke into a high-pitched, childish giggle. America’s stomach turned over.
“Russia,” he said archly.
“Kfufufufufufufu! Got you, America!”
“What the hell, you fat commie freak!”
Russia continued to laugh. America could distinctly hear the sound of him pounding the desk as he did, too. “R-really, America. I made my prank so easy! An unauthorized launch. Fun-seeking missiles.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular Red Skelton. Look, I’m going now. I’m a real busy guy and you just wasted half my lunch break.”
“Oh, I am so sorry to keep you away from your precious hamburgers!” Russia’s voice dissolved into another fit of giggles. Swearing again, America slammed the phone back into its cradle.
“Great,” he snarled. His whole day really was ruined now thanks to that overgrown Red freak. And he’d missed lunch. Today was the cafeteria’s hamburger day, too.
Hamburgers. Hm…
America’s gaze turned from the Red Line to the other phone on his boss’ desk. “Oh, this is war now, Ivan,” he murmured.
***
One day later, Russia strode into his boss’ office at the Kremlin still giggling from time to time over the success of his prank. Upon finding Kosygin’s desk empty, his grin widened. Hopefully the Chairman’s meeting would last long enough for him to craft at least a few paper airplanes out of his stationery, he thought as he eased his bulk into his boss’ chair. He had just started on the first one when the DC to Moscow phone on the edge of the desk rang.
Russia’s fingers hesitated in the middle of the crease. On the one hand, he thought, it would be so very like cute little America to call back the next day to tell him off. On the other, America’s not very cute boss might really need to talk to the Chairman—who would be very unhappy if Russia was wasting office supplies instead of minding the phone. Sighing, Russia put the paper aside and picked up the phone. “This is Russia.”
Silence.
Russia frowned. “Hello?”
“Hey, asshole. Is your refrigerator running?”
“Amerika?”
“Well, you better go catch it. Ahahahahahaha!”
“Amerika, that’s a very silly joke, even for you.”
“Oh yeah? Well when you see the bill you just racked up, you’re gonna feel even sillier.”
“What?” Russia frowned again. “Amerika, what are you—?”
The doors to the office burst open and Kosygin stormed in, looking more angry than Russia had seen him in years.
Russia hung up instantly and jumped to his feet. “Comrade Kosygin!”
The Chairman’s gaze traveled to the half-formed paper airplane. “So, Russia, you are not content to merely waste the CCCP’s office supplies, you must now waste the people’s money on decadent Western food?”
Russia shook his head. “I-I don’t understand, sir. I ate a modest lunch of cabbage soup and brown bread, as any good soviet should.”
“Oh?” Russia jumped as Kosygin slammed his palm onto the desk, crushing the paper airplane. “Then why, comrade, did an airplane just land thirty minutes ago with a hanger full of hamburgers?”
“What?”
“And when the American pilot was questioned, he said that a Mr. Russia had ordered the cargo, and that they must be delivered to him only.”
“But-but—there has been a mistake! I do not like any of Amerika’s food. Especially not his hamburgers!” And then the realization hit. “This is one of Amerika’s little jokes, sir. He thinks this is an amusing revenge for—”
“Yes?”
Russia swallowed, remembering then as well what his boss had said about appropriate and inappropriate usage of the so-called ‘Red Line.’ “Um…”
“Russia, have you used the most important communication tool between us and Washington, D.C. to antagonize Nixon’s Nation? Again?”
“It isn’t like that!” Russia cried, flailing his hands. “This-this is just one of Amerika’s
little jokes, as I said! He thinks these kinds of things are funny! To force us to pay for his useless goods in order to suggest that capitalism is superior to—”
The DC-Moscow line rang again.
Kosygin held up a hand as Russia reached for it and answered himself, without saying hello.
America’s laughter was loud enough for Russia to hear on the other side of the desk.
“Hahahahahahaha! Take that you commie bastard! You thought that prank was hot shit, huh? Well, I hope you like two tons of good USDA beef!”
“Who is this?”
A continent away America gulped and nearly dropped the phone. “O-oh! Ch-chairman Kosygin! Um. Ah.”
“Yes?”
“I-well, um, I—haha. The funny thing is, the phone rang just a few minutes ago and I was the only one here who—um…ah…Dammit, HE STARTED IT! Your Nation called me yesterday with some kooky story about fun-seeking missiles and Disneyworld, and—”
Someone lifted the receiver from his hand. Eyes widening, America looked up and found his boss towering over him, his expression not at all amused.
“…oh shit…”
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” the President said before raising the receiver to his ear. “This is Richard Nixon, Mr. Kosygin. …Yes. Yes, I am aware of the situation. It looks like my Nation’s love of a good joke got a little out of hand. Seems yours did the same, too, if all that babbling about missiles and Disneyworld meant anything. Yes. Yes. Mhm. My apologies, Mr. Chairman. Of course we’d be happy to pay for the hamburgers.” He shot a glare at America, who cowered in the chair. “No trouble at all! Consider it a gift from the American people to the Kremlin. You’ll be able to eat for a week with no cost to the Soviet state. Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Chairman. This will not happen again. Good day to you, as well.”
Nixon replaced the phone in its cradle and turned his attention to America, his arms akimbo.
“You don’t understand, sir!” America cried. “I was just watching the Line yesterday when that big Red jerk called and said he was gonna blow up—Ow!” He rubbed the top of his head and glared at his boss. “What’d ya do that for?”
“That’s for wasting my office supplies, breaking one of my favorite pens, and nearly causing an international incident,” the President said as he pulled the chair out from behind his desk. “I thought a warning would be enough, but I guess I was wrong. No more Red Line for you, son.”
“Can I at least come in sometimes and play with the paperclips?”
“No more paperclips, either.”
America pouted.
AUTHOR/ARTIST:
iroh_fancier RECIPIENT:
pyrrhiccomedyCHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: America, Russia, Richard Nixon, Alexei Kosygin
RATING: PG for language
NOTES: The prompt was Russia and America prank calling each other using the DC-Moscow "Red Phone Line." I... don't know how their respective bosses got to play such a huge part, and I apologize for not writing either of them very well. But, since it's a comedy fic, I figured scrupulous attention to the behavior of historical personages wasn't as important as bringing the funny. I hope you find it funny.
SUMMARY: Russia and America abuse their phone privileges.
America wasn’t even supposed to be in the Oval Office that morning. In fact, he’d been barred from the presidential chamber in his boss’ absence altogether, Tricky Dick not having particularly appreciated the army of origami dinosaurs America had created with his stationery last month. America frowned as he swiveled in Nixon’s chair. Trying to convince his boss that they were good will gifts for “our former enemy, Japan” hadn’t worked, either. Neither had holding one up and saying, “This is a diplodocus.” The guy really had no sense of humor. He bet FDR would’ve laughed. Teddy, definitely.
But it wasn’t like America had sneaked into the President’s inner sanctum just to play with his office supplies (although his paperclips made the best wire sculptures ever, for some reason). Not at all, he reminded himself as he inked a caricature of England on the end of a pink eraser.
He was here to keep the world safe for democracy.
On the President’s desk, just a few inches away from his blotter and the really awesome metal pens that he was always scolding America for touching, sat two telephones. One was normal. You could even call for a pizza on it, as America had found out shortly before his first ban from the room.
The other was anything but normal, seeing as was a direct line not only to Moscow, but to a certain cold, pale, fat and all-around unhinged asshole named Russia and his boss, whose sense of humor was even worse than Dick’s.
America clipped the finished wire dog onto the rim of Nixon’s coffee mug and turned his attention to this phone. “The Red Line,” he said and frowned. Why the guys at Harris couldn’t have made it red to match that fat commie’s stupid flag he’d never understand. But anyway, red or not, someone had to watch it while his boss was having lunch with France and his boss, or whoever was in town right now. Who knew if one of the bastard’s people, or even his unfunny chairman might call with some stupid complaint, like why there were missiles in Turkey or why it was always cold and stupid in Moscow, or whatever. And if they did while his boss was out listening to France insult the chardonnay, well, damn it, America would be the hero and pick up.
The only problem was that just watching the phone was really, really boring. Sighing, America tugged open one of the desk’s many drawers and rummaged around inside. When his fingers touched paper he grinned and pulled it out into the light. Ahh, yes! More stationery! His boss wouldn’t miss just a few pieces, would he? Probably not.
As America sneaked one of the metal pens out of its holder, however, the Red Line rang causing the young Nation to jerk back in alarm and the forbidden pen to… well… kind of sail through the air and hit the wall, where it left a silver mark and a splatter of black ink. Wincing, America turned his attention to the phone. “Forget that, champ,” he told himself. “You’ve got more important things to worry about now than a little spilled ink.” His hand shook just a little as it lifted the phone out of the cradle.
“Yeah?”
“President Nixon?” The voice on the other end was dark, heavy and cold as a Russian winter. It didn’t sound like Chairman Kosygin, or anyone on his board for that matter. America shrugged. Maybe the guy had a cold or something.
“This is America. What d’ya want, buddy?”
The voice on the other end chuckled. “I want to speak to a leader, Amerika. Not a child.”
America felt his cheeks and neck get hot. “Hey now, mister, there’s no need for that. My boss is, uh—” America glanced out the window, his mind scrambling for an excuse that didn’t sound lame. “He’s out reviewing our new awesome missiles right now”—yeah, that was the stuff! “—and he’s left me in charge here. So if you got something to say, you can tell me, OK?”
The man chuckled again, making America want to hit him right in the commie mouth. “He is reviewing your new missiles, you say?”
“Yeah,” America said testily, narrowly refraining from adding, “you wanna make something of it?” Colloquialisms like that, his boss had often cautioned, could be seen as an unintentional declaration of war, which would be both unconstitutional and a really, really bad idea.
“Good. Very good. You will be needing them soon enough.”
America felt his pulse kick up a notch, like someone had just shifted it into second. “Huh?”
“You remember, Amerika, the visit former Secretary Khrushchev paid to your country?”
“Which one?”
“The one where you forbade him from going to the happiest place on earth.”
America sighed. “Look, we told him again and again, we just couldn’t get that kind of security on the ground. It wasn’t personal or anything.” And it hadn’t been, but that hadn’t stopped America from talking about the wonders of Disney World whenever Russia was in ear shot for the rest of that visit.
“We disagree. For years now, we have tried to get your government to award our honored comrade with a posthumous membership in the Mickey Mouse Club and his own set of rodent ears.”
“Well, look,” America said, “It’s not like I don’t care”—though he totally didn’t—”But we can’t just give those things out like Hershey’s bars at Halloween, you know? Being part of the club’s a big honor—like being one of England’s knights or a Swiss Guard. Hell, even I don’t have one,” he added bitterly. “And I can sing the song better than half those stupid kids they’ve got on the show n—”
“Enough!” The cold voice barked, causing America to jump. “We are tired of your government’s excuses, capitalist pig!”
“Hey, hey! There’s no reason to call names, now!”
“Our scientists have devised a new nuclear missile—medium-long range, fast, able to hit a very specific target. Its guidance system is programmed by our fun-seeking technology. Am I being clear, Amerika?”
America had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hoped it was just because he’d been a hero and gone without lunch. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“Your corrupt and vacuous Western lifestyle really has made you stupid,” the voice grumbled. “In five minutes, we will launch these missiles for Disneyworld.”
It felt like the floor had just dropped out of the room. America placed a hand on the blotter to steady himself. “What?”
“In T-minus four minutes and 52 seconds we will annihilate your happiest place on earth!”
“N-no! You can’t! There are families there! Kids! The Tiki Room!”
“T-minus four minutes and 45 seconds.”
America dug his nails into the blotter and tried to keep the room from spinning faster than his thoughts. “Now hold on! Can’t we talk this out?”
“Oh, I’m afraid the time for talking is long past, my friend. As our late, great chairman once told you, ‘We will bury you!’”
“Isn’t there anything I can do?” America cried, knowing full well that he sounded young and terrified and no longer caring. “I mean…anything?”
The voice on the other end was silent for so long that America thought the line had gone dead or he just hadn’t heard the man hang up.
“Hello?!”
“Da. There is something you can do. If you want to save your precious Disneyworld, you must say ‘I love blini.’”
America blinked. “Huh?”
“You know. Crepes.”
Another blink. “Uh.”
“Pancakes, Amerika.”
Oh, so that was the rusky word for pancakes, huh? Well, it seemed easy enough. “I-I love blini.”
“I love borscht.”
America made a face. He most certainly did not love Russia’s beet soup. He’d had to eat a whole bowl of it the last time he’d had to go visit Russia and his boss, and as far as he was concerned, it tasted like ass. Still, being a hero called for some sacrifices. “I love borscht.”
The voice chuckled. “Very good. Now, say ‘Better red than dead.’”
America felt his jaw drop at least five inches. “Oh, now, you’ve gotta be kidding.”
“T-minus three minutes and—”
“All right! All right!” Make that a lot of sacrifices. America swallowed, reminding himself that this was ultimately for the good of his people. The good of democracy. The good of Pirates of the Caribbean. “Betterredthandead.”
“Nyet, Amerika. Say it properly. Slowly.”
“Oh come ON!”
“T-minus—”
“OK, fine. Better red than dead. There. Are you happy.”
“N-not quite. Say ‘I love Das Kapital.”
“Huh?” The voice on the other end was changing. It sounded higher now, as if the deepness was being forced.
“S-say, ‘I love the proletariat!’”
America frowned. “Who is this?”
“Sing the Internationale!” The voice broke into a high-pitched, childish giggle. America’s stomach turned over.
“Russia,” he said archly.
“Kfufufufufufufu! Got you, America!”
“What the hell, you fat commie freak!”
Russia continued to laugh. America could distinctly hear the sound of him pounding the desk as he did, too. “R-really, America. I made my prank so easy! An unauthorized launch. Fun-seeking missiles.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular Red Skelton. Look, I’m going now. I’m a real busy guy and you just wasted half my lunch break.”
“Oh, I am so sorry to keep you away from your precious hamburgers!” Russia’s voice dissolved into another fit of giggles. Swearing again, America slammed the phone back into its cradle.
“Great,” he snarled. His whole day really was ruined now thanks to that overgrown Red freak. And he’d missed lunch. Today was the cafeteria’s hamburger day, too.
Hamburgers. Hm…
America’s gaze turned from the Red Line to the other phone on his boss’ desk. “Oh, this is war now, Ivan,” he murmured.
***
One day later, Russia strode into his boss’ office at the Kremlin still giggling from time to time over the success of his prank. Upon finding Kosygin’s desk empty, his grin widened. Hopefully the Chairman’s meeting would last long enough for him to craft at least a few paper airplanes out of his stationery, he thought as he eased his bulk into his boss’ chair. He had just started on the first one when the DC to Moscow phone on the edge of the desk rang.
Russia’s fingers hesitated in the middle of the crease. On the one hand, he thought, it would be so very like cute little America to call back the next day to tell him off. On the other, America’s not very cute boss might really need to talk to the Chairman—who would be very unhappy if Russia was wasting office supplies instead of minding the phone. Sighing, Russia put the paper aside and picked up the phone. “This is Russia.”
Silence.
Russia frowned. “Hello?”
“Hey, asshole. Is your refrigerator running?”
“Amerika?”
“Well, you better go catch it. Ahahahahahaha!”
“Amerika, that’s a very silly joke, even for you.”
“Oh yeah? Well when you see the bill you just racked up, you’re gonna feel even sillier.”
“What?” Russia frowned again. “Amerika, what are you—?”
The doors to the office burst open and Kosygin stormed in, looking more angry than Russia had seen him in years.
Russia hung up instantly and jumped to his feet. “Comrade Kosygin!”
The Chairman’s gaze traveled to the half-formed paper airplane. “So, Russia, you are not content to merely waste the CCCP’s office supplies, you must now waste the people’s money on decadent Western food?”
Russia shook his head. “I-I don’t understand, sir. I ate a modest lunch of cabbage soup and brown bread, as any good soviet should.”
“Oh?” Russia jumped as Kosygin slammed his palm onto the desk, crushing the paper airplane. “Then why, comrade, did an airplane just land thirty minutes ago with a hanger full of hamburgers?”
“What?”
“And when the American pilot was questioned, he said that a Mr. Russia had ordered the cargo, and that they must be delivered to him only.”
“But-but—there has been a mistake! I do not like any of Amerika’s food. Especially not his hamburgers!” And then the realization hit. “This is one of Amerika’s little jokes, sir. He thinks this is an amusing revenge for—”
“Yes?”
Russia swallowed, remembering then as well what his boss had said about appropriate and inappropriate usage of the so-called ‘Red Line.’ “Um…”
“Russia, have you used the most important communication tool between us and Washington, D.C. to antagonize Nixon’s Nation? Again?”
“It isn’t like that!” Russia cried, flailing his hands. “This-this is just one of Amerika’s
little jokes, as I said! He thinks these kinds of things are funny! To force us to pay for his useless goods in order to suggest that capitalism is superior to—”
The DC-Moscow line rang again.
Kosygin held up a hand as Russia reached for it and answered himself, without saying hello.
America’s laughter was loud enough for Russia to hear on the other side of the desk.
“Hahahahahahaha! Take that you commie bastard! You thought that prank was hot shit, huh? Well, I hope you like two tons of good USDA beef!”
“Who is this?”
A continent away America gulped and nearly dropped the phone. “O-oh! Ch-chairman Kosygin! Um. Ah.”
“Yes?”
“I-well, um, I—haha. The funny thing is, the phone rang just a few minutes ago and I was the only one here who—um…ah…Dammit, HE STARTED IT! Your Nation called me yesterday with some kooky story about fun-seeking missiles and Disneyworld, and—”
Someone lifted the receiver from his hand. Eyes widening, America looked up and found his boss towering over him, his expression not at all amused.
“…oh shit…”
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” the President said before raising the receiver to his ear. “This is Richard Nixon, Mr. Kosygin. …Yes. Yes, I am aware of the situation. It looks like my Nation’s love of a good joke got a little out of hand. Seems yours did the same, too, if all that babbling about missiles and Disneyworld meant anything. Yes. Yes. Mhm. My apologies, Mr. Chairman. Of course we’d be happy to pay for the hamburgers.” He shot a glare at America, who cowered in the chair. “No trouble at all! Consider it a gift from the American people to the Kremlin. You’ll be able to eat for a week with no cost to the Soviet state. Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Chairman. This will not happen again. Good day to you, as well.”
Nixon replaced the phone in its cradle and turned his attention to America, his arms akimbo.
“You don’t understand, sir!” America cried. “I was just watching the Line yesterday when that big Red jerk called and said he was gonna blow up—Ow!” He rubbed the top of his head and glared at his boss. “What’d ya do that for?”
“That’s for wasting my office supplies, breaking one of my favorite pens, and nearly causing an international incident,” the President said as he pulled the chair out from behind his desk. “I thought a warning would be enough, but I guess I was wrong. No more Red Line for you, son.”
“Can I at least come in sometimes and play with the paperclips?”
“No more paperclips, either.”
America pouted.
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