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It's the ropes and the reins and the joy and the pain and they call the thing rodeo~
Title: Chocolate-Covered Bacon
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz, kept track of at historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, England, France, Spain, Mexico
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: Bull-riding, tractor pulling and Monster trucks
posted here
America was dirty.
He was dressed in a black t-shirt that was covered in mud and blood and sweat. His hair was rucked, his glasses broken and his jeans were torn. There was a gash running up his left side. His rough leather gloves were in poor shape. One was torn off and the other had slipped off when he’d been thrown. His boots were cracked.
He was panting, breathing so hard and trying to see as best he could. Someone called out to him and he rolled, up, dodge. He could hear thundering feet. The stench of blood and rage was in the air. There was screaming too—screaming. He blasted passed a dark blur, barreling through the mud and climbing—trying to get to the fence—
Something stabbed him—he had a pretty good idea of what it was—but a shout cracked through his throat anyway.
Across the mud, Spain roared, “Move, you stupid American!”
England’s fingers dug into his slacks.
Color splashed America’s vision and suddenly, the thing that had hit him jerked back. He fell to the dirt and swearing, climbed up.
“Alfred!” Canada’s voice.
America’s eyes jerked to the side and his hand flashed out, instinctive, bloody fingers wrapping around a thick line of hemp. A coil of rope and he grinned.
There was blood in his teeth. Unstoppable.
The screaming rose to a roar. His boots chopped the dirt. The air was heavy with heat and steel. His blood soaked into the rope. He surged.
Canada jerked the reigns and his horse wheeled. “Hyah!” He rose up in his saddle, raised a booted foot and raced back towards America—America who was running like the wind (Bullseye!) and he whipped his rope up and threw.
America threw his at the same time. Canada hooked the throat and the bull bellowed and jerked. Canada was flung right off the horse like America had been. But he kept tight hold of his rope when he hit the dirt with a bone-crunching sound.
America’s rope got the horns. He hauled on it when Canada fell. His boots slid through the dirt and he nearly fell—but the animal turned, narrowly missing trampling his brother. Those horns were coming at him again—
And suddenly, he couldn’t hear the crowd at all. Just silence. The sunshine golden, making Canada’s hair glimmer and the dust shine. The bull was angry and it was set to gore him—
His hands moved before he could think too much on that—grabbed heavy, hard horns. The animal lifted him right off the ground. Canada was trying to get up, the rope got tangled in the bull’s legs and snapped. He whipped around and sang out.
The rodeo clowns—the bullfighters, as they were called—were some of the bravest sonsofbitches in the ring. When the cowboys and riders got caught by the bulls or trampled by horses—the rodeo clowns would come out to put themselves between riders and incredibly angry and unpredictable animals. They wore costumes, often as clowns, but there was nothing funny about them. One of them threw him a new coil of rope. Canada whirled around just in time to see America almost scramble over the animal’s head to get on its back—but then it bucked and threw him off. America hit the dirt and rolled, groaning.
Canada threw a lasso. His arm nearly wrenched right out of socket but he doubled coils of rope around his hands and dug in with boots and pulled. America was up, suddenly, grabbing his rope.
Together, the brothers tethered the beast and brought it down.
The crowd roared and surged and screamed its approval. Canada and America, known only to the crowd as Matthew and Alfred, put arms around each other to limp out of the ring, laughing and singing.
Mexico laughed at them. “You have such problems, the both of you, getting one bull?”
“Fuck you,” America laughed, shaking blood off his hand. “You get to ride a motherfucker next.”
“I’ll get my eight seconds while you are still crying.”
Canada scoffed, made a face at her. “You won’t. Our bulls don’t get tequila before they go out. They’ll be sober. You’ll have to fight for it!”
“Oh, burn!” America high-fived Canada.
Mexico laughed and grinned and thumped both of them. “Better I give them tequila than piss-poor American beer or weak Canadian whiskey.”
They were interrupted of more ribbing by the announcer calling for “Maria Roderiguez” and she called them perros, to which America laughed.
“What’d she call us?”
“Dogs.”
Spain met them when they went to the medic center. England was with him, looking agitated.
“You should just kill the bulls and be done with it—makes for--,” Spain said. “Ah—they’ve called Mexico—I have to go watch!” he turned to run back.
He got back just in time.
Mexico had mounted her bull in the stall. The animal held to keep from throwing her before the gates opened. When the buzzer sounded, it opened.
It was like going into war. Knuckles white, blood rushing, bangs of the bullets, screams of the men--the crowd. Her vision blurred as the animal bucked and reared and jumped and shrieked. Everything whirled. She hung on so tight--so tight--riding him--it made her think of Canada suddenly and she burst out laughing, let go with one hand.
Her hat flew back, clinging to her throat by leather throngs. Dirt flew up into her face, her hair--streaming out black and shiny behind her--whipping back in its ponytail. She whipped in a circle, almost lost her grip--felt her stomach plunge--up and back and down--down.
And then up.
She suddenly flew off, flipping through the air and hitting the dirt. The booming voice of the Loudspeaker God called her time. She didn't hear it. The bull had wheeled around and come after her. She rolled, jumped, was up and running. She could hear the animal--bellowing and roaring after her. Sweat was in her eyes. A rodeo clown zipped between them--distracted the bull for one crucial second--
And she was up and on the fence, climbing to many screams and cheers and applause.
“I cannot believe this is a sport,” England grumbled, rolling his eyes.
“You guys used to impale each other for fun—be glad we cowboys have found other ways to waste our time.” America pulled up his shirt and Canada helped him get it off.
The medic laughed. “Jesus Christ, you boys got a mad one, dinnit ya!”
“Betcher ass we did.” America said proudly.
Canada removed his gloves and hat and glasses. “I thought it was going to crush your skull when you got jerked off the first time.”
“No bull could crush me. I’d have to eat him.” He imitated taking a big bite and then winced, touching his jaw. “Fuck me, that hurts.”
“We’re going to be so sore,” Canada said cheerfully.
“But hey, best team ever, right?” America held out his fist for Canada to bump.
“I’m going to go see where France got off to. You both are mad.”
The medic bandaged them both up and America got his spare set of glasses before they went to see Mexico, who had made it to five seconds before she’d been thrown. Light, agile and fierce, she had outmaneuvered her bull and leapt the fence. Spain was happily congratulating her and she was steadfastly ignoring him. He kept trying though, seeming oblivious to her looks.
America looked at Canada and then jumped in, grabbing Mexico in a headlock and rubbing his knuckles in her hair. “Sorry, Spain, gotta steal her! She said she’d buy us shots!”
“I did not!” she kicked at him as he pulled her away and then elbowed him lightly. “Idiot. But not as big as Spain,” she allowed, “he was stern to everyone except South Italy—fucking Romano, all I ever heard about, ‘Romano this’ and ‘Romano that’ and ‘Romano has a cock’. And Romano just wants to hit him most of the time.” She allowed a medic to come up and put a bandage on a scrape down the side of her face.
“Ain’t that the truth. I think they’re all that way,” America drawled, straightening his torn t-shirt and pulling his wide cowboy hat back on.
“They are,” Canada affirmed, “With France I always heard about England. With England, I always heard about you.”
America had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry.”
Canada punched him in the arm. “You better be.”
America laughed and tackled him. Mexico watched them wrestle.
England found them again when they were getting plastic cups of beer from the concession stand. He didn’t say anything. He just walked with them, arms crossed, looking severely at the bandages on America and Canada.
America rubbed one muscled arm. “Oh, c’mon, Arthur. Don’t get all weird. I invited you because I thought you’d like it.”
Canada snorted. “He did, he’s just pretending he didn’t.”
England started. “Spain loved it. France enjoyed it—he enjoyed it so much that he went to have a talk with one of the woman riders. Suggested she might like one of his sick fetishes.”
“He’ll probably get punched in the face; women riders don’t fuck around,” America laughed. “They put up with a lot of prejudice.”
“How long have women been permitted to ride?” England asked.
“Women have been riding for—about a hundred years,” America said, looking to Canada for confirmation. “Hey, speaking of beef—steaks and burgers tonight?” And smiled at his brother’s nod.
Canada pointed at Mexico. “But you know you’ll want peppers in everything—“
“For once, you are right, Mister Canadian,” Mexico told him, nudging him and smiling at him.
Canada smiled a little foolishly, “We should just go to a restaurant. It’ll be easier.”
“Will we be coming back…?” England tried not to look interested as he waved his dirty program (crumpled in his hands after watching America and Canada wrestle that bull).
“Oh yeah!” America bellowed, grinning and taking off his dirty cowboy hat. “Tractor pulls and monster trucks tonight. It’s gonna be awesome!”
“A tractor pull,” England groused, “I do not see how something like…farming equipment could be so amazing.”
America waved a hand. “Wait til you see it, old man.”
And then a group of older men and who must have undoubtedly been their daughters came up to talk to them. England took a step back to watch. America handled himself so easily with his people, cheerful and happy. Canada was not nearly so shy around humans. He spoke to the girls—rather oblivious in how they giggled over him—and then the older men confidently. And all the men had something to say to Mexico, her amazing ride on the bull they had all seen.
England started. Apparently, there was technique to this. Not just blind running and reckless, stupid courage. It took real guts and real knowledge. America, Canada and Mexico had all basically raised themselves to know animals. American cowboys and Mexican riders and Canadian mountain men. While bull riding descended from Spanish bull fighting, each had taken the competition and made it a display of skills. Strength, courage, accuracy with ropes and, of course, ability when it came to dangerous steers, wild bulls and uncontrollable horses—all animals capable of killing a man, whether he be trampled or gored, in mere seconds. It was incredibly dangerous.
It was like sex. Heat and adrenaline and sweat. Muscle and grinding teeth--England swallowed hard, watching his boys--yelling and blurred vision and some blood, ropes and leather and some chains too--blond hair and rolling eyes--
France said, “Well, they certainly have a following, yes?”
England jumped a little and swore at him. “Did you get what you wanted?” he sneered, looking pointedly in a different direction.
France laughed and scratched his ear. “She threatened to hit me for toying with her. These women are not like European women.”
England rolled his eyes. “What was your first clue? You would never see an Italian woman mount a horse like that.”
“Her heels would not survive. I have to say though…while I will always love the style and beauty of European women, there is something attractive about these sorts of women too.”
“Just say they remind you of Joan and be done with it,” England snapped.
“They don’t remind you of Bess?”
“It is not your place to call her with such familiarity, frog. She’s Elizabeth, to you. And she could ride a horse and often did.”
Spain found them suddenly and interrupted. “Oh, my beautiful little Maria!” He grabbed onto Mexico and tried to hug her. “You did so well on the bulls! You should come back to Spain and do it for—“
She slugged him. “Get off! You fucking Spanish dog!”
America leaned over to Canada and told him what she’d said, snickering.
Spain blinked. Then he smiled and looked at the older men. “Hallo, are you here to admire my Maria?”
“I’m not yours, you bastard!”
“Sounds like she ain’t yers,” said one of the men. “I reckon if she could stay on a bull for five seconds, she could crush you too.”
“You know they have chocolate-covered bacon on the fairgrounds?” said one a younger man, who had just approached, looking confused. “The hell they gon’ and done that for?”
This seemed to distract everyone, except France, who audibly gagged.
America laughed. “I kinda wanna try that.”
“Do they have any with chili peppers?”
“Ugh,” Canada said, looking repulsed. “Chili peppers and chocolate?”
“That’s actually really good,” America put in, as they turned to head onto the fair grounds.
Mexico shoved Canada. “You’re about to go eat chocolate and bacon and you’re disgusted with peppers? I think your head is empty.”
England and France looked at each other. France pointed at him. “This is your fault. They are so weird because of you.”
“Shut up!” England elbowed him. When they caught up to the three young nations, England asked, “Do you really eat chocolate and peppers?”
America laughed. “You know, as much as you guys like to pretend that I have no culture and that I am somehow not multicultural—I actually know a good damn deal about stuff that you guys are too stiff to touch. I’ll try just about anything.”
“But it’s okay for Europeans to only want to eat their own food when they’re abroad—but when we’re abroad, we get insulted for not wanting to try their food.” Canada laughed. “Although I’m not sure chocolate-covered bacon qualifies as food.”
Their elders shifted a little and went quiet. They watched the three young nations try chocolate-covered bacon. Mexico said it was too bland, Canada and America chewed thoroughly before America said, “You know…it’s weird but…it’s not that bad. I mean, I wouldn’t buy it again but…”
Given that they were in America’s southwest, they went to a locally owned Mexican restaurant. Mexico shut up any comments that Spain made about it and ordered all of her food with peppers and onions. England almost went the safe route and ordered a salad but after watching America peruse the menu and order something he had never had before, he straightened his back and got a wet burrito and elbowed France hard when he started to make a comment about it.
That night, they returned to the grounds where the tractor pulls were started. Farming tractors that usually ran with a hundred fifty to two hundred horse power, souped up with two thousand horse power. Before these machines, America remembered going to see horse pulls. Teams of horses would compete, pulling hundreds of pounds in competitions for money. This was just the modern version.
England was surprisingly engaged in this. America was careful not to point it out because he knew if he did, England would go back to acting like he wasn’t interested. But when the American looked over, he saw England watching very closely. France and Spain, on the other hand, were bored so America gave them some money and told them to go to the “fun house”.
The monster trucks came last and there was a break where a local rock band performed while the junk cars were set up.
Maybe it was the wholesale destruction of formally functioning vehicles but when France and Spain returned, railing at America for sending them to a haunted house tour, England ignored them. He watched gigantic trunks stomping over junk Hondas and Toyotas and Fords and Chevrolets. Wheels as big as England was tall, throwing dirt and mud and blasting fire and sparks. He listened to the crowd roar and applaud. Watched another truck come out that was decked out to look like a it had horns and flesh like a Triceratops, blast up a man-made barrier and slam down onto a bed of smaller cars. One that had the Bat signal painted on the side bellow its way through the dirt, pop on its wheels and jump. Another that belonged to the United States Air Force, flag streaming off the back, performed its own course.
By the time it was over, his program was torn and he was watching, totally entranced.
America and Canada raised their beers, bandages streaked with grime and dirt. Mexico thumped both of them in the sides. “Oowowow!” America bowed over and Canada held his side. “We were hurt doing extreme sports, y’know!”
“I know,” said Mexico, “think it’s about time we went back—before traffic closes us in.”
Back at the hotel, America and Canada put their arms over each others shoulders and they staggered off to their room together, laughing and discussing the match.
England watched them, looking slightly fond. His boys were crazy.
France leaned over his shoulder. “Why don’t we get along that well?”
England elbowed him. “Belt up, frog.”
Mexico shoved Spain away from her and went to follow the boys, the three of them walked together, leaving their elders behind.
England drew himself up. “Well, to bed then.”
“Admit it, England, you enjoyed it,” Spain grinned, grabbing England and hauling him towards the elevator.
“That’s wishful thinking,” he snapped.
“No,” said France, as the three of them got on together, “I don’t think it is.”
1.Bullriding is part of the rodeo and it is basically descended from Spanish bullfighting. It is very, very popular in the American west, also in Mexico and even Canada. They even used to have competitions that would include riders from all three countries.
2. Tractor pulls are popular in rural areas where agriculture and farming makes up the majority of occupations.
3.And I don't care who you are Monster trucks are awesome. And yes, the US Air Force really does have its own Monster truck.
There were two things that made me want to write this. Firstly, there's this song. It's an American country song which basically sums up what a rodeo is. Haha. American country music is like the equivalent of folk music in every other country.
Secondly, though, my mom has some friends from England (Portsmouth) and they came over to visit us once. Since it was during the summer, we took them to the county fair. And all five of them were totally into the tractor pulls and horse competitions and all that jazz. We were really surprised by how much they liked it.
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, England, France, Spain, Mexico
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, violence
Summary: Bull-riding, tractor pulling and Monster trucks
posted here
America was dirty.
He was dressed in a black t-shirt that was covered in mud and blood and sweat. His hair was rucked, his glasses broken and his jeans were torn. There was a gash running up his left side. His rough leather gloves were in poor shape. One was torn off and the other had slipped off when he’d been thrown. His boots were cracked.
He was panting, breathing so hard and trying to see as best he could. Someone called out to him and he rolled, up, dodge. He could hear thundering feet. The stench of blood and rage was in the air. There was screaming too—screaming. He blasted passed a dark blur, barreling through the mud and climbing—trying to get to the fence—
Something stabbed him—he had a pretty good idea of what it was—but a shout cracked through his throat anyway.
Across the mud, Spain roared, “Move, you stupid American!”
England’s fingers dug into his slacks.
Color splashed America’s vision and suddenly, the thing that had hit him jerked back. He fell to the dirt and swearing, climbed up.
“Alfred!” Canada’s voice.
America’s eyes jerked to the side and his hand flashed out, instinctive, bloody fingers wrapping around a thick line of hemp. A coil of rope and he grinned.
There was blood in his teeth. Unstoppable.
The screaming rose to a roar. His boots chopped the dirt. The air was heavy with heat and steel. His blood soaked into the rope. He surged.
Canada jerked the reigns and his horse wheeled. “Hyah!” He rose up in his saddle, raised a booted foot and raced back towards America—America who was running like the wind (Bullseye!) and he whipped his rope up and threw.
America threw his at the same time. Canada hooked the throat and the bull bellowed and jerked. Canada was flung right off the horse like America had been. But he kept tight hold of his rope when he hit the dirt with a bone-crunching sound.
America’s rope got the horns. He hauled on it when Canada fell. His boots slid through the dirt and he nearly fell—but the animal turned, narrowly missing trampling his brother. Those horns were coming at him again—
And suddenly, he couldn’t hear the crowd at all. Just silence. The sunshine golden, making Canada’s hair glimmer and the dust shine. The bull was angry and it was set to gore him—
His hands moved before he could think too much on that—grabbed heavy, hard horns. The animal lifted him right off the ground. Canada was trying to get up, the rope got tangled in the bull’s legs and snapped. He whipped around and sang out.
The rodeo clowns—the bullfighters, as they were called—were some of the bravest sonsofbitches in the ring. When the cowboys and riders got caught by the bulls or trampled by horses—the rodeo clowns would come out to put themselves between riders and incredibly angry and unpredictable animals. They wore costumes, often as clowns, but there was nothing funny about them. One of them threw him a new coil of rope. Canada whirled around just in time to see America almost scramble over the animal’s head to get on its back—but then it bucked and threw him off. America hit the dirt and rolled, groaning.
Canada threw a lasso. His arm nearly wrenched right out of socket but he doubled coils of rope around his hands and dug in with boots and pulled. America was up, suddenly, grabbing his rope.
Together, the brothers tethered the beast and brought it down.
The crowd roared and surged and screamed its approval. Canada and America, known only to the crowd as Matthew and Alfred, put arms around each other to limp out of the ring, laughing and singing.
Mexico laughed at them. “You have such problems, the both of you, getting one bull?”
“Fuck you,” America laughed, shaking blood off his hand. “You get to ride a motherfucker next.”
“I’ll get my eight seconds while you are still crying.”
Canada scoffed, made a face at her. “You won’t. Our bulls don’t get tequila before they go out. They’ll be sober. You’ll have to fight for it!”
“Oh, burn!” America high-fived Canada.
Mexico laughed and grinned and thumped both of them. “Better I give them tequila than piss-poor American beer or weak Canadian whiskey.”
They were interrupted of more ribbing by the announcer calling for “Maria Roderiguez” and she called them perros, to which America laughed.
“What’d she call us?”
“Dogs.”
Spain met them when they went to the medic center. England was with him, looking agitated.
“You should just kill the bulls and be done with it—makes for--,” Spain said. “Ah—they’ve called Mexico—I have to go watch!” he turned to run back.
He got back just in time.
Mexico had mounted her bull in the stall. The animal held to keep from throwing her before the gates opened. When the buzzer sounded, it opened.
It was like going into war. Knuckles white, blood rushing, bangs of the bullets, screams of the men--the crowd. Her vision blurred as the animal bucked and reared and jumped and shrieked. Everything whirled. She hung on so tight--so tight--riding him--it made her think of Canada suddenly and she burst out laughing, let go with one hand.
Her hat flew back, clinging to her throat by leather throngs. Dirt flew up into her face, her hair--streaming out black and shiny behind her--whipping back in its ponytail. She whipped in a circle, almost lost her grip--felt her stomach plunge--up and back and down--down.
And then up.
She suddenly flew off, flipping through the air and hitting the dirt. The booming voice of the Loudspeaker God called her time. She didn't hear it. The bull had wheeled around and come after her. She rolled, jumped, was up and running. She could hear the animal--bellowing and roaring after her. Sweat was in her eyes. A rodeo clown zipped between them--distracted the bull for one crucial second--
And she was up and on the fence, climbing to many screams and cheers and applause.
“I cannot believe this is a sport,” England grumbled, rolling his eyes.
“You guys used to impale each other for fun—be glad we cowboys have found other ways to waste our time.” America pulled up his shirt and Canada helped him get it off.
The medic laughed. “Jesus Christ, you boys got a mad one, dinnit ya!”
“Betcher ass we did.” America said proudly.
Canada removed his gloves and hat and glasses. “I thought it was going to crush your skull when you got jerked off the first time.”
“No bull could crush me. I’d have to eat him.” He imitated taking a big bite and then winced, touching his jaw. “Fuck me, that hurts.”
“We’re going to be so sore,” Canada said cheerfully.
“But hey, best team ever, right?” America held out his fist for Canada to bump.
“I’m going to go see where France got off to. You both are mad.”
The medic bandaged them both up and America got his spare set of glasses before they went to see Mexico, who had made it to five seconds before she’d been thrown. Light, agile and fierce, she had outmaneuvered her bull and leapt the fence. Spain was happily congratulating her and she was steadfastly ignoring him. He kept trying though, seeming oblivious to her looks.
America looked at Canada and then jumped in, grabbing Mexico in a headlock and rubbing his knuckles in her hair. “Sorry, Spain, gotta steal her! She said she’d buy us shots!”
“I did not!” she kicked at him as he pulled her away and then elbowed him lightly. “Idiot. But not as big as Spain,” she allowed, “he was stern to everyone except South Italy—fucking Romano, all I ever heard about, ‘Romano this’ and ‘Romano that’ and ‘Romano has a cock’. And Romano just wants to hit him most of the time.” She allowed a medic to come up and put a bandage on a scrape down the side of her face.
“Ain’t that the truth. I think they’re all that way,” America drawled, straightening his torn t-shirt and pulling his wide cowboy hat back on.
“They are,” Canada affirmed, “With France I always heard about England. With England, I always heard about you.”
America had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry.”
Canada punched him in the arm. “You better be.”
America laughed and tackled him. Mexico watched them wrestle.
England found them again when they were getting plastic cups of beer from the concession stand. He didn’t say anything. He just walked with them, arms crossed, looking severely at the bandages on America and Canada.
America rubbed one muscled arm. “Oh, c’mon, Arthur. Don’t get all weird. I invited you because I thought you’d like it.”
Canada snorted. “He did, he’s just pretending he didn’t.”
England started. “Spain loved it. France enjoyed it—he enjoyed it so much that he went to have a talk with one of the woman riders. Suggested she might like one of his sick fetishes.”
“He’ll probably get punched in the face; women riders don’t fuck around,” America laughed. “They put up with a lot of prejudice.”
“How long have women been permitted to ride?” England asked.
“Women have been riding for—about a hundred years,” America said, looking to Canada for confirmation. “Hey, speaking of beef—steaks and burgers tonight?” And smiled at his brother’s nod.
Canada pointed at Mexico. “But you know you’ll want peppers in everything—“
“For once, you are right, Mister Canadian,” Mexico told him, nudging him and smiling at him.
Canada smiled a little foolishly, “We should just go to a restaurant. It’ll be easier.”
“Will we be coming back…?” England tried not to look interested as he waved his dirty program (crumpled in his hands after watching America and Canada wrestle that bull).
“Oh yeah!” America bellowed, grinning and taking off his dirty cowboy hat. “Tractor pulls and monster trucks tonight. It’s gonna be awesome!”
“A tractor pull,” England groused, “I do not see how something like…farming equipment could be so amazing.”
America waved a hand. “Wait til you see it, old man.”
And then a group of older men and who must have undoubtedly been their daughters came up to talk to them. England took a step back to watch. America handled himself so easily with his people, cheerful and happy. Canada was not nearly so shy around humans. He spoke to the girls—rather oblivious in how they giggled over him—and then the older men confidently. And all the men had something to say to Mexico, her amazing ride on the bull they had all seen.
England started. Apparently, there was technique to this. Not just blind running and reckless, stupid courage. It took real guts and real knowledge. America, Canada and Mexico had all basically raised themselves to know animals. American cowboys and Mexican riders and Canadian mountain men. While bull riding descended from Spanish bull fighting, each had taken the competition and made it a display of skills. Strength, courage, accuracy with ropes and, of course, ability when it came to dangerous steers, wild bulls and uncontrollable horses—all animals capable of killing a man, whether he be trampled or gored, in mere seconds. It was incredibly dangerous.
It was like sex. Heat and adrenaline and sweat. Muscle and grinding teeth--England swallowed hard, watching his boys--yelling and blurred vision and some blood, ropes and leather and some chains too--blond hair and rolling eyes--
France said, “Well, they certainly have a following, yes?”
England jumped a little and swore at him. “Did you get what you wanted?” he sneered, looking pointedly in a different direction.
France laughed and scratched his ear. “She threatened to hit me for toying with her. These women are not like European women.”
England rolled his eyes. “What was your first clue? You would never see an Italian woman mount a horse like that.”
“Her heels would not survive. I have to say though…while I will always love the style and beauty of European women, there is something attractive about these sorts of women too.”
“Just say they remind you of Joan and be done with it,” England snapped.
“They don’t remind you of Bess?”
“It is not your place to call her with such familiarity, frog. She’s Elizabeth, to you. And she could ride a horse and often did.”
Spain found them suddenly and interrupted. “Oh, my beautiful little Maria!” He grabbed onto Mexico and tried to hug her. “You did so well on the bulls! You should come back to Spain and do it for—“
She slugged him. “Get off! You fucking Spanish dog!”
America leaned over to Canada and told him what she’d said, snickering.
Spain blinked. Then he smiled and looked at the older men. “Hallo, are you here to admire my Maria?”
“I’m not yours, you bastard!”
“Sounds like she ain’t yers,” said one of the men. “I reckon if she could stay on a bull for five seconds, she could crush you too.”
“You know they have chocolate-covered bacon on the fairgrounds?” said one a younger man, who had just approached, looking confused. “The hell they gon’ and done that for?”
This seemed to distract everyone, except France, who audibly gagged.
America laughed. “I kinda wanna try that.”
“Do they have any with chili peppers?”
“Ugh,” Canada said, looking repulsed. “Chili peppers and chocolate?”
“That’s actually really good,” America put in, as they turned to head onto the fair grounds.
Mexico shoved Canada. “You’re about to go eat chocolate and bacon and you’re disgusted with peppers? I think your head is empty.”
England and France looked at each other. France pointed at him. “This is your fault. They are so weird because of you.”
“Shut up!” England elbowed him. When they caught up to the three young nations, England asked, “Do you really eat chocolate and peppers?”
America laughed. “You know, as much as you guys like to pretend that I have no culture and that I am somehow not multicultural—I actually know a good damn deal about stuff that you guys are too stiff to touch. I’ll try just about anything.”
“But it’s okay for Europeans to only want to eat their own food when they’re abroad—but when we’re abroad, we get insulted for not wanting to try their food.” Canada laughed. “Although I’m not sure chocolate-covered bacon qualifies as food.”
Their elders shifted a little and went quiet. They watched the three young nations try chocolate-covered bacon. Mexico said it was too bland, Canada and America chewed thoroughly before America said, “You know…it’s weird but…it’s not that bad. I mean, I wouldn’t buy it again but…”
Given that they were in America’s southwest, they went to a locally owned Mexican restaurant. Mexico shut up any comments that Spain made about it and ordered all of her food with peppers and onions. England almost went the safe route and ordered a salad but after watching America peruse the menu and order something he had never had before, he straightened his back and got a wet burrito and elbowed France hard when he started to make a comment about it.
That night, they returned to the grounds where the tractor pulls were started. Farming tractors that usually ran with a hundred fifty to two hundred horse power, souped up with two thousand horse power. Before these machines, America remembered going to see horse pulls. Teams of horses would compete, pulling hundreds of pounds in competitions for money. This was just the modern version.
England was surprisingly engaged in this. America was careful not to point it out because he knew if he did, England would go back to acting like he wasn’t interested. But when the American looked over, he saw England watching very closely. France and Spain, on the other hand, were bored so America gave them some money and told them to go to the “fun house”.
The monster trucks came last and there was a break where a local rock band performed while the junk cars were set up.
Maybe it was the wholesale destruction of formally functioning vehicles but when France and Spain returned, railing at America for sending them to a haunted house tour, England ignored them. He watched gigantic trunks stomping over junk Hondas and Toyotas and Fords and Chevrolets. Wheels as big as England was tall, throwing dirt and mud and blasting fire and sparks. He listened to the crowd roar and applaud. Watched another truck come out that was decked out to look like a it had horns and flesh like a Triceratops, blast up a man-made barrier and slam down onto a bed of smaller cars. One that had the Bat signal painted on the side bellow its way through the dirt, pop on its wheels and jump. Another that belonged to the United States Air Force, flag streaming off the back, performed its own course.
By the time it was over, his program was torn and he was watching, totally entranced.
America and Canada raised their beers, bandages streaked with grime and dirt. Mexico thumped both of them in the sides. “Oowowow!” America bowed over and Canada held his side. “We were hurt doing extreme sports, y’know!”
“I know,” said Mexico, “think it’s about time we went back—before traffic closes us in.”
Back at the hotel, America and Canada put their arms over each others shoulders and they staggered off to their room together, laughing and discussing the match.
England watched them, looking slightly fond. His boys were crazy.
France leaned over his shoulder. “Why don’t we get along that well?”
England elbowed him. “Belt up, frog.”
Mexico shoved Spain away from her and went to follow the boys, the three of them walked together, leaving their elders behind.
England drew himself up. “Well, to bed then.”
“Admit it, England, you enjoyed it,” Spain grinned, grabbing England and hauling him towards the elevator.
“That’s wishful thinking,” he snapped.
“No,” said France, as the three of them got on together, “I don’t think it is.”
1.Bullriding is part of the rodeo and it is basically descended from Spanish bullfighting. It is very, very popular in the American west, also in Mexico and even Canada. They even used to have competitions that would include riders from all three countries.
2. Tractor pulls are popular in rural areas where agriculture and farming makes up the majority of occupations.
3.And I don't care who you are Monster trucks are awesome. And yes, the US Air Force really does have its own Monster truck.
There were two things that made me want to write this. Firstly, there's this song. It's an American country song which basically sums up what a rodeo is. Haha. American country music is like the equivalent of folk music in every other country.
Secondly, though, my mom has some friends from England (Portsmouth) and they came over to visit us once. Since it was during the summer, we took them to the county fair. And all five of them were totally into the tractor pulls and horse competitions and all that jazz. We were really surprised by how much they liked it.