The Electric Slide
Mar. 9th, 2010 04:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
historizeTitle: The Electric Slide
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, mentions of England, Canada, France and Germany
Rating: PG
Warnings: language, allusions to modern politics and the New York and London terrorist attacks
Summary: Just a short bit I suddenly wrote down--about America being out in the desert and thinking about music and why he is where he is.
America liked to listen to swing music, Sinatra, showtunes, swamp rock, classic rock--especially out here in the desert, where he felt so disconnected with...everything. With his country, with his people...with everything.
Sometimes he paced around his tent and would just stare at his maps of the Middle East. And sometimes he would walk away from them and wonder just what the fuck he was doing here out in the middle of the goddamn desert--where no one wanted him to be.
And then he would sit down and think.
New York. His New York. It was his fucking New York, goddammit. His New York. Some of them said he'd deserved it. Some of them condemned his people for giving a shit when three thousand lives were snuffed out for nothing. Attacks on civilians. What was he supposed to do?
He had to do something.
Well, George Bush had gotten that all fucked up. Too many lies, too many times where America listened to his president struggle to string sentences together and he just wanted to beat his head against the wall--so, finally, the declaration of war--
Okay, okay, that was something. At least someone was fucking doing something. Might have been a better idea not to send troops into gorilla-style warfare when you weren't even sure--God, just like fucking Vietnam--
No. Stop. What's done is done.
And that's true. They insulted him then--saying he was overreacting--and they insulted him now. What did it matter? Him, the French, the Germans--they all got slammed. He and Germany took the bigger share of it--what with America just being America and Germany having that Nazi legacy. France got pinned as a coward, a snob. But from France came the cigarette-smoking, trenchcoat-wearing resistance fighter. France's military history far outshown the past one hundred years. And he knew it. Next to America and Turkey, France spent the most on his military. Let them underestimate me again, France seemed to say, and I will show them why I was a terror in my younger days.
America had overreacted to certain things. When London was bombed, he was up, frantically trying to get a hold of England, who promptly told him off as soon as he got on the phone.
"I'm fine, you twit!"
"But London was--"
"I know! America, I have been through this sort of business before." He swatted an aid away, holding a piece of gauze to his chest, over his heart.
"But I...."
It left America so utterly depressed that he didn't call back for awhile. Overreacted, indeed. He cared about them. He called Spain was Madrid was bombed. He cared about them...he cared about his people...
His people grew frustrated, lashing out, untrusting, paranoid....
And now...
God, he just wanted it to end. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to go home and make everything better for everyone...but he couldn't leave the job half-finished. How could he...that wasn't what he was supposed to do. He was America--and even if the others hated him for it...he was supposed to try and stick it out. Show he was reliable...or something....
He flipped off his jazz music. It was too happy.
Outside, on the sand, he could hear a stereo going. His soldiers were listening to--Lady Gaga or whatever her name was. He often couldn't remember the names of all the pop artists. They usually came and went so quickly. And their music didn't compare to his stuff from the 20th century.
Although, he remembered Lady Gaga because she performed at the Royal Variety and England had nearly had a seizure when he saw her costume. America had laughed so hard that he choked.
That was depressing, in a way. He wanted to laugh with England again.
He drug his fingers through his hair--somehow bleached even brighter blond by the sun--and went to the flap. He opened it and looked out.
There were Canadians, Americans, and Brits were stationed here. There was a group of them with their boots and camo trousers on. Most of the men had removed their shirts. The women had green tanktops on, hair pulled back.
It was well over a hundred degrees, Fahrenheit anyway.
They were doing the Electric Slide. Or, well, the Canadians and the Americans were trying to teach the Brits.
America grinned, laughing--his bad mood evaporated. He leaned against the frame of the tent. The Electric Slide was not a quickstep dance--but it could be really fun if everyone was energetic.
His smile softened. Maybe this is why I continue... He watched them, these Canadians, Brits, and Americans. Maybe this is what I need to remember. Blood is thicker than water. And these times too, will pass.
His people internalized all the criticism. Some of them kept striving--wanting to feel international unity and others, closed off and did not. Both would suffer for it but...
...if he was going to be where he was in the world...he didn't really have any other choice. He could take it. And he would emerge wiser, hopefully.
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, mentions of England, Canada, France and Germany
Rating: PG
Warnings: language, allusions to modern politics and the New York and London terrorist attacks
Summary: Just a short bit I suddenly wrote down--about America being out in the desert and thinking about music and why he is where he is.
America liked to listen to swing music, Sinatra, showtunes, swamp rock, classic rock--especially out here in the desert, where he felt so disconnected with...everything. With his country, with his people...with everything.
Sometimes he paced around his tent and would just stare at his maps of the Middle East. And sometimes he would walk away from them and wonder just what the fuck he was doing here out in the middle of the goddamn desert--where no one wanted him to be.
And then he would sit down and think.
New York. His New York. It was his fucking New York, goddammit. His New York. Some of them said he'd deserved it. Some of them condemned his people for giving a shit when three thousand lives were snuffed out for nothing. Attacks on civilians. What was he supposed to do?
He had to do something.
Well, George Bush had gotten that all fucked up. Too many lies, too many times where America listened to his president struggle to string sentences together and he just wanted to beat his head against the wall--so, finally, the declaration of war--
Okay, okay, that was something. At least someone was fucking doing something. Might have been a better idea not to send troops into gorilla-style warfare when you weren't even sure--God, just like fucking Vietnam--
No. Stop. What's done is done.
And that's true. They insulted him then--saying he was overreacting--and they insulted him now. What did it matter? Him, the French, the Germans--they all got slammed. He and Germany took the bigger share of it--what with America just being America and Germany having that Nazi legacy. France got pinned as a coward, a snob. But from France came the cigarette-smoking, trenchcoat-wearing resistance fighter. France's military history far outshown the past one hundred years. And he knew it. Next to America and Turkey, France spent the most on his military. Let them underestimate me again, France seemed to say, and I will show them why I was a terror in my younger days.
America had overreacted to certain things. When London was bombed, he was up, frantically trying to get a hold of England, who promptly told him off as soon as he got on the phone.
"I'm fine, you twit!"
"But London was--"
"I know! America, I have been through this sort of business before." He swatted an aid away, holding a piece of gauze to his chest, over his heart.
"But I...."
It left America so utterly depressed that he didn't call back for awhile. Overreacted, indeed. He cared about them. He called Spain was Madrid was bombed. He cared about them...he cared about his people...
His people grew frustrated, lashing out, untrusting, paranoid....
And now...
God, he just wanted it to end. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to go home and make everything better for everyone...but he couldn't leave the job half-finished. How could he...that wasn't what he was supposed to do. He was America--and even if the others hated him for it...he was supposed to try and stick it out. Show he was reliable...or something....
He flipped off his jazz music. It was too happy.
Outside, on the sand, he could hear a stereo going. His soldiers were listening to--Lady Gaga or whatever her name was. He often couldn't remember the names of all the pop artists. They usually came and went so quickly. And their music didn't compare to his stuff from the 20th century.
Although, he remembered Lady Gaga because she performed at the Royal Variety and England had nearly had a seizure when he saw her costume. America had laughed so hard that he choked.
That was depressing, in a way. He wanted to laugh with England again.
He drug his fingers through his hair--somehow bleached even brighter blond by the sun--and went to the flap. He opened it and looked out.
There were Canadians, Americans, and Brits were stationed here. There was a group of them with their boots and camo trousers on. Most of the men had removed their shirts. The women had green tanktops on, hair pulled back.
It was well over a hundred degrees, Fahrenheit anyway.
They were doing the Electric Slide. Or, well, the Canadians and the Americans were trying to teach the Brits.
America grinned, laughing--his bad mood evaporated. He leaned against the frame of the tent. The Electric Slide was not a quickstep dance--but it could be really fun if everyone was energetic.
His smile softened. Maybe this is why I continue... He watched them, these Canadians, Brits, and Americans. Maybe this is what I need to remember. Blood is thicker than water. And these times too, will pass.
His people internalized all the criticism. Some of them kept striving--wanting to feel international unity and others, closed off and did not. Both would suffer for it but...
...if he was going to be where he was in the world...he didn't really have any other choice. He could take it. And he would emerge wiser, hopefully.
