kay_cricketed (kay_cricketed) wrote,

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"Your face kind of looks like a Furby molested it."

So looking forward to Friday already. I've been a little more easily annoyed than usual (I rarely am, period, so I guess that's something in of itself), and feeling stifled. Maybe I should go somewhere this weekend and take an honest break. =_=

Also been thinking about creating a writing journal where I can just archive all of my stuff, new and old, that's on here and not. Hmmm. Considering. Opinions?

Ugh. More denoning from the Kink Meme.

Please someone kill me now, I have the worst kind of cramps today.

Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None, crack!fic
Summary: [prompt was for SNL's World Jeopardy, Hetalia-style] In which Austria wants to kill someone (possibly himself), England is a raging drunk parody, France likes butts, and America likes... something. But not everything like nightgowns.

If you do not know SNL Jeopardy very well, you should click on this link. IT IS ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW.

World Jeopardy: Deux Ex Machina

In hindsight, Austria wondered if he’d rather have Prussia sodomize him with an apple core than take on the job of hosting the annual World Jeopardy tournament.

These were the types of thoughts Austria had every year when the date, circled in foreboding red on his calendar, loomed forth. He’d tried to imagine worse things to compare it to, but he didn’t particularly relish the idea of being brutally ravished by half-eaten fruit (and he was never partial to apples), especially by Prussia, who had been the nation responsible for his current plight in the first place. It was Prussia that had “volunteered” him as the mediator of the game. It was Prussia that had entertained the idea of the game.

Austria loathed him for it.

As 2010’s annual World Jeopardy approached, he played enough Beethoven that the cat refused to come out of the attic. The least he could hope for, Austria knew, was that maybe this time, England wouldn’t come roaring drunk on rum.

(Best case scenario: no one would end up naked.)


Hungary set up the cameras. Germany was contrite enough to help Austria set up the game board against the wall, create some feeble categories for idiots, and construct podiums. It didn’t ease the impending agony, but at least Austria’s hands stayed lotion-soft. Small pleasures.

Then the contestants arrived.

Around the world, other nations eagerly turned on their laptops and were directed to the live feed. Some that didn’t have Internet—like China, who had fumed over Google for three years and finally decided to just shut the whole thing down and give his people new woks, because “woks create community and foster bitter shipping wars just as easily”—placed and mailed orders to receive the DVD copy.

Up in the bathroom, Austria stared at himself in the mirror.

He adjusted his cravat.

“After this,” he told his reflection, “we will eat cake.”


He didn’t dare look at the contestants as he ascended his podium. Clearing his throat under the lights, Austria shuffled his cards and glanced at the camera. “Welcome to World Jeopardy. If you remember from last year, we left our contestants locked in very close combat…”

“Not so fast, Austria!”

Austria almost closed his eyes. And so it starts.

His tone slurred on the drink, England leaned over the first podium. He was wearing—oh my, Austria thought, eyes widening as he took it in—a feathered pirate’s hat rakish over his hair and someone’s garters around his neck like a scarf. His face was peach red. He pointed at Austria. “You keep givin’ me bad points, boy…”

“Please let me finish, England.”

“… That’s what your mother said last night.”

“Oh-ho,” crooned America. “Burned.”

Austria wished a meteor would fall on him so he could just die.


“I’m going to ignore this abuse,” he said, after a moment of contemplating glorious obliteration. “First off, we last left with France in the lead with an amazing, record-breaking 250 dollars.”

France, twirling his hair on his finger, beamed. “I enjoy rose petals, romantic walks on the beach, and butts.”

“… Thank you. And in second place with zero dollars, we have England.”

“You slept with ‘im to get that kind of score, you frog bastard. I know it. I know these things. My PM was Winston fucking Churchill once."

Austria twitched. He cleared his throat. “And in third place, with an incredible negative 12,000 dollars, which rather explains the financial gang bang, we have America. For viewers who don’t quite remember, America managed to accrue a large amount of negative points last time, often from incorrectly answering the same question more than once.”

“Yes, we can!” cried America, throwing Vulcan hand signals into the air.

“No, you can’t,” England told him, and drank half a bottle of rum in one swallow.


“We had to stop the game last time due to unfortunate circumstances,” Austria continued doggedly. He was interrupted again by England’s acidic tongue.

“’Cause that wine bastard got naked.”

France tittered.

America said, “Yeah, but so did you.”

“Was close to Christmas, yes? Of course I did, too.”

“Austria, what’s the date today?”

“It’s not Let’s Get Naked Day,” Austria said. “Anyway, in my house, we fast for that time and we keep bundled up. Do not even think about it. If you think about it, I will let that camera keep rolling, and you will be very sorry.”

“Only on account of villainy.”

“… Yes, that’s what I said.”


The game had to start. It had to, or it would never finish, and Austria would cry like a little girl. He cleared his throat unnecessarily loud and spoke above the din. “We will now skip the entire first part of the game and continue where we left off last time! Yes, that’s right, it’s Double Jeopardy. Let’s look at our categories.”

“Oooh,” said America. “Ponies.”

“The categories are: Potent Potables, Vowels, Presidents Who Are On the One Dollar Bill, Famous Titles, Ponies—yes, America, you were correct—The Number Ten, Therapists, and Foods that End in -amburger. Since you’re in the lead, the board is yours, France.”

France leaned over the podium, studying the board. “I will take… Famous Titties for 200, Austria.”

Austria looked at him.

France looked back.

“Titles,” said Austria. “Famous Titles.”


England belched in a gentlemanly fashion. “Easy mistake to make.”


“I’m going to read the question now,” Austria told them. “Also, I hate you.”

“That’s what your mother—”

“For 200, the answer is: This movie is taken from the name of the book Watership Down.”

There was silence.

Watership Down,” repeated Austria.

England hit his buzzer.


“What is kinky porn. Give me the 200.”

“… Wrong.” Austria was about to rub his temples to curb the growing ache there when America frantically clapped his buzzer. “All right. America?”

“I know this, it’s right up there! The words are! I got it! I got it!”

Hope fluttered. “Yes, and?”

America whooped. “Ponies!”


“Like I said,” England intoned. “Kinky porn.”

“No,” Austria said through gritted teeth. “The answer is Watership Down. Watership. Down. You complete and utter idiots. I cannot believe this. You do this to torment me, don’t you? No, don’t answer—we’re moving on. The next category is Foods that End in -amburger.”

He looked at America pointedly.

America winked.



“I’m going to make this very simple,” Austria continued, very patiently. “In this category, the correct answer is hamburger. Every question. The answer is hamburger. As soon as I’ve stopped talking, say hamburger.”

“It looks like this is my lucky day,” England shouted triumphantly. He nearly toppled over the podium, his hat fluttering over one eye. “Ha ha ha!”

“I am an experienced chef, it is your big brother’s luck!”

”Has anyone noticed the ceiling keeps getting closer?”

“The answer,” Austria tore in, near feral, “is ‘food ending in the word -amburger that you can eat at McDonalds.’”

America slammed his hand on the buzzer.

“Yes! Finally. America.”

“What is Canada.”


“… Beg pardon?”

America beamed. “I like Canada.”

“Who?” asked Hungary from behind the camera.

“The guy who slept with your mother last night,” cackled England.

Austria threw his notecards at him.


“Oh, I’ll play your game, you rogue!” cried England, trying to draw the sword he didn’t have from his belt. Next to him, France made cooing noises because nothing was cuter than drunken, rampaging butts.

“Hi Canada,” America was saying to the camera, waving. For a second, Austria sparred a thought to wonder who on earth he was talking to. Then, reality set back in with gruesome, sluggish agony.

“England! You want to play, then pick a category. Now!”

“The day is mine!”

“I don’t care, just pick something! Anything!”

“I’ll take…” and England perused the categories thoughtfully, scratching his chin, thick eyebrows drawn together. “Hmmm. The rapists.”

Austria blinked and looked at the category board. “Hungary…?”

“I didn’t do anything to it!”

France murmured dreamily, “If only we had a category called Strange Unknown Liquids Spilled on Greece…”

“It’s therapists,” Austria realized. “Oh for—it’s not the rapists, England, it’s therapists, one word. One word.”

“You’ll rue the day you crossed me, you pansy.”

“I already do.”


It was at this point that America accidentally said something to France, which naturally constituted as a come on (honestly, how could “s’cold in here” be taken any other way?), and thus warranted attention. Hot, steamy, naked attention. And a rose. And some minor groping in the area designated at the buttocks.

“Uh,” said America.

“Come to big brother! My crotch beam will send you spiraling into—”



There was chaos for a few minutes, while Hungary thwacked France repeatedly over the head with her frying pan and America awkwardly adjusted his jeans so that it wasn’t obvious someone else’s fingers had been kneading them. After tying France to the podium (“Kinky down!” cried France, “That is the answer!”), Austria returned to his place and let out a long, deep exhale.

“Okay,” he said.

“Every other time I’ve been felt up, I at least got ice cream out of it,” America mumbled sadly to no one in particular.

“What category were we on?”

England waggled something at Austria. It took Austria a minute to realize it was a thick black marker. He frowned at it, uncomprehending, and then suddenly it struck him with the power of several megatons of pianos crashing to the pavement at his feet.

He whirled to the board.


The board now read:

Potent Potables

Vowels Why ‘U’ Isn’t Good Enough for Bloody Americans

Presidents Who Are On the One Dollar Bill FUCK YOUR REVOLUTION

Famous Titlesties


The Number Ten


Things Austria Sucks


America hit the buzzer. “I’ll take Things Austria Sucks for 400, please!”

However, Austria was still staring at the board. He did not move, save for the slight twitch of his fingers folded against each other, as if pressing away a strange, unnatural urge (like the glockenspiel).

“What is Prussia,” France said.

England cackled.

“I was going to say cock,” America mused thoughtfully.


“That’s it. I’m going to demonstrate my emotions through a piano monologue… after I finish Final Jeopardy,” stated Austria, with more exasperated savagery than he’d felt in years. “The final Jeopardy category! Just answer one, simple question. Just one question! Where are you right now?”

The three contestants looked at each other, assessing.

“Write down my name. Write down your own name. Write down game show. Write down house. Or the word ‘here.’ Just write anything.”

America uncapped his marker first and scribbled excitedly. Next, France and England made pensive choices. Austria counted the seconds reverently.

“Time’s up! Okay, let’s see what you wrote and wagered.”

The last battleground. He could do this. He could.


“France! You wrote…”

Austria stared.

France blew the camera a kiss and winked at it using an age-old, sensuous eyelid fluttering technique. That, or dust had gotten caught in it.

“I can’t say that on air,” said Austria, putting the card back down. “Okay, and you wagered… Boobs. Great. You don’t have any to wager.”

“They will soon be in my hands, regardless.”

“I kind of want to punch you,” Austria told him wonderingly. “Okay, now we’re moving on to America…”


“You wrote… ‘I don’t like.’”

America cheered and threw a peace sign at the camera.

“And you wagered ‘wearing dresses.’”

Austria looked at him.

America suddenly became very busy with the hem of his jacket, which existed a little too much for him, and England’s uproarious laughter increased tenfold. Thinking better of it, Austria decided not to ask.


“England,” said Austria.


“I will be glad to be rid of you. You’re an obnoxious houseguest when drunk.”

“You’re a whore.”

“Quite. Now, let’s see what you wrote…” Austria turned over the card and couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. “’Austria sucks.’ Wonderful.”

“Heh heh.”

“And you wagered: cock.”

“Uninspiring, I know. But I can’t help what works.”

“I hate you.”


France won the annual World Jeopardy game by a wide margin. He celebrated this by getting naked in Greece. Literally.

England went on to drink more rum, but eventually sobered up and felt awful about how he’d treated Austria (okay, not awful, but really, at this point the money Prussia had given him two centuries ago to torment Austria had probably run out, so he should either demand more or give it up). He opted to show his regret by posting a box labeled FUCK to Austria’s household; it was full of ladies clothing.

America went home to find Canada waiting, eyes glinting in the dim kitchen lighting. He stepped forward, smile widening at America’s sudden pallor. “So you don’t like wearing dresses, eh…?”

Hungary spent weeks trying to get Austria unglued from the piano, and more or less succeeded. The cat was never found again. The podiums were burnt, and that helped the healing just a little.

Austria learned how to play the covers for some Evanescence.

Somewhere, Prussia laughed himself sick.


All jokes were made with the utmost love. Also, most of them were stolen directly from SNL itself. XD;; I AM MADE OF FAIL.

Tags: hetalia fic
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