245 jets. 8 seats. Double waterfalls. Remote monitoring. Saltwater sanitation. Pillows. Cup holders. Blinky LED lights that change color. A surround sound entertainment system compatible with any kind of music player and a minibar just three feet away.
America could brag that his hot tub was ‘the sexiest you’ve ever seen,’ and he was probably right. And everyone who attended his ‘Mind-Blowing Jacuzzi Party’ would agree. Well, everyone except Hungary, who said he’d “seen better” and was then promptly told by America to “go stand in the corner and think about what you’ve done.”
Later that night, after everyone was gone and the beer bottles had been picked off the lawn, a tired America retreated to bed–but not before blowing a kiss to his hot tub and the beauty of materialism.
It was about 2am when the remote on his nightstand started bleeping, telling him the hot tub was in use. After his groggy mind actually processed the reality of the situation, he jumped out of bed, grabbed the Winchester rifle at his bedside, and bolted for the backyard.
When he pushed open the sliding glass doors he cocked his gun and shouted, “This rifle’s gonna make you dance!” But then he stopped abruptly when his eyes met with a very startled Mexico’s.
He lowered the gun. “Oh, Mexico! God, you should’a said something. I thought you were, like, a terrorist. Or a commie. Or a commie terrorist.” He laughed nervously. “That would have been bad! For you–not for me.”
Mexico said nothing, probably because he was still very startled but also because answering would invite a conversation.
“Huh…” America narrowed his eyes. “But, what are you doing in my… You said you were too sick to come to the party.”
“And you said,” Mexico started, lowering his hands, “that it wouldn’t be a problem. That I could come over whenever I wanted. Weirdly enough, I started feeling a lot better after your party ended.”
“Okaaay… and you decided to come over in the middle of the night… while I was sleeping.”
“‘Cause if you were sleeping, I wouldn’t have to deal with you. Like I am. Right. Now.”
“Aww, don’t be like that!” America propped the rifle against the backdoor and, without hesitation, pulled off his shirt, earning a pleading look from Mexico.
“Oh, no, you really don’t–”
But the United States was already making a splash as he got in, and Mexico was wondering why he had to sit so close when there were six other seats.
Beaming at his companion, America asked, “So, what’cha been up to, man?”
“Oh, check this out. I got my iPod hooked up to this thing. What do you wanna listen to? Shakira? I got tons of her remixes on this.”
“I’m not a fan,” Mexico lied.
“Fine, whatever,” America said, playing the music anyway. “I’ll keep it low.” Then he sighed blissfully as he sunk into the water. “Ahh, man, this feels good.”
Mexico closed his eyes and leaned back against the spa pillow. “Yeah, this was definitely one of your better decisions.”
Strange moaning from America caused Mexico to open and eye and give America a look. “You havin’ fun over there?”
“These jets, though. You can turn up the intensity and it’s so good.”
“America, stop making this weird.”
“No, no, try it. You gotta go lower.” He slid down in his seat and his chin dipped into the bubbles. “Yeah, get in there. Right between the shoulder blades.”
“This is still really weird!”
“And–see? If I turn the jets this way… Oh, yeah. Double thrust action.”
At this point, Mexico had no choice but to humor his neighbor. He slid down into the bubbling spa and, as per recommendation, twisted the jets toward him.
All Canada wanted was her cupcake stand back. She’d forgotten it at America’s after the party, and that wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t sprung up in bed in the middle of the night having remembered it was her turn to make the dessert for tomorrow’s Finest Things Club meeting. (France and Austria took the club very seriously, and they really liked her fancy stand.)
She’d tried calling, twice. Then decided that if she had to wake America up in the middle of the night, so be it. But knocking on the front door got her nowhere, either. The faint sound of feisty pop lead her down the stone path and stopped her at the wooden gate hiding the backyard.
What she heard above the provocative music was groaning, America saying ‘go lower’ and something about double thrust action. With a soft gasp, she began backing away from the privacy fence slowly.
The cupcake stand could wait.
My best friend requested and inspired this, so thank (and blame) her for how uncomfortable it is.
The title is a reference to Shakira’s song of the same name, which fully and completely belongs to the artist and whichever recording studio owns her soul and could possibly sue me. Please don’t sue me.
Yep, the Finest Things Club is a reference to The Office.