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“The United States of America has just been destroyed by an all-out nuclear attack.”
“What?” America screeched. He paused before screeching louder. “What?”
“Wait, wait. I’m sorry, everyone…” Germany adjusted the podium mic with an apologetic smile. “That was, ah, that was the wrong one. My mistake.”
“Who the hell even submitted that one?” America gawked with the sudden urge to shoot an incriminate glance toward the Middle East.
“The appropriate follow-up scenario will now be read now.” Carefully, Germany flipped through a few pages in the little notebook he was holding. Upon finding the right page, he began. “An ICBM was detected heading for California, but failed to reach its intended target and instead landed off the coast in territorial waters. The source of the attack is presently unknown.”
The G7 watched nervously as China and North Korea made off for the hallway to discuss nuclear weapons in private. When the two disappeared behind the door, an antsy America waited only a few seconds before zipping over to Russia and plopping down in an empty seat.
“Hey,” he whispered, leaning in close but not too close. “Are we cool?”
A confused Russia could only offer him a smile. “What?”
“I need to make sure we’re cool. Shit just got real and I really want–no, need–to know that you’re not gonna screw me.”
There was a room in the back of a bar where three nearly intoxicated companions shared second-hand smoke and a mellow, effortless discussion. Russia drank the most, but she held it well. North Korea drank the second most, but he couldn’t really feel it. China drank the least, but the mess in the ashtray at the center of the table was mostly his doing.
“Why did we stop playing?” North Korea asked gently as he looked over the cards scattered on the table top.
In the back of a book named Tactical Memoir Of Dear Leader’s Most Revolutionary And Anti-imperialist Fashion Ideas was a lone piece of paper that had been torn from its binding. On it was a simple list. The words and names on the list, penned neatly in black ink, all bore sentiment. There was resentment, disappointment, and a little bit of indignation.
You’re using me.
What killed your conscience?
Wake the hell up.
I will never let you forget that mistake.
Does it feel good?
At the bottom of the paper was a name that had been scratched out many times over, but the words to follow, first written by a hesitant hand, were still legible.
When you said it would be this hard, I wish I would have listened.
Their dance was not an elegant waltz. It was an aggressive swing with all of the passion and none of the pleasure. When she jerked him this way, he jerked her that way. There was no lead, only two fervid stars dancing to two different beats. Neither found solace in the intimacy of their situation, only adrenaline infused dread that set their nervous systems on fire.
The complexity of their relationship had them tense under a hot spotlight. She could smell his arrogance and he could sense her ambition. They knew well each other’s hands and hips, but not Achilles’ heel.