Anon from earlier! I'm really sorry this is late, but I hope I made it creepy enough! Warning: This contains blood/gore, dissection, and cannibalism. Enjoy!
It begins as a typical diplomacy trip to Italy. The weather is a bit cold for this time of year. There are some clouds in the sky, and it rains early in the day. But by the time America is released from his meeting, the sun shines through again, illuminating the great city of Rome.
As America chews on a piece of gooey cheese pizza (totally awesome and authentic Italian pizza, by the way), something nags at the back of his mind. A meeting? No, he’s done with all of his meetings for the day. Dinner? He’s already eating pizza. A TV show? But wait, why would he be watching a TV show in Italy?
Brzzt! Brzzt!
America holds his pizza slice with one hand and fishes out his phone. The caller ID reads “Veneziano”. Ah, of course!
He swallows. “Hey,” he says. “Italy, what’s up?”
“Oh hello, America!” the Italian replies brightly. “I thought that you wouldn’t pick up. Did you forget that you’re coming over to my house later?”
“Aw yeah, I did, Italy. I’m so sorry about that.” America chews off more pizza, the cheese dripping down his chin.
“That’s alright! You can come over any time today so I can show you how to make my pasta sauce.”
“Donnff worry.” America swallows. “I’ll be over there in, like, five seconds, okay? What’s your address again?”
Italy tells him his address. America repeats it a few times with the pizza still in his mouth until he’s sure he has it memorized.
“Okay, I’ve got it down now,” he says. “I’ll see you later, Italy.”
“Ciao ciao, America!”
America finishes his pizza and hails a cab.
Italy’s address takes him to a small, quaint cottage outside of Rome in the country. That nagging feeling returns to America’s head but he ignores it. What would be the problem? It’s only Italy after all.
He knocks on the door a few times, and Italy opens it with his always cheerful smile and twinkling eyes.
“America!” Italy wraps his arms around America in a deep embrace and the taller nation returns the hug. He’s such a sweet little country. A little obnoxious at times, but still really sweet.
“Thanks for inviting me over, Italy.” America steps inside the charming house. “I’m sorry I’m late. I just finished eating this amazingly awesome piece of pizza!”
Italy laughs. “Oh, it really is no problem, America. I’m just really glad that you came over.”
America looks at the walls. The decorum seems a bit too…odd for Italy. There are several tomato-type ornaments on the walls and tables and the whole house is just painted a darker color than America would expect of Italy. There are more earth colors here—greens, dark reds, browns. America has been in another house of Italy’s, up in Milan. The house there is extremely bright and filled with soft pastels, much different than this house. In fact, this house reminds America of someone else.
Pasta (1/8)
It begins as a typical diplomacy trip to Italy. The weather is a bit cold for this time of year. There are some clouds in the sky, and it rains early in the day. But by the time America is released from his meeting, the sun shines through again, illuminating the great city of Rome.
As America chews on a piece of gooey cheese pizza (totally awesome and authentic Italian pizza, by the way), something nags at the back of his mind. A meeting? No, he’s done with all of his meetings for the day. Dinner? He’s already eating pizza. A TV show? But wait, why would he be watching a TV show in Italy?
Brzzt! Brzzt!
America holds his pizza slice with one hand and fishes out his phone. The caller ID reads “Veneziano”. Ah, of course!
He swallows. “Hey,” he says. “Italy, what’s up?”
“Oh hello, America!” the Italian replies brightly. “I thought that you wouldn’t pick up. Did you forget that you’re coming over to my house later?”
“Aw yeah, I did, Italy. I’m so sorry about that.” America chews off more pizza, the cheese dripping down his chin.
“That’s alright! You can come over any time today so I can show you how to make my pasta sauce.”
“Donnff worry.” America swallows. “I’ll be over there in, like, five seconds, okay? What’s your address again?”
Italy tells him his address. America repeats it a few times with the pizza still in his mouth until he’s sure he has it memorized.
“Okay, I’ve got it down now,” he says. “I’ll see you later, Italy.”
“Ciao ciao, America!”
America finishes his pizza and hails a cab.
Italy’s address takes him to a small, quaint cottage outside of Rome in the country. That nagging feeling returns to America’s head but he ignores it. What would be the problem? It’s only Italy after all.
He knocks on the door a few times, and Italy opens it with his always cheerful smile and twinkling eyes.
“America!” Italy wraps his arms around America in a deep embrace and the taller nation returns the hug. He’s such a sweet little country. A little obnoxious at times, but still really sweet.
“Thanks for inviting me over, Italy.” America steps inside the charming house. “I’m sorry I’m late. I just finished eating this amazingly awesome piece of pizza!”
Italy laughs. “Oh, it really is no problem, America. I’m just really glad that you came over.”
America looks at the walls. The decorum seems a bit too…odd for Italy. There are several tomato-type ornaments on the walls and tables and the whole house is just painted a darker color than America would expect of Italy. There are more earth colors here—greens, dark reds, browns. America has been in another house of Italy’s, up in Milan. The house there is extremely bright and filled with soft pastels, much different than this house. In fact, this house reminds America of someone else.
“Hey, Italy, where’s your brother?” America asks.