A Hitman's Miss

Chapter Three

or, Nostalgia Keeps Him Uncomfortable

The alleys beckoned to him, begging him to disappear into their winding maze, to disappear forever, to be a blank face. America forced himself to relax, pushing his concerns to the back of his mind. He needed to let himself enjoy some things, like the wind on his face as he rode.

The streets had a developing case of acne, with lumps and potholes every few feet, growing closer together as America rode on. The buildings grew closer together and taller, looming above him. And windows like eyes gazed down from the heights as if every building was a judge. America pulled a sharp right into a small parking lot, with its mom-'n-pop stores and an apartment complex. Not much safer than the main streets, but the familiar buildings offered some comfort.

America parked, the motorcycle sputtering to a stop, leaning his head back to stare at the tall, decaying apartment building. One too many couches in that thing and the entire three-story structure would cave in. He inhaled deeply, enjoying that familiar smell of piss and cannabis.

"Home sweet home." He sighed as he got off, holding his gun case close to his chest. But he didn't make it a step before he was spotted.

"Aye, it's my favourite gringo!" Mexico called over from his plastic chair, waving his blunt at him. "Well--... Maybe my second favourite. " He chuckled, gesturing back at his apartment.

America sighed, but smiled as he walked over. He kept his gaze on the floor, though. "Hey, Mex. Can I get a hit? Take off the edge o' failure." He held out his hand expectantly.

Mexico's chuckling intensified. "You? Mr. 'I-don't-engage-in-unhealthy-habits' America, wanting the devil's lettuce?" he said.

"It's not in your best interest to tease the guy with a gun," America said, staring at his gun case. "And I don't have any cigarettes left."

Mexico rolled his eyes and handed over the joint. "Why're you so angry, gringo?"

America sucked in, holding it in his lungs and letting the buzz take over. Slowly he blew out the smoke and watched the wind tug it away, like a woman pulling cotton through a spinning wheel. He handed it back to Mexico. "Missed."

Mexico waved a hand at him. "Yeah, that'll do it. Just take the thing, get into your room before anyone complains."

"Thanks." America started to head up the stairs but paused a few steps up. He held his hand up over his shoulder, although he didn't look back. "Bye, beaner."

"Aye! Que te jodan gringo! Chinga tu madre!" (Hey! Fuck you, gringo! Fuck your mother!) Mexico called after him. America just laughed and jogged up the steps. Mexico would forgive him in a few hours. He always did.

He opened the door to his apartment and pressed it shut slowly so that he could barely hear the click of the lock. Then, he leaned against the door, a relieved smile spreading across his face. His heart rate was finally going down, and he was able to breathe again. A glance to his windows showed that all of his traps were still in place.

He took a running start and jumped into his office chair, causing it to shoot towards his desk, and he caught himself with his hands on the wood before he crashed. He had a few decoding devices set up, but they took up a majority of the desk space, considering how big they were. But America just picked up the phone off the wall, dialling hesitantly.

The phone rang only once before it was picked up. A booming voice on the other end answered. "United Nations speaking. Who may this be?"

America winced and paused. The UN was probably the worst person to ask, but... "This is America--..."

There was immediately a loud sigh. It went on for about five seconds. America was impressed at the size of the man's lungs. "Of course, it's you."

America forced himself not to snap at the man. He was older than the UN, but the young man was already immensely powerful. "Hey, you, ah, know people, right?"

"Of course."

America hissed in a breath through his teeth. "Don't take this the wrong way, but do you have a list of the countries currently in the Soviet block?"

The phone stayed silent for a long time. America almost wanted to check that the line hadn't been cut.

Finally, the UN cleared his throat. "You know that I am here to prevent wars, not start them. And we are not afraid to snip this feud you two have in the bud before it goes too far. Your interference in Korea was already enough. We will not tolerate you--"

"It ain't like that!" America burst out. Then, he brought down his voice, scrambling for an explanation. "I-- I just... I met some o' his kids today, and I felt bad not knowing their names."

"And they didn't tell you their names while you were there?" the UN asked.

America sighed. "Well, they did, but I forgot. You know how many kids and satellite states he has. I can't remember all them names! A-and they're sweet youngins, and I don't wanna be rude to 'em..." he said, really dousing his voice with syrup to get his innocence across.

The UN hummed on the other end for a moment. "Are you trying to make amends with the USSR?"

"Yeah, a little..." America almost cringed at lying to and manipulating someone so young. But, it's dog-eat-dog, so what could he do? "Because, I mean, I'm all about coexisting and focusing on myself. And, war ain't in my best interests at the moment. So, yeah, trying to at least tolerate each other." He faked a laugh. "Maybe even be allies, if he'd allow it. But, you know, communism ain't fond o' capitalism."

"I'm so proud of you! This is a wonderful development! I'll fax you the information immediately. Keep this up, and world peace will be knocking at our doorstep!" America could practically hear the grin on the UN's face.

"Oh, thank you, UN. I'll be sure to repay you for this," he said with forced graciousness.

"Peace is its own reward, my friend. Good day!"

"You, too, friendo!" America replied. Then, he hung up the phone.

And jumped out of his seat, sending it flying backwards. He pumped his fists in the air. "Fuck yeah!"

It took a while, but finally, his bulky fax machine spat out a piece of paper with grayscale flags and names.

He scanned over the multitude of flags. Most of them were the same shade of grey, and he presumed in person, they would be red. "Fuckin' commies," he mumbled. They could probably see him through just the images of their flags, so America made sure to fill his mind with very anti-communist thoughts and a variety of ways he could torture the USSR.

Stripes ran horizontally through most of them. All of them had the same damn tainted commie symbol on them. America snarled to himself. "No need to brand your children like cattle." He clicked his tongue, thinking back to his youth when the Union Jack still covered his face. "Ain't good for your image, commie." He spoke as if the man was listening. Which he probably was. The KGB were like rats in the walls.

America was scanning the list for the USSR clone, with his scowl and horrible, horrible, mind-reading eyes.

"Oh, the flag," he said to himself.

One blue stripe running along the right side of his face, red on the rest, with the sickle and hammer in the corner. He dragged his finger down the list until he landed on a flag that matched that description.

"Russia," he read out loud, tasting the foreign word on his tongue. "Got the family name, I see."

Perfect. A name to pair along with the face.

"Rrrussia." He rolled the 'r' as he patted around his desk, searching for his radio blindly.

"Rooossia."

Finally, he looked up, grabbing the radio and turning the knob until he found the station he wanted. Elvis' soothing voice began leaking out of the speaker.

"Rus-sia?"

Now the hard part. Killing two commies instead of one. And not dying in the process.

But that could wait.

Elvis was more important right now.