That Time the USA Got Transported to Another World!

Chapter 11: A Forceful Conversation

James sat against the rough wall, lighting a thin cigar between his fingers. Despite the many warnings from Alfred, he had gone and snuck a small pack of cigars anyway, concealing it under his belt buckle. It wasn't as if he wanted to do it. The craving came from an impulse, a nagging desire sprung from the ground, its sick hand dragging its victim deep below the ground.

Yes, he remembers that hand, the one which gave him his first cigarette at ten: the devilish claws, scratching up his tiny chest, ready to slash his face any moment. His mind filled with its haunting eyes, a pale, greenish-red swirling up and down, ere fading into a small circle. His hand clenched; the memory of that man... nae, just the thought of that vermin made him belch. Despite his usually weak stomach, seeing his rotting corpse once more would bring him immense delight.

However, before his mind could become fully entrenched, the King had made his way over to him, patting his enormous belly with a friendly chuckle.

"Ho, ho! How's it going, Mr. Vice President?" he said, laying his arm across James's slim shoulders. "Say, we didn't get to finish our little conversation back there, how's about we continue it?" The Vice President raised one eyebrow—he seems... more informal than his usual demeanour—and said,

"Sure. After all, you never specified how many men you want. 10,000? 30,000? You name it!"

William, flustered, put his hands in the air and said, "goodness no, I could never ask you to bring your entire infantry."

"Don't be alarmed, we have far more men than that. 30,000 is only 2.5 percent of our entire personnel." As if the hand of a barbarian had lodged itself into the King's chest, a wave of sunken realization spread throughout his body. How could he have been so stupid? Of course, the prophesied Land of Warriors would have an army succeeding theirs; the dominance of the great nation built by his forefathers had blinded him! But, he couldn't let that bring him down, he needed to focus. For his people. For the Oplar Empire, and, just as important, himself.

"How about thirty-thousand, then, if that's so little of your men." James gave a smirk:

"Why not. After all, this is why we're here, right? To aid you in this supposed prophesied war? If only something like that were true. Having a straightforward narrative that will happen no matter what... would make life so much simpler. I still can't figure out how our country got sent here, though; scientifically, it seems impossible. An entire chunk of land just instantly vanishing and reappearing... so outlandish when I say it myself."

"Mr. Vice President, surely you are joking. Not to question your faith, but even a fool knows it's the work of the gods..." Then, and without any warning, the skinny hand of James Lindon wrapped around the King's neck, cutting off his airflow. Looking straightforward, he saw his eyes contorting; checking to see if anyone was looking. Sweat entrapped his fatty body. His faced turned blue, and he couldn't move his head, forced to stare directly into the dark, pulsating eyes.

"Listen to me, and listen to me carefully: we are not friends, and you will not bring up such folly with me. Do so again, and I won't have our men help you, and instead burn your whole country to the ground. I will bomb every last church, destroy every school, and make sure everything you know and love will be gone. You got that?" The King desperately tried to shake his head, pleading to be freed from his clammy prison. Once the hand let go, he fell to the floor with a thump!—and began breathing in a rhythmic pattern, trying to process what just happened.