I know, I know, I have that other story to update and I've been gone for so freaking long. I know all of these things, but I still insisted on posting this instead. I'm sure you all hate me so much by now, but I think you should suck it up and enjoy this story. I'm going to have that other update published soon, I just have to do a few things to the new chapter and we'll be good. So, thanks for reading and enjoy this fun little story.

The jokes. It was all the jokes that had done him in. Alfred was so tired of hearing them all the time. He hated how the others made fun of him and his people. So what if he happened to have a few too many McDonalds? Who cares if his crime rate isn't the lowest in the world? And why in the world do people have to make fun of him being…heftier than average? Wasn't this the modern world? Nobody was supposed to care and everybody was supposed to be accepting of the others. But no, they had to judge and they had to hate and they had to make those damned jokes that they thought didn't hurt him.

Alfred was done hearing them. It was as simple as that. He was done trying to cover up the nights when he went home and cried into his pillow because he felt alone and hated. He knew his country wasn't perfect, but he didn't need to be reminded of it at every single meeting. Somehow, by some ungodly miracle, he had been able to survive without letting his façade slip. Everybody thought he was oblivious to the whispered comments, thought he constantly proclaimed himself as a hero because of arrogance, and didn't really seem to care about him. Yet he had remained strong. Until he was given a cook book.

Alfred sighed and reached for his house key as he walked up the driveway. It had been a long meeting and he'd been able to smile through it. He had almost cracked when England made some hamburger joke, though he couldn't quite remember it right now. Alfred was proud of himself for it and let the tiniest flicker of a smile onto his face.

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he almost tripped over the package on his doorstep. Alfred's face contorted in confusion as he picked it up. There was nothing written on it, nothing that hinted at who it came from. Alfred shrugged and walked into his house, dropping his suitcase by the front door and locking it behind him. He went straight to his couch and sat cross-legged on it, staring at the neatly wrapped package In his hands.

"I might as well open it. Can't be any worse than England's scones," he says aloud, wanting to fill the quiet with something. He unwraps the brown paper and becomes even more confused when it turns out to be a cookbook for people trying to diet. A small white notecard was lying neatly on top of the book. Alfred picked it up and turned it over; finding jagged writing that was hard to read on the other side.

Alfred,

I couldn't help but notice the muffin top you had at the last pool party. Cut back on the burgers and use this cook book.

It wasn't even signed. Such a hateful sounding letter should have been signed. Alfred wanted to know who really thought like that.

This was it. This insignificant little note and book were the straws that broke the camel's back. Alfred felt tears welling up in his eyes and making his glasses foggy. He tried to hold them back, he really did, but he found that he couldn't anymore. Alfred was done. He was tired of trying to pretend it didn't hurt him in the worst of ways. He let the first tear fall and maybe a thousand more followed after it. He grits his teeth and roughly pulls off his glasses, squeezing them angrily in his hand. They broke and the glass cut into his palm. For some reason, this was the catalyst to making his sadness become rage.

Alfred stood up from the couch and threw the cook book across the room, breaking some vase England had given him a long time ago. He didn't care. He couldn't. Not until he understood how to get rid of this feeling. He clenched his hands and unclenched them, driving the glass a little deeper into his palm. He moved a little like he was going to walk somewhere and realized he had nowhere to go. This only made him angrier and he kicked the couch he had been on.

It felt good. He kicked the couch over and over; letting thoughts of destruction run rampant in his mind. It wasn't enough. It couldn't possibly be enough to make him feel better. Alfred finally stopped kicking the couch when his foot went through the seat. He growled a little at the couch's inability to last longer.

He stood there a moment, staring at the hole in his couch with puffy eyes that were red from crying. He slowly looked down at his hand and began to mindlessly take out the glass cutting his palm, numb to the pain he should be feeling. He dropped the last piece of glass on the floor and, without another thought, Alfred walked towards his garage. It didn't actually hold cars, but it does hold sports supplies and building tools. He threw the door open, relishing in the bang it created as the knob hit the wall and caused a hole to form.

Alfred stopped in front of the baseball bats he had lining the wall. His eyes fell on his favorite bat. The signed one. The one he had gotten from Babe Ruth himself. That's right. He had Babe Ruth's bat in his garage. He grinned at the sight of it, a sadistic kind of grin that could only mean trouble. Alfred grabbed the bat and held it in his hands, liking the weight of it.

He gave it an experimental swing, enjoying the whoosh as it cut through the air. He wanted to break something with it. He wanted to cause irreparable damage to something. Alfred's eyes landed on the various bins of nails and screws that surrounded all the unfinished wood shop jobs he had. He tightened his grip on the bat and took the two steps towards the work area.

The first swing knocked down a half completed birdhouse. The second a bench. The third and fourth the bins of screws and nails. He kept slamming his bat down onto the nails and screws on the floor, like he was trying to break the bat because it was his favorite. He was hitting so hard the nails and screws became imbedded into the bat itself, turning it into an even more lethal weapon.

Alfred finally stopped after the floor was covered in wood chips, the scattered remnants of his projects. His breathing was slightly ragged as he looked away from the floor and at the bat in his hands. The bat had nails sticking out at odd ends and screws crossing over them in random patterns. By some miracle the bat itself had survived, no splinters could be seen and Babe Ruth's signature was still visible.

He thought that would help. Had hoped it would. It didn't. Honestly, it only made Alfred want to destroy more shit. And, for some unknown reason, he had started to cry again. Tears of anger clouded his vision as he went back inside. He stopped at a hall mirror and looked at himself. All he could see was a crazed, hated and despised person looking back. "Everybody hates you!" he shouted, swinging the bat at the mirror and shattering it on contact.

He did this with every mirror in the house, scattering the glass across the floor every time. It still didn't help. He still wanted to destroy more things. He still wanted to feel the short lived relief of knowing he had caused some insignificant object's untimely demise. It felt good. It felt better than trying to save everything and everyone when he knew he couldn't. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner?

Alfred sighed and angrily wiped away the tears. He blinked and looked around, realizing just how messed up his vision actually was. He went to his room and rummaged through the useless crap in one of his dresser drawers, pulling out his prescription sunglasses. Alfred looked at himself in the mirror, grinning at how the sunglasses were so different from his normal ones.

His eyes stopped on the "Golden Boy" blond hair gracing his head. Alfred scowled a little, hating how it reminded him of the blond jokes people made. He wasn't a ditz because he was blond and was annoyed with people thinking of him as one. Alfred considered shaving it all off, but decided that would just create a mess he didn't want to clean up. He put the bat down on his bed and found the hair dye he had used last Halloween for his zombie costume. It was a brownish red and, though only temporary, would last long enough for him to get a more permanent dye.

Alfred stood in front of the mirror, dye bottle ready in one hand, and stared at his reflection. Was he really about to do this? Was he really ready to make this huge change? Sunglasses were one thing, they could be written off as temporary before he got new ones. Hair? That was something else entirely. It was a major focal point of his appearance. What kind of hero just changes their appearance out of the blue? Wait. Just wait a second. Hadn't Alfred said he was done being a hero? Hadn't he been tired of trying to save the people that hated him?

Yes. The answer was yes. He was tired of being a hero. Alfred narrowed his eyes and started applying the hair dye, watching with some insane glee as his "Golden Boy" hair became darker and darker. He could practically feel the heroic tendencies falling down the drain and it excited him. Who said he had to help people anymore? Who cares if he might be letting people down? He wasn't letting anyone down anyway, since everyone happened to despise him.

Alfred grinned again as he set down the dye bottle, proud of his work. He definitely wasn't golden anymore. He felt different. He felt like he could do anything and get away with it. Nobody would recognize him with the sunglasses and new hair. Alfred could take on the world and nobody would be any wiser.

Yes, this is what he wanted. He had wanted-no he had needed this change. It was a brand new him that could do the worst kind of shit and never be caught. Alfred put the sunglasses back on and picked up his bat again. He rested the bat against his shoulder as he walked towards the front door. Alfred took a deep breath when he stepped outside and raised an eyebrow at the revving of a motorcycle engine.

"Sounds like I've got my new ride," he says, talking to nobody and everybody. Alfred walked towards the rider on the motorcycle, a sadistic grin forming on his face.

This made it official. Alfred was done being a hero.

It was time for Alfred to be a villain.

So, in case you couldn't tell, this was about Alfred becoming his opposite because of the other countries. This was on my mind for a while, to be honest. I hope you guys enjoyed it, comment your thoughts, and thanks for reading!