This is my first ever fanfic (excluding a short drabble I wrote about Russia), so I'm very sorry for the altogether lameness of it ^^' This is, obviously, my first story here, so please tell me if I've done anything wrong! So anyway, enjoy;

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Arthur Kirkland was frozen in place. His pale hand gripped the tv remote, knuckles turning white at the sheer force with which he clutched the sleek, black instrument. His slight frame was shaking in some cross between fury and shock, leaning forward from the small sofa. Before him, on the modest screen of the television, protestors marched angrily across the green of a small village, their indignant cries blocked out by the cool emotionless drone of a BBC newsreader. He'd long since stopped listening to what they had to say, locked as he was in his own turbulent thoughts, the chaos of the demonstration reflecting in his mind.

The day had started off so well, too. Alright, so the morning was kicked off with a series of curses and muttered profanities as he'd accidentally knocked a half-full mug of tea from his bedside table, resulting in a mass of shattered china and cold brown substance staining his carpet. But that wasn't particularly unusual; most of his days seemed to begin with one minor or disaster or another. He just assumed it was due to his generally poor luck. So, after mopping the offending mess from his floor, Arthur had settled back into a normal daily routine. Switching on the kettle. Retrieving the morning paper. Swearing at the toaster when it failed to perform its duty adequately. And, when his breakfast had been completed, leaving a message for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

It is probably best, at this moment, to explain something about Arthur Kirkland. Slightly below average in height, with looks that could be considered handsome what with his startling green eyes and attractively ruffled blonde hair (shame about the eyebrows, and that seemingly perpetual frown), this small yet slightly intimidating young man was in fact, to put it quite simply, the physical embodiment of Great Britain. He'd lived through the Battle of Hastings, the Great Plague, the Civil War. He'd fought and lost the War of Independance with America, yet had continued on to, many years later, pull through both World Wars. So, yes, it's safe to say that Arthur Kirkland, better known as England, was no ordinary Brit. Indeed, you could say he was the Brit.

Introductions aside, we'll return to where we left off. England was reclining leisurely in his living room, having successfully informed his boss that he had received the information about their meeting, and would arrive at Number 10 in several hours. Now, he had some time to spare. Nursing his thrid cup of tea of the morning, the nation drew his legs up onto the chair (not in an ungentlemanly manner mind you, not at all) and sighed contentedly. The sky outside was surprisingly clear of cloud for a London morning, although the deceivingly spring-like sunshine concealed a bitter winter wind. He gazed through the large front window, surverying his citizens with approval as they went about their business. His mind began to wander, and he found himself pondering the wherabouts of his fairy friends, who had yet to make their appearance. After several moments of contemplation, he shook his head; they were probably involved in their own important activities, or something along those lines. And so it was, feeling boredom beginning to set in, that Arthur Kirkland reached for the remote resting on the arm of the settee, and flicked on the television in front of him. After 'surfing' the various channels for a while, turning his nose up at several programs, including one titled 'Dancing on Wheels' in which disabled members of the population performed various forms of dance ("Oh honestly now, is this really what my people find entertaining?!"), he eventually settled on the morning edition of BBC Today. The day's news flashed past on screen, some of it interesting him, others not so much. One news story, claiming that Calais was keen on becoming part of England in preperation for the 2012 olympics, entertained him immensely. He made a mental note to gloat about it to France later. However, it wasn't until several minutes later that one particular headline caught his attention. He frowned at first, unsure if he had heard correctly, and pushed up the volume. The image on screen shifted from the studio to a scene outside one of his villages, where workers were gathered with placards. And now the United Kingdom was certain he had heard correctly.

Now, we're back at the beggining, to the enraged nation shaking in his seat. His mind had finally calmed down, yet he was still seething, a state not helped by the continuing mentions on the television of 'Cadburys' and 'sold out'. It was then that Arthur's rage finally peeked, all because of a single phrase uttered by the reporter. "...these Cadbury's workers are currently protesting after the alledged takeover by Kraft, an American food firm....". Just one word. That single word, beggining with 'A', was enough to send England into a silent fit of rage. With trembling hands, he pulled himself roughly out of the chair, shoved on his boots, grabbed a thick coat and flung open the door. His green eyes flashed dangerously, and his mouth contorted with wrath as he hissed in a low and unbelievably dangerous tone;

"America. Must. Die."

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*wrings hands* S-so, what did you think...? If it isn't obvious, I based it on the takeover of Cadburys, which to be honest, I'm not too fussed about. As long as they don't change the taste XD

(If you don't know, Cadburys is a British confectionary company that specialises in chocolate. I personally love their Dairy Milk :D And yes, I'm British.)

Once again, I'd love to hear what you think, so please review! I really want to improve my writing skills. I'm planning on another Chapter, because this one was so fun to write, but I might get it done sooner if I get a good response...? *hint hint*