If last year was The bestest Norway had. This year had the premise of being the worstest. A party destined to be so awful, there was a need to use fake words to describe its sheer awfulness. Bad party, bad English. Seems fair.

The atmosphere of the party, at best, was uncomfortable and, at worst, the most awkward situation the boys could picture themselves in while still remaining sober and clothed.

Norway had turned yet another year older, yet looked none worse for it. And yet again, had received a plethora of gifts, including a blue and yellow microscopic thong paired with a French maid outfit from Finland. The look on the taciturn nation's face indicated the gift was given in error and to suggest otherwise would mean a date with his knife, so the others kept their comments and theories to themselves. However, it was Iceland's contribution to the festivities that took the cake. Literally…

Normally, the celebration was held indoors, to avoid the brisk northern breezes. However, thanks to global warming, the weather was pleasant enough this year to spend the afternoon in the yard amongst some early blooming wildflowers. So there they sat around a worn picnic bench covered in a checkered tablecloth. Most of the savory d'œuvres had long since found their way into the stomachs of the partygoers and all that remained was Iceland's undisturbed cake. Yup. The five of them plus a cake hanging out. The aforementioned island sat proud as a preening puffin that all the attention was on his gift. The best gift. It still smoldered as if it had been pulled from a volcano moments prior, and the top still shined black as Antarctic tundra in winter. Questions, thanks to Sweden, were piling up hard and fast.

"Is it a chocolate lava cake?"

"No. There's not lava in it. That would make it inedible." Iceland said, pleased.

"Then how is it so black? Did you cover it with fondant?" Sweden persisted.

"What's fondant?"

"Maybe not..." Sweden snatched a metal spoon from a nearby table. "Did you leave it in the oven too long then? It's still smoking."

"No. I made it yesterday, so it's only a little over room temperature. My cake just happens to be so cool that it's still hot!"

Sweden adjusted his glasses with gusto, as if preparing to do some great deed the others were too cowed to perform themselves. All things told, that was the truth of the matter. He inched the spoon ever closer to the cake but gave pause when the utensil melted due to heat radiating off the surface. Sweden admired the remnants of the spoon ball in his fist and sat back down.

"It looks like it was baked by someone really important, don't you think?" Iceland snapped up and shooed Sweden away from the cake. "Finland, pass me your knife so I can cut it."

Finland bared his teeth and tensed. He clutched his weapon protectively and shot Iceland a look that said 'I'm selling ass kicking and you're about buy one!' No words needed. As usual, Sweden stepped up to diffuse the uneasiness.

"We're being so terribly rude." He said robotically. "It's Norway's birthday, who are we to deprive him the honor and privilege of the first cut in his cake."

And all eyes drifted expectantly to Norway, who only nodded dumbly. "I have an idea. I'll be right back." He declared and then rose to leave.

Denmark, who'd managed to keep uncharacteristically quiet during this whole ordeal, finally opened his mouth. First to take a long, long swallow of beer; second, to scold Iceland. "Do you remember our conversation at all yesterday? The one where I asked you not to do anything weird for this party?"

"You're not the boss of me anymore!" Iceland quipped. He made one final half-hearted appeal to Finland for the knife, but ultimately deemed it best to hunch his shoulders in a sulking fashion. "Besides, how can you even call it weird when you haven't even tried it yet?"

"I'm not going to try it. It looks terrible." Denmark countered.

"You don't worry about how it looks. You just stick it in your mouth." Iceland said.

"No way." Denmark said. "Last time I heard that it turned into an STD scare."

"Hey!" Iceland hoped he sounded more offended than whiny. "What the hell? It's just my cake. Right, Sweden?"

"Uh…" Thankfully for Sweden's ability to maintain social graces where none otherwise exist, Norway returned dragging a sizable hatchet in his wake.

"Sorry guys. I had to dig this out of the shed." Norway gestured with his head back at the weapon.

"A meat cleaver would've done it, probably. An axe seems like overkill…" Iceland said, pouting.

"Doubtful." Norway hefted the axe over his shoulder one-handed, in a display of great fortitude. The others, hearing the implicit command, scattered like bugs from a picnic.

Once they resettled at a safe distance, Norway brought his weapon down blade first on the cake with punishing wrath. The impact was enough to dent the cake and shake Norway to his core.

"Damn, this will be great exercise for your jaws!" Iceland clapped with joyous anticipation.

Norway coughed uncomfortably and swung again. The cake splintered like an ancient tree stump and the pan containing it shattered. On the third strike, the table was cleaved in two, as was Iceland's baking experiment from hell.

The five admired the fragments of cake (and wood and fabric and glass) that littered the intentionally overgrown grass. Finland ventured forward first and grabbed a hunk of the ashen bread that spit smoke in his face. He dropped it with numerous hushed 'perkeles' and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

"What in hell did you put in it?" Sweden asked aghast.

"What in hell indeed." Norway muttered.

Denmark, with the skill of a troubadour, covertly volunteered to fetch a garbage bag and hop on a computer to locate a competent local bakery, but Iceland heard the words 'garbage bag' and 'birthday cake' in the same sentence and correctly assumed the worst. After more than a few snotty objections, Denmark conceded, stating he wouldn't throw the cake away, but merely collect it for later consumption and leave it to rot in Norway's kitchen until someone else had a better idea. After all, it was only fair that the birthday boy should enjoy the bulk of it himself. When Iceland was sated with that explanation, Denmark stated he'd stash the cake somewhere safe in Norway's fridge. Ten or so tense yet uneventful minutes passed when Denmark finally returned from the kitchen.

"I got some news guys. Something happened in Norway's kitchen." Denmark said.

"What did you to do it?" Iceland said, accusing.

"I accidentally had sex with it. Now no one has to eat it."

Finland, Sweden, and Norway all shared a rare group hug with Denmark.

"Don't worry. I won't let it go to waste. The demons will be happy to have the leftovers." Iceland followed the path into Norway's kitchen, opened a window to air out the smoke generated by the cake remnants and located some sturdy Tupperware so that he might take it all back home. As he scraped it off the counter and into the container, his spirits sank to a low lower than the lowest valley. He paused in his efforts to instead eavesdrop on the conversation drifting from the yard and through the window.

"Holy mackerel, what did try to do to us?" Norway painstakingly straightened a crooked finger in the direction of the kitchen. And then it only got worse…

"He needs to be arrested for slander against baked goods." Denmark chimed in.

"I would die twice if I ate one slice."

A chorus of laughter.

"Nice, Sweden. Did you intend for that to rhyme?"

"I did spend a few minutes thinking about it, yes."

"When he told me to just eat it, I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but that's where all his friends live!"

Finland gestured something.

More explosive laughter followed by Norway's sympathetic and mildly guilty response. "Aw, Finland. That was mean."

"Yeah, but you still laughed." Sweden said.

"I didn't say it wasn't funny. I said it was mean." Norway said.

Iceland admired his sugary delicacy. Even the Tupperware containing it melted in protest. Carefully, very carefully, he plucked a crumb and dropped it on his tongue. Of course, it tasted nothing like normal cake, but like an earthy bitter with a hint of wormwood. It tasted like the palatable version of an angel sounding the trumpet before the apocalypse hit earth in full force. A perfect last meal for everyone on the face of the planet. And it only caused six blisters on his tongue. Nothing they couldn't at least pretend to like. He swapped the Tupperware for a garbage bag.

He considered beating a hastily and clandestine exit, but he couldn't. Not on Norway's birthday. So, cake in hand, he bravely trekked back to the others as they wallowed in mirth. The stifled laughter stabbed him harder than any sharp rock he'd parachuted on top of.

"What?" He growled in their general direction.

"Whoa, what's your problem?" Sweden said.

"Yeah," Denmark added. "A troll crawl up your ass on the way to the kitchen?"

"I'll tell you what my problem is!" Iceland tossed his head like an angry horse and shook a few sparkles to the ground. They became indistinguishable from the broken pan. "I spent all yesterday afternoon making something special for my brother and the most thanks I get is my friends insulting me behind my back. Have any of you thought for just one damn second that sometimes, it's just as enjoyable to give a gift as receive one? That maybe you should just shut your mouths and accept it gratefully? I'm leaving. Happy birthday, Norway."

"Iceland wait-" Norway called.

But the other country had already hotfooted off. He brooded all the way home. Luckily for other drivers he wasn't prone to road rage, because who has the money to replace a wrecked car?

When he made it back to his cute little country home, he dropped his culinary fail at the front door to let his pets feast. He stomped to his radio, blasted Bjork's latest album, and finally slumped in a fetal position against a wall in his phallus museum right next to a donkey specimen.

Not even being in a room full of penises could cheer him up.

More to come...