Hey folks. I realize that it's been quite some time but I hope you enjoy regardless. Rated for silliness and awful parenting.

When I am not drinking coffee while writing, drinking coffee while not writing (I am particularly accomplished at the latter), recruiting for my evil empire, being daunted with the amount of work an evil empire requires and looking up pictures of cake on Tumblr, not cleaning my house, feeling guilty about not cleaning my house while looking up pictures of baby penguins on Tumblr, mistakenly drinking six espresso shots at work and believing I can see dead people, racking up late library book fees, forgetting potatoes on the stove (and consequently exploding them), observing what happens if you do likewise with a Marshmallow Peep, crying after exploding innocent Peeps, thinking about my cat, thinking about my best friends, worrying about the past, worrying about the future, coveting books, coveting dark chocolate, eating pity chocolate because I'm reading material by outstanding writers, running off the chocolate (after too much espresso, running is easy when you're being chased by dead people), thinking about characters I have not killed (yet), or hiding beneath my kitchen sink, I'm often contemplating heart-warming stories with which to warm your heart.

I imagine an increase in blood pressure makes the body temperature rise, and subsequently every organ is warmed.

Ergo it's my mission to do just that, although I've been informed by reliable resources that my stories cause more cranial-warming than heart. Consequently, many of my cherished, beloved, darling readers whom are intelligent, wonderful, kind, and probably very-good looking might have wound up in an asylum (coincidentally where I am; it's very difficult to type wearing a straitjacket and with a pen in your mouth).

Because people read my material—or enjoy it—I have long-suspected head trauma or lapses in sanity in my cherished, beloved, darling readers whom are intelligent, wonderful, kind, and probably very-good looking.

But being that you ARE cherished, beloved, darling readers, whom are intelligent, wonderful, kind, and probably very-good looking, this is easily overlooked. In turn, I hope you can overlook a near-year's delay in updating.

A near-year…this is surprising, considering my updates usually take much longer.

I deeply regret to report that there are no fatalities in this chapter. But it warms my heart to inform you that following an incident that will be detailed for you shortly, Miss Angie checks into a rehabilitation facility for mental anguish.

~o*oOo*o~

Following her recovery Miss Angie elected not to return to teaching preschool, but pursued a career in deactivating mines in the Middle East, which is a rewarding and arguably more-relaxing option.

Alfred and Matthew's preschool graduation ceremony was relatively quiet. This was probably due to Francis and Arthur's acknowledging each other's differences while appreciating their many similarities, allowing the families to coexist in mutual goodwill.

And if you believe that, than I invite you to click on that ad assuring you that large-breasted Ukrainian women arewaiting for you, or that you've inherited a vast fortune from your oil plantation-owning uncle in Saudi Arabia (the prerequisite for receiving being that you offer your credit card digits up front).

No, Alfred and Matthew's graduation was likely uneventful because Miss Angie had by some oversight mailed their fathers' graduation invites with the wrong time (and curiously enough, the wrong zip code). Upon discovering the error Francis and Arthur flew back over the Argentinean border, and apologized profusely to their boys as the children traipsed to the classroom to greet their families.

As the other was clearly at fault for this fluke, Arthur and Francis then proceeded to mangle each other in sight of everyone. As Arthur attempted to throttle Francis with his Hermes tie, whacking him round the head, Francis graciously offered Arthur refreshment.

Francis might have forced Arthur's head into the Jungle Juice punch bowl (which was actually cherry cough syrup and whiskey prepared by a thoughtful veteran of preschool graduations), but the intent was sincere and so we can forgive him. If you don't, that means you dislike France and you'll be dealt with accordingly.

"WANT SOME CAKE?!" Francis screeched, ripping Arthur's head out of the punch bowl and smashing it into a cake shaped like a smiling puppy wearing a graduation cap and holding a diploma in its mouth. "I'll make cream come out of your ears!"

I'm not certain why French people have the stereotype of being snobbish when they provide people with so much food.

Wheezing, lifting a face plastered in frosting, Arthur appeared to get his second wind. Which is admirable when someone is actively trying to suffocate you via forcing pastry into your lungs. "You're the one who hides bloody cake in his socks! Tell me, did the walk down the hall tire you out, thunder thighs?"

"Ha! I could eat a bowl of Alpha-Bits and crap out a better response, you horrible little man! When I'm through with you I'm going to kick your little ass back to Snow White's cottage!"

At that point Arthur ripped off Francis's goatee of justice, because he can. What followed after the scream is so unsuitable for you young readers that I invite you to pause right now and lie about your age somewhere else, like a 711.

~o*oOo*o~

One day, as Matthew and Alfred were walking home from kindergarten, they got to telling each other silly jokes. "Knock-knock."

"Who's there?"

"Boo."

"Boo-who?"

"Stop crying, silly."

"Ha." Matthew smiled and licked his lips thoughtfully. "I've remember THAT one now. Knock-knock."

"Who's there?"

"Orange."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Orange ya glad I didn't say banana?" He finished as the two boys approached their lawns. "I've heard that one already. Hi, Mistah Bonnefoy."

Tsking, Francis set aside the rosebush he'd been planting and shook his head reprovingly. "Matthew, surely you can do better than that." He stooped to whisper in his son's ear, a look of confusion settling over the boy's face as Francis withdrew. "Tell this joke instead."

The child looked positively bewildered. "But I don't get it. What's it mean? What's sex? And I don't…remember all of it now…"

Francis knelt again and Matthew craned to listen, brow wrinkling as he struggled to reiterate.

"Um, a man…" He waited. "Pro…professor is asked to give a speech on….sex and in-ti-ma-cy. What's that, Papa?—But he knows his wife won't like it…why not, Papa? What's…." The man waved his hand and Matthew went on.

"Well, he knows his wife won't like it, so he tells her he's giving a speech on boating, instead. After he gives the talk….the his wife runs…into a couple at the….supermarket who gush…..about how thoughtful the speech…was. The lady is…surprised…and says, 'That's funny. Because….we've only done it…twice. The first time….he got sick….and the second time….his hat blew off.'"

The boys looked at each other.

"I don't get it," Alfred said blandly.

"Me neither."

In the midst of fetching the mail, Arthur growled and stooped beside Alfred.

"'How do you kill a Frenchman?'" Alfred repeated as Arthur whispered into his ear. "'Slam the toilet seat down when he's getting a drink.'" He didn't appear to get that one, either. "Daddy, do you mean doggies?"

"'What's the best place to hide your money?'" Matthew said, because Francis was at his ear again. "'Under an Englishman's bar of soap.'"

"'What form….does a French birth certificate take?'" Alfred asked, Arthur fiercely whispering something to him in turn.

"'A…letter of apology….from….a…..condom factory.' Daddy, what's a condom?"

But neither father seemed inclined to answer the question. Upon noticing that Arthur could use a haircut (and several inches of his face removed besides), Francis displayed his usual gallant generosity of spirit by chasing after Arthur with his lawn mower. Shrugging, Alfred turned to Matthew. "Do you want me to grab us popsicles? They have better jokes on the sticks."

"Yes, please."

Alfred's sharing warranted a bad scolding later on, but it was not so bad as the one he received weeks later after accidentally breaking one of the Bonnefoy windows with his ball. Dragging his feet and his bat, Alfred shame-facedly went to confess to his father. George Washington would have been proud, and Alfred wanted to be like George Washington, even if George Washington happened to be a junior eco-terrorist.

"That was very wrong of you, boy," Arthur barked, although his hand ruffled Alfred's hair fondly. "I keep warning you what will happen if you don't aim away from the house!"

"But I didn't hit our house this time! And you told me to pitch o'er there!"

Arthur appeared not to have heard. "I'm very disappointed in you, young man. I'll just have to raise your allowance so you can afford to fix that window. And no supper tonight. You'll just have to eat two servings of dessert instead."

"But…"

"You'll eat your Oreos and you'll like them!" Arthur snapped, pressing a glass of milk and a plate of cookies into Alfred's hands. "Now take these in front of the telly and think about what you did."

The next morning the two went outside to find that Mr. Kirkland's car was splattered with brown. "Ew! Mud!" Alfred exclaimed before running for the hose.

"Mud. Yes. Yes, Alfred."

~o*oOo*o~

One Saturday morning, Arthur was reading the paper when Alfred came running into the room, face flushed with excitement.

"Daddy! Daddy, look!" He proudly opened his fist to reveal a molar, crusty with blood. "My toof came out!" His tongue wandered to the new gap and he shivered. "Ewww! The space where it was…feels weird…"

"Then stop touching it."

"I can't!"

Reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief, Arthur gingerly took the tooth. "Congratulations!" he said as he headed towards the door. "Now, let's get this cleaned up, shall we?"

"Daddy, where are you going?!" The child exclaimed in a panic. "I want my toof! I want to put it under my pillow!"

"In a second!" Arthur shouted eagerly over his shoulder. "I just need to run it through…the buffer really quickly, else it won't be nice and clean."

"My teeth ARE clean!" Alfred protested, stamping his foot. "I brush! And what's a buffer? When did we get one?"

Clearly in a hurry, Arthur reluctantly paused at the door. "A buffer cleans things, like the one we use at the car wash for removing….rubbish. I'll use the buffer we got just now to make your tooth extra-clean, darling. The tooth fairy is very picky and if your teeth aren't perfectly polished, then…."

"…will she not bring you money?"

"No. She'll leave you Canadian dollars, which is worse than not getting a cent at all." And Mr. Kirkland rushed outside.

"HA!" He roaring, tearing for his neighbor's house. Francis poked his head outside a window as Arthur triumphantly waved the tiny tooth in the air. "HA, STINKING HA, YOU SON OF A BITCH! My Alfred just lost his first tooth!"

Francis smiled, a smile that suggested severe constipation. "How charming! But monsieur, if you want la petite souris to leave you lots of money, why don't you wait there until I find my shovel?"

Arthur continued crowing. Adjusting his rifle scope, Francis wondered if his insurance would cover his shooting a man thirty-seven times in the face.

"First again, old boy, just as it came to toilet training! But don't take it too badly to heart, even if all the parenting experts agree that my Alfred's hitting his milestones early and is on track for early acceptance at Oxford!

But don't worry! I'm sure your son will find a rewarding career re-folding clothing at Old Navy!"

Deciding to take the moral high road, (which is to say Francis discovered he was completely out of bullets), he reluctantly set aside his assault weapon and gave Arthur a congratulatory flower (which is to say he dropped a flowerpot on the man's head) before ducking back inside.

"Matthieu," Francis said sweetly, very slowly turning to his son standing behind him, who was bemusedly wiggling his own loose tooth. "Why don't you go play ball with Alfred."

Matthew thought this was strange—Papa never liked it when he played with Alfred. And he complained that every time Matthew did, eventually he'd run inside crying with some new injury.

And so, true to form, both excited boys had teeth underneath their pillows when the time came for bed.

Sleep was difficult, knowing a tiny winged woman would visit in the night and leave you money. Matthew wondered why in the world anyone would trade a dollar for your old teeth, and Papa patiently explained that la petite souris was probably someone who gladly bought any and all body parts so that you could fuel your drug habit.

Papa always had a way of making Matthew understand. Or infinitely more confused.

Francis tiptoed into his son's room later that night and slipped a dollar underneath his son's pillow before sneaking out again.

But Arthur, being just a bit tipsy after a beer or four that evening, after retrieving Alfred's tooth, reached into his wallet and accidentally pulled out a twenty instead of the one he'd been planning to give.

In the morning he realized his mistake when Alfred joyfully came crashing down the stairs, waving his money about. Whilst Arthur stared at his hands in cold mortification Alfred ran outside to show Matthew. Needless to say Matthew was hurt that the tooth fairy so blatantly preferred Alfred's teeth to his own, and soon the news traveled around the neighborhood that Alfred F. Jones' teeth were worth twenty bucks a pop.

"It's because my Dad knows to shine them real good," Alfred would explain to anyone who'd listen, flashing his own pearly whites. The incident left him much more interested in brushing. "The toof fairy likes shiny teef."

To Francis's great delight parents complained about Mr. Kirkland's ill-example as their children came home whining. And it was not long before local youth began appearing at the Kirkland's doorstop looking for Arthur to clean their teeth, assuming that he was a dentist.

The precedent Arthur accidentally established will set him back two hundred dollars when Alfred's last tooth falls out, but oddly enough, it's sort of worth the satisfaction.

When Matthew lost his second tooth, he awoke to an Easy Bake oven underneath his bed and a note of apology from the Tooth Fairy. There was also a postscript informing him that she'd only left Alfred so much cash as a means to pay for his costly dental bills when his grotesque, British horse teeth started coming in.

~o*oOo*o~

Shortly after the boys began first grade, the teacher informed them of a new program called "Classes for Convicts." It involved having convicted, criminally-insane felons re-enter society via community service. This meant that teacher aides could briefly lead lessons while the actual teacher slept behind the desk. Alfred and Matthew had two teacher aides, two young women wearing electronic anklets.

"My name is Miss Star." Said Miss Star, writing her name on the board for those of you needing three reminders. "I haven't committed a homicide in eight weeks. Homicide, can any of you children spell that? H-o-m…never mind. Eight long weeks. A week is seven days. That's a long time, a week. Let alone having eight of them. Can anyone tell me what eight times seven is?"

The children stared blankly at her. Miss Star smiled. "Remember children, there are no stupid answers," she announced, momentarily forgetting that her own mathematical prowess fell below that of kindergartners and certain dolphins. "Just stupid people. Don't be shy, although you'll lose a finger for every digit you're off!"

"Star," The other teacher chided gently. "It's art time anyhow."

Miss Rose was pleasant, intelligent and highly unlikely to need inebriation whilst teaching. Matthew and Alfred liked her right away because she showed movies in class, took them on regular trips outside, and confiscated Miss Star's machete, replacing it with craft scissors.

"Miss Rose is nice, for a girl," Alfred said thoughtfully one lazy Sunday afternoon as the two sat on a tree branch. "I think I'm gonna marry her."

"Oh." Matthew frowned and shuffled his feet. "I wanted to marry her," he said pointedly.

Well, this proved to be a dilemma. Being very democratic, Alfred thought up a solution that would please both parents and radical jihadists. "Here's this," he suggested wisely. "We'll both marry her, and she can be your wife for half of the week, and I'll get the other half."

"Who gets Saturday?" Asked Matthew, who was very good at math.

"We'll both get Saturday. We always hang out together on Saturdays anyway. She can watch Gundam with us."

That seemed reasonable, so they parted on good terms. Now all that remained to do was to propose, although neither child had any inkling as to how to go about doing it.

"Daddy, how do you tell a girl that you like her?" Alfred asked that night as they prepared supper, or what constituted supper. I'm getting a little tired of ribbing at Arthur's cooking, so I'll let it slide this once.

"Oh, well," Arthur smiled and broke a tooth tasting his homemade yogurt.

Okay, I lied.

Eyes watering in pain he fetched a handkerchief, which seems like a really British thing to do so that's what I'll say he did. Though I'd much rather say Arthur flung himself out the window, hopped upon a manatee, and flew away to join a commune of singing squirrels before entering into a murder-suicide pact with them. For the sake of continuity however, I'll say he retrieved a hankie."You're a little young for a girlfriend. Weren't you telling me the other day you thought girls were gross?"

"They are." Alfred said dismissively, cringing as he watched Arthur pour flour into a mixing bowl. His father exalted flour moth larvae extra free protein. Hopefully if there were leftovers they'd go missing for awhile; he found that Arthur's food was usually more appetizing following two months of being stuffed at the back of the refrigerator. Ba-dum, chuk.

"Hilarious," Arthur muttered under his breath. "Cheesy bad food puns. How quaint, Miss Narrator. How utterly original and charming, considering you ruin cereal. Where DO you get all this great material? It's a wonder it never gets stale. Likely because you only update every ten months."

Exercising her authori-tay, I opted to drop a pia….

"I beg your pardon? Was that a South Park reference?!" Arthur screamed at the ceiling and Alfred ran to fetch Daddy his triple x-marked, relaxing-medicine jug. "What depths have you fallen, woman? I realize your work is a repetitive dumptruck of fluffy dead cats, but I never thought you'd sink so low. At least not so soon."

I made a mental note to kill Arthur (again) in the most painful way possible (again).

"I'm sorry," I told him, not meaning it one whit. Arthur glowered at empty space, still loathing me for some reason. Although in his defense he hardly needs a reason.

Because the audience is getting bored of this fourth-wall breaking/fanfiction rule-breaking/only slightly-funny existential crisis, the plot moves on. As Daddy was evidently finished with his out-of-body experience (which raises numerous questions, all of them with horrifying answers), Alfred resumed talking. "Miss Rose is different, though. Mattie likes her too."

"Is that so?" Arthur demanded, chair scraping from his seat as he rose.

Alfred bobbed his head. "Yeah. Matthew said he's gonna tell her how he feels on Monday, 'cause he won the coin toss." He pouted but soon brightened.

"Knocking out that boy's teeth is one thing, young man, but I will be damned before you two share!" Arthur growled. "Faint heart never won fair lady. What does Matthew have that you don't, besides a father that doesn't hear dead people, or practice black magic, or collect roadkill for supper? Your hair is spikier than his, and probably held up by magic."

"I…."

"No buts!" Arthur snapped, although Alfred did not use the word "but," making his interjection inaccurate. "I'll teach you to court like a proper Englishman, in the—" Arthur quickly flicked through the Oxford slang Dictionary. "—pimping style of Henry XIII. The lass will be swooning in your arms. But they have a pill for that now, so don't worry."

"But Barney says it's good to share friends."

"Rubbish. Bad-Touch Barney is a bloody communist and an ungodly abomination. And 'I love you, you love me?' That's called bestiality. Don't fall for it, love. You have to win over your little lady friend and be sure she never speaks to the likes of Matthew ever again."

"Remember," Francis told his son Matthew, peering over his script with some annoyance because of the obvious preference the narrator is giving the Kirkland-Jones this chapter, "It's not enough for you to succeed, mon cher. He must fail. And he will always fail, for you are of Paris, or rather Quebec, which is good enough—and a warrior of a'mour!"

Matthew cocked his head. "How did you get girls to like you, Papa?"

"Hmm? Well, I considered exercise, but Papa is too pretty for that so I just injected horse tranquilizer in my biceps. As for you, mon cher, you must remember to have…."

"A strong heart? Alfred's Daddy says it's good to have a strong heart when you tell someone you like them," Matthew piped up, feeling a bit better.

"Mon dieu, non, I meant you need an excellent car when you confess!" Francis cried in obvious distress. "And what he would know about having a strong heart?" He demanded haughtily. "Given his cooking he's a step away from a heart attack. You must defeat him and earn my—your darling's love!"

Anyone else might have felt their sanity hang itself in the hole where their soul used to be, but Matthew was getting used to this.

This chapter was more silly one-liners than plot, but thinking next chapter we'll have a beauty pageant. If you have any ideas I'd be thrilled to hear them! Please review. :)