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**Continued…**

“Waaahh! I’m sorry! I’m soooorry! I’m not really a tomato fairy at all! Please don’t shoot! I’ll do anything! Anything! Forgive meeeee!” The Italian wailed and wailed, shaking his head, and spewing tears at both Germany and I. “You wouldn’t wan to kill and innocent virgin, would you? I’m just an ordinary Italian! I have relatives in Bayern!”

I saw the way Germany rolled his, the way his mood seemed to darken, the little thundercloud hanging over his head like two ton barbells. He wasn’t happy right about now.

When Germany lifted the Italian from the box by the back of his shirt collar it only seemed to enhance the pleas and excuses. “Don’t I get a last meal?! Can’t I eat pasta before I dieeee?!”

Germany and I shared a glance before I turned and asked the Italian, “Are you really a descendant of the Great Rome?” The stream of tears that was shooting at Germany’s face came to an abrupt halt.

“Huh? You two know grandpa Rome?” His world suddenly became much brighter. “I’m Italy. Rome’s grandson. I like pasta and pizza and I’ll do anything you say as long as I’m safe and fed! I thought you both were pretty scary at first, but if you know grandpa Rome you can’t be that bad!”

Something clicked in Germany’s mind and he back up, smacking Italy in the face with his gun. “You can’t trick me, you pasta-loving dummkopf!” Poor Italy fell to the ground, squirming like a roly-poly bug, crying again.

“Aw, Germany, did you really have to go and hit the poor kid?” Germany glared at us both, “All countries have their faults. So he’s a little annoying, certainly not strong, but anyways! You’ve got Hitler!”

“”Do not speak of Hitler in that manner!” he mashed me with the gun too, right in the jaw. Now there were two wimps, rolling and crying in the dirt.