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America had been the one to talk the other nations into making a group chat for their monthly hangouts. After they taught him how to use WhatsApp, it had become their primary hub for any and all group get-together information (and a place for England to post half-blurred photos of whatever slop it was he had prepared for dinner, though most of the group did not respond to it unless France had something scathing to say) to be kept. They followed a schedule that Germany had prepared, dictating who chose what activity and when to do it. Sometimes it was fun, other times it was a six-hour hike through the mountains (which, unsurprisingly, Germany thought was great fun) or full live stage-productions of Mamma Mia’s 1 and 2 (which, even more unsurprisingly, France chose so he could play both Cher and Meryl Streep’s characters), it was a real toss-up. But, to be fair, the schedule followed a single pattern- that way there were less arguments about people’s ideas being skipped.
It just so happened that America’s turn landed smack dab in the middle of September. A beautiful, bright, sunny Friday morning with not a cloud in the sky, full of endless possibilities. As he pulled himself out of bed he could feel it on the wind, he could smell it in the air- the faint scent of fried dough and powdered sugar heavy on his senses.
America had posted the details in the group chat to meet in Dallas, Texas. ‘Be ready, dress comfortable, bring water and hella cash.’ It was almost ominous how little he explained the plan. The last time America had hosted his friends in Texas, England had gotten kicked by a horse. It was funny, but it had been a rough couple weeks of only drinking his mystery slop through a straw.
From Italy to China, all of them prepared for the day out as instructed. They had landed in Dallas the morning of, ready to go- or so they all thought. America drove like a maniac on a good day, but in Texas it seemed to be worse. He was running red lights, trying to get them wherever they were going as fast as possible.
It was a nightmare. France screamed as America hit the interstate, the speed hitting 80- or as he called it, a ‘Texas 50’. China made peace with whatever gods he denounced on the regular, while Russia held his fists closed tightly on the soft of his lap with that same smile on his face, albeit a little more nauseous than normal. Poor Canada, who was trapped in the passenger seat, could only whimper out for his brother to be a little more careful.
“Would you slow down?!” England shouted from the back of the short-length bus America had rented for the day (everything was bigger in Texas, including America’s license, going from regular to commercial). “Where on earth are we even going?!”
“It’s a surprise! But, we gotta hurry, they’re opening soon!” America shouted from behind the wheel, cutting off a semi-truck who made their annoyance known with the long car-horn blaring in all of their ears. America only laughed brightly.
Japan held onto the emergency handle for dear life. Italy held onto him just as tightly. “I think he’s gone mad—” Japan queased, trying to hold onto his breakfast.
“Why can’t we ever walk anywhere in America’s place?” Italy wailed in horror, one arm locked around Japan’s and the other around Germany’s. This had not been the first time they had been subjected to his driving or the demolition derby that was I-30.
“What’s the point of walking when you can get everywhere crazy fast?” America said with the optimism of an insane person who faced this on the regular. “Check this out! Watch me blow through these lights before the last one turns red!”
“That was a school zone!” Germany shouted as they took another sharp right around a bend. They would die in this bus, he was almost certain.
He shrugged it off. “Eh, if the kids aren’t in school by now, they won’t be walking here!”
Eventually, mercifully, they pulled into a parking space. It was a miracle that everyone hadn’t tumbled out. America opened the driver’s side, stretching on his toes as everyone got their bearings. Canada nearly threw up, clutching the front of the rented vehicle like a man who had been stuck at sea clutched to a tree on dry land.
“We’re here!” America announced brightly. Through the blinding gleam of the hot Texas sun, the looming figure of a man broke through.
“Howdy, folks! Welcome to the State Fair of Texas!” An animatronic voice echoed. If there was a god in this land, his name was Big Tex.
“C’mon, dudes!” America said, heaving heavy coolers out from the bus storage. “It’s opening day, there’s gonna be like a bajillion people- we’re gonna have to fight our way through the crowd if we wanna get to do any of the cool stuff!”
“I can smell the grease from here..” France shuddered, the hair on his neck stood on end.
—
Despite the shell-shock, their large group made it through the entryway. When asked to check their bags, Russia was held up for the fact he had brought his metal pipe with him. But, beyond the fact that no one wanted to argue with the ominous country, America just had to walk up and flash the security a smile. ‘Don’t worry, he’s with me.’ was all it took, after all- this was Texas. They loved America, and anyone who was friends with Mr. America got a pass.
“Why does that make me feel less secure?” England commented as the group finally got their tickets scanned and were officially inside the fair.
They had decided to pool their cash for coupons- it was a hefty sum between the nine of them. Split as evenly as possible, America did some calculations off the top of his head. “We should all have enough for a couple things to eat, some rides, and still have enough left over for booze- Germany, buddy, we’ve got to get you a slice of the Oktoberfest pizza!”
Just the name made his stomach fill with unease. “I think I will pass.”
“Suit yourself, it’s fire.” America said.
They stuck together because if they didn't, most of them were sure they’d never be seen again, swept into the sea of fair goers and sacrificed at the altar of Big Tex, too weak to survive on their own. That and because the fair map was near impossible to read at times- for everyone except America, that is. He knew the fair grounds like the back of his hands.
He led the group to the lake first to plan their route (not without stopping for a corny-dog first, naturally). “Alright,” He said through a mouthful of batter and weiner. “I’m thinking we’d get the most out of the day if we hit the midway first. Do rides all morning, hit the food court for lunch, tour some of the attractions- oh, hey!” He pressed his finger to the complimentary map, “They’ve got dairy cows in the barns today. France, you’re big on cheese and all that shit.”
“Why must you say it like that? So barbaric, to imagine me in some barn milking the cattle myself.” France painted such a bleak picture, “You make it sound as if I’m some lowly farming country like ol’ England.”
England looked insulted. “I started the industrial revolution, you tit!”
“And yet you still make your money from your beef and sheep supply.” He countered, “How the mighty have fallen. You cannot even produce a passable car these days.”
Their back and forth only continued, but thankfully the general noisiness of the fair drowned them out. America continued, “So, there’s a cooking competition in the creative arts building. We’ll keep England away from that. Anyone else interested?”
“I think I could whip something up for that in a pinch. Shouldn't be too difficult.” China added.
“Uh, dude, it’s an American cooking competition, not to mention it’s dessert based. And your desserts are not very sweet.”
That, while true, hit China right in his culinary pride, which only made his half-hearted interest flare into a full blown challenge. “Maybe it’s time your citizens learn to appreciate subtle flavors and nuance in their food instead of choking down preservatives and hormone-flooded byproducts.” He scoffed.
Seeing how this was the state fair and that described nearly every item on every menu, no one was sure how well that would turn out, but being friends was about supporting each other. So, America only nodded and scribbled down their planned itinerary on the side of the map.
“Alright.. Yo, Bro-bro?” He turned to Canada, who was already nursing a large bottle of ice water. Texas heat was not something he ever could get used to. “Any suggestions?”
“Maybe we could stop by the pavilion to see some of the shops?” He offered, secretly praying for the brief respite of a fan in his face. With his cold temperatures, it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out yet.
“I agree with Canada. Anywhere with air conditioning.” Russia sweat like he had been dunked in the lake, still wearing his heavy scarf. It seemed that he and America had different definitions of dressing comfortable.
“Laaaame.” America said, “But, hey, I guess I could buy a new hot tub. Ooh, and roasted nuts! Gotta get my candied pecans in, hell yeah.”
“Everything he says is as if it’s in a new language that I both do not understand and am a little afraid of..” Japan muttered to himself.
Italy had yet to let go of him, instead he stared with a sense of unease at the rows and rows of deep fried, overpriced monstrosities that America called food. “Fried pasta.. who would do that to pasta? And for 25 coupons..”
”Oh, we’ve got fried everything here, man.” America said as if it was a point of pride. “This one dude even fries butter. Butter, man! It’s like an art form to these people.”
“More like a nightmare.” His friends seemed to be in a collective agreement on that.
—
After a team huddle, their path was rooted. First, they’d hit the Midway. An echelon of unwinnable prizes and stomach-twisting rides, shaded from the blazing Texas sun by thin blue tarps. It was split into three distinct areas- the Funway, the Thrillway, and the Kidway. Through the sea of people they traversed line after line for low-scale carousel roller coasters, anti-gravity pendulum rides, and spinning spider-like contraptions that heaved and creaked with the weight of 30-some odd years of mismanagement.
China and Germany, despite their relatively even-headed natures, seemed to find the most enjoyment on the faster paced rides- lining up twice for the Hip-Hop, which sent them rotating a full 360 degrees at break-neck speeds.
Poor France had been pulled onto the log flume by England after one too many snippy comments about the humidity ruining his hair- not that England should worry about his hair looking any worse. They both ended up drenched, and escorted out of the exit line by security.
Russia managed to be the only one of them not to scream during the picture of them on the Skyscraper.
”Dude, that was intense, what is wrong with you?” America asked as he tried to catch his breath, his lungs sore from all the yelling as the ride swung them so high in the air.
”Thrill rides were invented in Russia, why would I fear something so close to home?” He said it so innocently, but that only made America stare at him in bewilderment.
Japan felt oddly at peace on the Texas Star, the ferris wheel moved with all the ease of a stream. He had been lucky, to be alone in the cabin (Canada actually had joined him in his) instead of with—
“Waaah! Too high!” Italy clung to Germany, this whole experience deeply traumatizing for the easily startled country.
”Italy, for the love of all that is holy, calm down!” Germany scolded him, but it did very little to stop his jittery squirming. Their cabin swung haphazardly on the old wheel’s hinges, threatening to snap with every move. Italy only relaxed when they hit the ground again, as he began to thank her Grace Mother Mary for keeping them alive.
They collectively decided to take a breather at the bumper cars- but that was quickly cut short by a familiar laugh breaking through the air with the sound followed by the bashing of bumper cars.
Sure enough, Prussia was there. And he was decimating the small children who had been unlucky enough to drive near him.
”Hey, Brohaus!” Prussia shouted as he caught sight of Germany, waving frantically to his little brother. “Check me out, I’m king of the cars!”
“What on Earth are you doing here?!” Germany shouted back, exasperated already as his brother was rear-ended by a nine-year-old.
”I come a couple times every year with America and Denmark! We’ve got season passes! I decided to bring the step-kid for some fun!”
Sure enough, as if he was a ghost, Kugelmugel appeared at the gate of the attraction, staring in at the carnage with an almost constipated look on his face as he wrung his hands. “This is not art.. He promised to show me art..”
”We’ll go look at the butter sculptures after I get this little—!”
“Do not swear at the children!” Germany shouted quickly.
Prussia returned with a vengeance, ramming into the nine-year-old little girl’s car with a force that rivaled military combat. She would leave crying, and Prussia would be banned from the bumper cars for the rest of the season- but he’d be back. They could only ban him seven or so times before they gave up. He could out-wait them.
—
Lunch reared its head soon after witnessing Germany’s embarrassing family tree. The group had found their way into America’s favorite spot in the entire fair- the Food Court.
The grease was palpable, so thick and heavy that it threatened to obscure their view. It certainly obscured their sense of smell. The room was hot, so it automatically made everything seem unappetizing. America was unaffected by this, hunting out his lunch order like a bloodhound. He brought several things to their table- which they had to fight for, as every other seat in the place had been taken- none of them looked tasty.
”Check it, bros!” America gleamed as he showed off his haul. “Fried pickle pizza, drowning taquitos, boudin balls with fries, deep-fried oreo sando- Japan, buddy, you gotta get a bite of that one- some cotton candy bacon, and the dessert of the century, drizzle red velvet cheesecake on a stick! Hell fuckin’ yeah!”
Everyone looked scared. Italy almost had a heart attack.
”How can you possibly eat all of that?” China asked.
”You’re going to give yourself a new form of diabetes from the amount of sugar and fat you’re consuming.” England said.
”C’mon, where’s your guys’ state fair spirit?” America said, already shoveling a little of everything in his mouth. “Look, the point of the fair is to be a ‘lil indulgent.”
”A little?” England barked, “You spent half your coupon budget on food!”
”Like a real fair-goer should! Just try something.”
He queased, and slowly picked up the bacon with cotton candy. His lip quivered as he took a bite. He chewed slowly, as everyone watched just in case they needed to call a paramedic.
”Well?” France croaked, “How is it?”
“It’s..” England’s eyes went wide. He swallowed. “It’s.. actually quite good.”
Their table was silent for ten full seconds until France wailed, throwing himself onto England. ”Mon dieu, someone call a doctor! Or a psychiatrist! He’s clearly lost his mind! It poisoned him!”
”I am not— get off me!” England shoved him off. “It’s a terrifying concept in theory, but I see where it's coming from! Savory meat and sweetness, it's a reasonable combination to make!”
America fist-pumped into the air, clutching a taquito. “Boom! Score one, Americana.” He bobbed his shoulders and head in a mini-victory dance.
”I.. suppose we must get into the spirit of things, somehow..” England begrudgingly admitted as he stood up from the table. “I think I will order.. one thing.”
“Brave man..” Germany muttered.
England wandered off into the sea of people, lost to the grease fog. Everyone but America slowly, terrifiedly, followed.
They would come back to the table like soldiers returning home from war, plagued by their experiences. Each of them was carrying the most ‘fair-appropriate’ food options they could find that wouldn’t kill them. Italy sobbed into his slice of American pizza dressed in sauerkraut and sausage, only to switch with Germany for his ‘cheeseception’ grilled cheese. Japan held the fried dumplings in his hand as if it was an object of treachery that would bring about his ruin. England had opted for something called the ‘Holy Biscuit’, which he knew was a lie to him and his taste buds. France and China, culinary savants that they were, had opted to share a savory crepe that was twice the size of their heads. Russia had decided to go for a turkey leg, which compared to him actually seemed reasonably sized. Canada got a thing of loaded fries, which he tried to pretend was like eating poutine. It wasn’t.
Surprisingly, no one died.
—
After lunch, they had decided to take the rest of the afternoon slowly. Italy had led them into the small aquarium to look at all the fishes, which was a nice respite from the hustle of the outside (and from his continuous terrified sobbing).
“Hi fishies! Oh, Japan, Germany, look! That one winked at me!” Italy beamed as he ran from tank to tank, his friends following behind.
Canada and Russia were just grateful that the fish were kept in a steadily air-conditioned building, taking their sweet time moving around the room in circles to soak up the cold.
“Yo, fish-man, what’s the haps?” America greeted the fish as if they were old friends, slapping his hand down into the shallow touch tank. “High five!”
“You know, England,” France said weakly while the two of them watched America gleefully plap the water, “if you dropped him on his head when he was young, you can tell me. It would explain a lot.”
“I did no such thing! Maybe you dropped him! You were getting drunk on wine half the time while babysitting- unlike you, I know how to raise children.” England was insulted, but part of him did wonder if this had been his fault, somehow.
“My little siblings are all very well mannered and do not slap fish!”
Well, he had him there.
England felt his throat go dry. “..He must’ve gotten it from Spain.”
France thought about one of his dearest friends, (and for once) he found no argument. “Well.. yes, perhaps he did.”
China, who had raised four to seven mostly level-headed children, only could watch the three of them with a judgmental expression. “Maybe God shouldn’t have let either of you have children.” He muttered to himself.
—
The group went from the aquarium to the new car displays. America sat in the front seat of a truck double the size of a normal one (the standard American size was always double whatever anyone else was doing), laughing gleefully. “Check me out, dudes! Imagine this beauty goin’ 90 down a highway!”
They all dragged him out of there before he could reach for his credit card. Not again. Infact, they all collectively decided to Uber the next time they came to America’s place.
—
The cooking competition was fun to watch, as China was up against twenty-or-so older women, four of which were named Betty Jo. He rolled up his sleeves and started to prepare dragon’s beard candy. It was a difficult preparation process, one that would surely impress the judges more than a pan of brownies.
With the speed of the dragon whose beard he was preparing, China cooked and boiled and cooled and formed the sugar-cornstarch mixture into a perfect round circle, which he stretched and pulled vigorously. People watched in awe as he moved with the speed of a man 1/200th his age.
The final product was a collection of fine, thinly pulled strands of blue candy, with the texture of a horse’s mane. China stood proudly, smugly by his creation as the judges passed by each table.
One judge took a small clump of the dragon’s beard candy and popped it into their mouth.
China smirked, “So,” He said, “What do you think?”
“It’s very light, and has a nice flavor.” The judge said, scribbling something down on a clipboard.
As they delegated, he watched as ribbons began to be passed out. First place went to Betty Jo and her double fudge pecan brownies.
Ok, so maybe her dessert fit the American palate more- no matter, he was sure he’d win second, at least.
Second went to Betty Jo for her blondie bites, third went to Martha for her cheesecake crumble, and fourth went to Loretta for her praline cookies.
China ended up in last place- with a participation ribbon. To him, that was as if he had been marked for death and failure.
“H-How.. it’s one of my oldest desserts..” China trembled, baffled by the judges' decisions.
“It’s just cotton candy, dear.” One of the Betty Jo’s commented. “It’s very nice cotton candy, but they sell it right outside for five coupons. I just don’t think that’s what they were looking for.”
That. That right there. That broke him.
China’s friends had to stop him from climbing the building and jumping off it. After all, it would’ve scarred Kugelmugel (who was in the same building with Prussia to finally see the butter sculptures) for the rest of his young, immortal life.
—
The barns were nice, at least. Not in how they smelled, but everyone loved animals. The dairy cows and chickens and piglets all mulled about, while the group watched.
Italy knelt down at the side of the pen, poking his fingers through so the piglets could sniff him. “Don’t you ever wonder what animals talk about?” He asked as the little babies oinked. “Ciao, porcellino!”
“I think they’d say something along the lines of ‘don’t eat us, please do not’.” France said, bending down at Italy’s side. “Allo’ petit porcelet.” He greeted the baby closest to him.
“Says the guy who invented foie ‘gross’, so messed up dude.” America joked as he lifted some of the stray hay to the mouth of a dairy cow, who ate it gladly.
“That is different! Geese are an affront to nature. And it is ‘foie gras’, stupid American.” France scoffed. “I would not hurt such a helpless little thing such as this. You would turn it into bacon!”
“Hey, I may love me some pork, but I’m not an evil dude. I couldn’t even read Charlotte's web without crying.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“Could you please stop talking about eating the animals that are right in front of us? I’m certain they can understand you.” England said as the singular baby horse approached him, whining for attention. He placed his hand on its little snout and stroked it gently.
“It’s the circle of life, bro.” America said, “One day, some bigger animal will eat us. Maybe Bigfoot- oh! Or Mothman.. well, maybe not. Something tells me he’s an herbivore.”
“Have you thought about this extensively?” He didn’t want to know the real answer.
—
Night finally came and the fair went from a warm, bright Texas affair to a multicolored menagerie of sounds and lights. There was a parade that they had stopped to watch, and fireworks that flew overhead. Music played and performers amazed.
As the moon hung over head, the countries all sat in the soft green of the beer garden, all hammered beyond belief. What little coupons they still had were scattered about, some floating in finished mugs of beer- others tucked into the breast pocket of Italy’s shirt. France had a few stuck in his hair, which he was busy twirling as he lay starfished out in the grass, a wine glass at his side.
America laughed bubbly, swaying off his chair with a beer in hand. “He—ey, hey!” He raised the glass, the amber liquid sloshing about. “Cheers, bros, to the state fuckin’ fair!”
Everyone returned his cheers in an equally sloshed chorus. Germany fell off his seat. Italy fell asleep into his lap right after. Russia sipped his 16th vodka miniature, hiccuping every other sip. China had reverted to his native language, half-reciting poetry and philosophies that he thought was, in his words, ‘piles of shit’. Japan laid at his side, on his stomach, sipping a frozen cocktail from a straw. Canada had already been escorted to a trash can to vomit. They had lost England somewhere between the 7th and 10th drink.
“We should do this every year!” America laughed and spilled the beer all over him. He also fell off his chair, plopping into the grass.
The State Fair of Texas, what a ride.