Memento Mori -ussrxuk-

paris

i went to paris once. the eiffel tower was pretty alright cant lie.... oh yh this chapter is in honour of macron being a silly little guy

Russian man that can actually cry's POV:

Everytime I go to a café, there's always something crazy going on.

The first time I noticed this trend, it was a café in New York, where a man with a very heavy Italian accent got arrested for.... apparently selling a glock to a client over coffee. It took so long for the police to let everyone leave after that. I was late for a meeting because of it.

The last time was in a different café in New York. A cat had jumped on top of the coffee maker and had broken it, spilling coffee everywhere.

And now what do I witness? None other than France himself having an argument with the girl at the counter about what I can only assume is the pastry he ordered.

I wouldn't know, I don't speak French. I badly tried to order my coffee in French earlier and the girl just sighed and said "What do you want to order?" in perfect English.

Back to now. I can see France point at the counter and speak. I can't see what he's pointing at though.

"Cette pâtisserie est un affront à toute la France. Comment osez-vous me servir cette abomination," He speaks with an angry tone.

"This pastry is an affront to all of France. How dare you serve me this abomination,"

I have no idea what he's saying so I also have no idea if what I'm hearing is even about a pastry.

The girl puts her hands on her hips. She spits onto the counter without her glare breaking eye contact with France.

"Tu t'es plaint que c'était sec. Je l'ai réparé. Maintenant manger,"

"You complained it was dry. I've fixed it. Now eat,"

France stands there, his mouth and eyes wide open. He stares in stunned silence at the girl, unable to speak. He eventually shakes his head and slaps his face with his hand.

"Je n'ai jamais dit que c'était sec. Regarde ça. Son brûlé à un croustillant. Comment peux-tu même te dire Français après cette disgrâce?"

"I never said it was dry. Look at it. It's burnt to a crisp. How can you even call yourself French after this disgrace?"

What are they even saying? I don't speak French. The most I can say is bonjour and I don't even know what that means. Translating from English into Russian every meeting is bad enough on it's on. I don't need this.

I take a long sip of my coffee as I watch this unfold. If this happened back home, a fight would've already started and someone would already be bleeding. The local Babushka would have her rolling pin ready for bludgeoning.

I chuckle at my own joke quietly.

Wait a minute. Aren't I around the same age as the local Babushka?

...

Where is my rolling pin when I need it? America would never see it coming. Oh it would be so funny.

The sound of a chair scraping loudly against the floor pulls me away from my thoughts. I look up in the direction of the noise.

France sits directly across from me, angrily holding onto a coffee cup. Damn.

"Uhmmmmm.... Hello?" I say.

"Bonjour Rupolsky," France mutters.

His accent is so nasally on my ears. It honestly sounds like his nose is always blocked. And him grinding his teeth together doesn't help aswell.