Hetalia One Shots!

"Justice" AmeriPan

Monday

      The year was 1871, the first year that our hero, Alfred F. Jones, was the sheriff’s deputy in his hometown in California. He was an honest kid, hard working when he wanted to be, but he wasn’t the brightest. If you want my personal opinion, that kid shouldn't've been left in charge of a gun, but, you don’t care about me, do you?

    The sheriff, a big, plump man, was off hunting down a gang that had been raging destruction all along the West Coast. They were a gang of migrant asian workers, responsible for the destruction of at least three mines and one railroad. So, Alfred was told to guard the station.

     Alfred was rocking back and forth in the old wooden chair that usually rested behind the sheriff’s desk. But, until the sheriff got back, Alfred was technically the sheriff. He held his shiny golden badge between his index finger and his thumb, making the pale yellow light of the morning reflect off of its sparkling surface.

    His fingers began to tighten on the badge, ever so slightly. He did so absentmindedly, not really realizing that he was doing so until the badge slit open into his thumb, blood spilling onto its jagged edges. Alfred cursed loudly and let go of the badge, letting it crash to the floor.

    He sighed and glanced under the desk. Why did it have to roll all the way under there? He got down on his hands and knees and grabbed the badge cautiously, being careful to not prick his finger again. His blue eyes landed on something else that had fallen down underneath the sheriff’s desk. A ‘Wanted’ notice.

   It was a miracle that Alfred even saw it in that pile of junk. The sheriff is a big man, and when something falls under his desk, he doesn’t go under and pick it up. Alfred grabbed the paper harshly, bending the corner.

   “Wanted, dead, Gang leader….No name?” Alfred whispered the details of the paper to himself quietly. Alfred wasn’t too good at reading either, and he often had to say the words aloud before they made any sense to him.

   The picture was a sketch of an asian man, with bowl cut black hair and dark, lifeless eyes. He was giving the reader a blank, empty stare. It was almost unnerving. Alfred crawled back out from under the desk, returning to the light of day, bumping his head against the bottom of the drawer. He inhaled sharply and tried not to curse.

   Alfred was rather clumsy.

   He reclaimed his seat in the sheriff’s chair and propped his legs up proudly on the desktop. He set the notice on the table next to him and smiled contentedly. Deputy. Man, I’m the deputy!

   It had always been Alfred’s dream to be a deputy, then eventually sheriff. He’d always had an obsession with the powers of good and evil, banishing the bad while wielding justice. But, what Alfred didn’t know was that there were grey areas in between, that ‘good’ and ‘evil’ are determined by each person’s own experience, and that ‘good’ is not always ‘good’.

 Alfred was many things, but, most of all, he was childishly naive.

 The sunlight filtering in through the small window warmed his face, and he felt his eyelids become heavy and slip over his eyes. He must’ve fallen asleep for longer than he thought, because he was awakened by the sound of the sheriff outside. Alfred’s eyes popped open, and he nearly fell out of his chair, waving his arms in a grandiose fashion.

   Alfred scrambled into a somewhat professional position, pretending to read the paper. A few seconds later, the sheriff hobbled into the small station, leading a man with his hands tied behind his back over to the small jail cell that was located in the corner of the building.