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 Archive name: Belgium.txt (mf, no-sex)
 Authors name: Tom Boutell, boutell@isis.cshl.org 
 Story title : The Taking of Belgium

 ------------------------------------------------------
 This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 1998.
 Please do not remove the author information or make
 any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-
 commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of
 commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration.
 ------------------------------------------------------

 TAKING BELGIUM
 by Tom Boutell

 Carl stood in the basement, between the washer and
 dryer, separating out colors from whites and heaving
 the whites in to spin.  He measured out a half-cup of
 pink detergent and poured it into the top- loader.  He
 closed the door and pressed the start button, and 
 missed the sound of footfalls on the basement stairs
 as the machine bucked to life. 
  
 "Dad?" 
  
 He turned around quickly, startled.  It was his five-
 year-old son, inquisitive blue eyes peeking out from
 under his tight blond curls.  He seemed to have grown
 another two inches that day, but that was nothing
 unusual. 
  
 "Time for you to be in bed, son." 
  
 "Yeah.  I know."  He looked uncertain for a minute, his
 expression gone awry in the way kid's faces do when
 they're thinking about something else and their face
 hasn't yet learned the trick of keeping itself
 together.  "You know, Dad, about the birds and the
 bees..." 
  
 Uh-oh.  Strange place for this conversation, or maybe
 it wasn't.  But he could always opt for evasive action.
 "Good grasp of alliteration there, son." 
  
 "Allivera..." 
  
 "Alliteration." 
  
 His son frowned for a moment, but was not to be put
 off.  He soon remembered what he had come down to ask.
   
 "Dad, where did I come from?" 
  
                            *  

 She had been standing at the washing machine, tossing
 in their clothes at random in the tiny basement of
 their first apartment building in the middle of the
 night.   
  
 They were both out of underwear. 
  
 They would have had enough to last them longer, but
 Carl was hell on underwear.  Especially women's. 
  
 She had poured in the detergent, closed the door, and
 shoved in two quarters. 
  
 "What a fucking tightwad," she muttered to herself.
 "The cheapest damn landlord on the South Side." 
  
 She pressed the button. 
  
 Nothing happened. 
  
 "Damn!" 
  
 "Something wrong, Janet?" Carl had just come down the
 stairs with another bag of clothes and a bottle. 
  
 "Damn thing's broken."    
  
 "Figures.  Shoddy American craftsmanship." 
  
 "Bastard."  She grabbed him by the arm and looked
 sternly into his eyes, as sternly as she could manage
 on no sleep.  "I happen to be a fine example of shoddy
 American craftsmanship." 
  
 "Hah.  Wir should have shtukkaed you ven ve had the
 chance." 
  
 "I'll give you stukkas, you hulking Germanic galoot."
 
 "You are my manifest destiny.  I must have lebensraum.
 I must have liebensraum."  He ran his fingernails
 roughly down her back. 
  
 "You fool.  You will be strong in the beginning, but I
 will overwhelm you with sheer industrial capacity."
 She pinched his nipple, painfully. 
  
 "Hah.  You are Poland.  I will take you in the middle
 of the night." 
  
 "Oh piss off.  You cheated in Poland."  She slipped her
 right hand into his pants pocket.  "Ah-HA!  We have
 located your secret laboratory.  What sort of dia-
 bolical Nazi experiments are you concocting now?" 
  
 "You are Belgium.  I will run you through.  Twice."  He
 loosed her shirt and thrust both hands underneath.  One
 traveled up, the other down. 
  
 "Hah!  I am England!  I'll pick you up on radar! You'll
 never dare land on my shores!"  She bit down hard on
 his neck, humming "God Save the Queen" and stamping her
 feet. 
  
 At that point they noticed, peripherally, that the
 washing machine was not entirely broken. 
  
 Specifically, it was working well enough to do a re-
 markable job of flooding the basement.   
  
 The drain, of course, had been clogged since 1922. 
  
 Neither of them particularly cared at this point. 
 "HAH! This time our leaders are not raving lunatics!
 Even now my invincible Nazi armada sets sail!"  He
 kicked up a storm of water around them.  "Ve vill take
 you by STORM! Even now we are kicking-down-your-
 door..." he pulled down her skirt with both hands and
 attempted to pick her up and carry her off in triumph.
 
 While she tickled his underarm. 
  
 "AIGGHGH!  An unsuspected pocket of resistance!"  They
 fell over into what was now nearly two and a half feet
 of water. 
  
 "We shall fight in the basements!" she cried as they
 splashed down into the storm-tossed channel, legs
 flailing. 
  
 "HEIL!  HEIL!  HEIL!" he gasped between ragged breaths.
 
                            *

 "Well, Stevie," he said, after one of those long
 fatherly pauses during which fathers seem to have put
 their brains on hold, "your mother and I loved each
 other very much." 
  
 Tom Boutell, boutell@isis.cshl.org 
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