I look around the streets of Chicago. Everywhere there’s red, white, and blue flying on improvised flag poles stuck out from windows. Wait, what day is it? The newspaper stand has the answer: The Fourth of July!

Wait, the Fourth? Last thing I knew, it was mid-June. Where did all those days go? What the heck have I been up to, lately? I decide to head back to my headquarters to inquire with my family. Surely one of them would know what I had been up to for the last two weeks.

Arriving back at the building, I immediately sense something is different. My mind is still blurry from my two-week blackout, but talking to myself some more might help process things. What the hell, that building is tiny! Wait. That’s small enough you could only fit . . . eleven people in it. Aha! That explains why I can’t remember anything for the last two weeks! My boss is the Godfather now. I’ve been celebrating.

OK. So the last two weeks were clearly spent in a drunken party-stupor with the rest of the suburbs. Now that such unimportant questions are answered, I’ve got a mission. Today is the best holiday ever. It’s a day where all you have to do is get drunk, carry a flag around, and the more ridiculously, obnoxiously, and drunkenly you wave that flag about the happier everyone will be to see you.

I retrieve my flag from the headquarters, and in the meantime put on my brightest American flag hat and shorts. A real drunken Fourth always includes hairy man-legs. I retrieve some of the sweet nectar of my personal savior, Jacob Leinenkugel, from the local speakeasy. No Leinos for me, these are real, original formula Leinies!

I shotgun one, pound a boilermaker, and chase it with a shot of Jack Daniels, then reflect on the fact that maybe I just did that in reverse order. Best thing? It’s 11:00 a.m. and no one is even taking a second glance at me for it. This is a real American bar, and Real American Men pound beers on the Fourth. Don’t like it? Then don’t visit a Real American Bar with Real American Men.  

Someone in the back of the bar shouts out, Whoo! America, hell yeah! Fuck the Brits! This is my opportunity, my time to shine. I unfurl my flag, despite being indoors, and wave it back and forth. America! Fuck Yeah! We kicked that sorry lot out. Tax our mail? Tax our papers? Tax our tea? Oh, hell no!

Truth be told, I hate tea. Real American Men drink coffee. What do I look like, some kind of British sympathizer eating crumpets and drinking tea? But hell if I’d let some foreigner tax it! The crowd was plenty drunk already, so I didn’t need to do much more than that to prod them into a patriotic frenzy. So I began to march out the door, flag waving high in the air, as I started to sing. The crowd behind me joined in by the second line, and we walked straight down to Grant Park in a glorious, red-white-and-blue procession.

While the storm clouds gather far across the sea,

Let us swear allegiance to a land that's free,

Let us all be grateful for a land so fair,

As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer.

 

God bless America,

Land that I love.

Stand beside her, and guide her

Through the night with a light from above.

From the mountains, to the prairies,

To the oceans, white with foam

God bless America my own sweet home, my home sweet home

God bless America my own sweet home, my home sweet home

No smirks at this man.

"I am from England geezer, don't make me laugh with that soppy chat of tea and crumpets! I'm not here to take celebrations away from your little 'real man' party. Its such a cute thing to see people getting excited over."

No pulls out a lighter with the St. Georges flag printed on it and lights up a cigarette.

"I will give respect where it is due, but lets not forget that the battle was won due to quantity over quality. Also aid from places in Europe assisted you in the battle. It is insane when you realise how a small Island can have such power and achieve so much. Congratulations on your freedom but don't get too ahead of yourself and think lightly of GREAT Britain. Respectful and honourable soldiers fought on both sides of the battle, well trained men with heart, passion and patriotism flowing through their veins."

"Never forget where you are coming from and always be proud. There is a forgotten, nay almost forbidden word, which means more to me than any other. That word is England."

Passing by Ronan notices the remark by the proud Brit. With his refined English mannerisms and, my god, a St. George's Cross lighter, he couldn't help but take the opportunity to strike back. For one he loved an argument, and for another he was an ex-IRA man. He listened intently and let the man finish before coming back with his rebuttal.  

Aye, it's a good thing to get exited over. Freedom's a great thing.

And you Brits are ones to talk about quantity over quality. How many Brits were sent into Ireland over the years? And look who still came out on top. 

He lets out a chuckle as he scratches the nook of his nose.

Your right about one thing though. It is insane how a small island can have such power - power enough to force the hand of its Imperial neighbour.  We may not be out of the Commonwealth yet mind you, but the name 'Free State' means something.

As he approaches the Englishman he extends out a hand.

And I do agree that respectful men fought on both sides of own battle. But we'll leave that where it belongs in the old countries. This is the American's day, I'm not here to take that away from them.

Still with his right hand extended to the stranger he lifts a small paper US flag with his left.

God Bless America!

The statement is greeted by cheers and an echoing chorus from the gathered crowd of drunks.

"Ex IRA you say? I do hope this was before the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty?"

No looks at the man with a concerned look on his face.

"I don't have much respect for the IRA, even though I am part Irish myself. I think the whole war was a joke, bad acts were carried out on both sides of the battle. Terrorist acts from idiotic members though, that grinds my gears. Things like the PIRA are scum and a disgrace at best."

No reaches out his hand and gives a firm hand shake.

"You should go have a drink, Irish are good at that."

Not at all! I was with De Valera and the gang until they started locking us up. But don't worry - that's all in the past.

He gave the man a wink and again he chuckles a bit at the uncomfort of No.

Aye well, to be honest I'm already half-cut. A few more can't hurt. Come on and we'll head to the bar - my treat.

Ronan walks off back in the direction he came from - forgetting completely where he was going before he stopped to butt in. Singing the anthem of his new found homeland, he hadn't bother to check if the other man had followed him.

No picks up his beer and walks behind Ronan. Singing as he followed.

"So tell them in Brussels and Parliament too! We are PROUD to be British we are red, white and blue! So fly the St. George flag and the union jack, and tell the whole world we are taking England back!"

No stumbles around in his drunken state singing parts of random songs, not concentrating on where he is actually going.

It was not a good day. Our loveable drunkard was still reeling from his Fourth of July exploits. How could it be, that here, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, none of his fellow patriotic Italian-American coworkers, or even a few second- or third-generation American friends of his, would join his impromptu procession through the heart of Chicago? Hell, how did he manage to find the one actual British native in the city, apparently on vacation from is motherland? None of this made sense.

Has the world gone mad? Someone pinch me, and give me some coffee. This five day bender I’ve been on clearly has screwed with my mind more than I thought. Because I thought my line of work was populated by a bunch of Italian-Americans who would not allow their organization to be infiltrated by anyone whose blood was not the same.

Eh. Maybe our favorite alcoholic madman was just and old-fashioned, alcoholic, racist madman. But wasn’t there some sort of a traditional basis for this thing of ours being, you know, ours? It was puzzling. Even if there were a few people coming in from abroad, you’d expect at least a few good, patriotic hyphenated-Americans to have joined in the revelry on Independence Day. If nothing else, it was an excuse to get drunk and act like a moron, right?

I just don’t get it. This is the first Fourth that I’ve had where I haven’t been able to get a procession to parade down Lake Shore Drive with me, beers in tow. Is this city dying? Has everyone shuttered up indoors and forgotten their patriotic spirit? I don’t know. Something is seriously wrong in Chicagoland, and I am going to get to the bottom of it. But first, I think I’ll need to get to the bottom of this here bottle of Jameson. Sláinte, as they say.

Stumbling into the sunshine and hearing a familiar voice, Outkast walks, if you could call it that, towards the sound. Upon arriving, he sees Drunky, very unstable like, or maybe that was just his eyes, speaking from a box.

Drunky. Stop weaving. Making me f'n dizzy. Most of us were with you, at that broad's house, partying very patriotically if I may say so myself. I very vividly recall nakedness and the stars and stripes.

Though, on second recollection, the stars could have been the rum. And the stripes, were either those odd brown marks in someone's underwear, or the cocaine lined upon the counter.

Either way, we are too drunk or still too hungover to parade in this humidity. If you can settle for a Made in the USA tattoo on your left ass cheek, then a good day we shall call it. Or, if not, you may want to go get that removed.

Outkast nods his head as if he'd made a very important point, turns around, and saunters off to a cafe' that serves sammiches AND coffee.

stumbling through the streets he looks at the speaker and yells "USA USA USA USA" looking like a drunken fool frank walks away