I do not own American Horror Story anything.

And I really suck at my son's new wrestling game. Ha.

Boys' Night In

It was Halloween night and Evan Peters had decided to invite the boys over for the evening instead of going trick-or-treating with the girls.

A decision he was now considering might possibly have been a mistake.

For one thing, there was a virulent lack of said girls.

Unless he counted . . .

The flickering images and suggestive sounds emanating from the big flat screen caught Kit Walker's eye.

"What are you watching?"

Tate never moved.

"'Barbarella'. TMC."

Kit shook his head.

"That's not a respectful attitude toward women, man. Haven't you ever heard of equal rights? And feminism? And . . ."

He trailed off, staring raptly at the screen.

"What . . . is . . . she . . . doing?"

Tate remained locked onto the same screen, words drifting back over his shoulder.

"The bad guy trapped her in this machine and is torturing her by making her have a bunch of-"

He trailed off again, distracted by the writhing, moaning, space-aged femme fatale astronaut.

Until, that was, the screen went dark.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell?! The machine was just beginning to catch fire! Turn it back on!"

Kit, weed-smoking mother hen of the entire group, shook his head as if attempting to clear his Jane Fonda addled brain.

"Nope. Viewing timer. Too much television is bad for you. We need to get outside in nature-"

Tate glared at him.

"Nature? Nature?! You son of a b-"

Kit, now mostly recovered, ignored him

Smiled winningly and held up a bowl.

"Now, who's ready for some homemade mushroom barley?"

Tate stopped, dumbfounded.

"What?"

Jimmy Darling wandered in, late as usual, and smelling of at least eight different types of perfume.

"Hey," he cheerily greeted Evan with a lobster clawed wave. "Sorry I'm late. Tupperware party ran over."

Reaching into the fridge, he snagged a can of pop and looked around.

"Hey, where's Emma?"

Tate, slouching into a bag of chips nearby, looked slightly confused.

"You mean Taissa, right?"

Now it was Jimmy's turn to look baffled.

"Huh?"

Evan swigged self-consciously from his own bottle of Bud.

"Well, uh, neither actually. I'm, uh, kinda flyin' solo for now."

Jimmy moved past him toward the living room, cuffing his bespectacled host a reassuring pat on the back.

"Yeah, broads, man."

And right into the sensitive nasal sensory path of James Patrick March.

Perched rather gingerly on a well worn IKEA chair, peering in disdain at the common, kitchy surroundings in which he found himself mired.

And immediately wrinkled up his nose in distaste at the approaching of the easygoing carnie.

"Good god, man, you reek of cheap drugstore perfume!"

Jimmy grinned and winked.

"Yep, just another evening's work for the common lobster boy."

The dignified March was not amused.

"I insist you go immediately and cleanse yourself of that pungent aroma, Mr. Darling. And do not return until you are decidedly more presentable. "

Jimmy raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Really? Man, you really need to get out more."

To which the offended March retorted.

"If it involves such base shenanigans with aromatically displeasing dime store floozies, I believe I shall find my entertainment elsewhere."

And sipped snootily from his tumbler of absinthe.

Jimmy brimmed with sarcasm.

"So slicin' up dames and shorin' 'em up in mortar is considered dignified then?"

Causing Mr. James P. to soften, suddenly distant and wistful.

"Ah, yes, my dear chap. A so much more relaxing and satisfying pasttime."

He cleared suddenly.

"And as it so happens, my Ms. Evers keeps a stock of immaculate linen on hand, I'll have you know."

Jimmy tramped off in a huff.

"And they call me a freak. Jeez . . ."

Kit Walker walked carefully into the space, bearing a tray laden with glasses of vibrantly orange fluid.

"Anybody want some carrot juice?"

Tate Langdon looked abjectly horrified and slightly ill.

"Are you serious? Ugh. That's revolting. Don't you have any beer or something?"

Kit brushed the negative response aside and gestured encouragingly.

"Come on, give it a try. Alma fresh squeezed it from our garden this morning."

Jimmy Darling, habitating aimlessly nearby apparently agreed with his dead psychopathic counterpart.

"Come on, man. Are you kidding? It looks disgusting!"

Kit shook his head.

"No, no, it's great your eyes and liver and . . ."

It was at this point the refined Mr. March chimed in from his uncomfortable position on the least offensive piece of upholstery in the room.

"My dear man, it is simply ungentlemanly like to discuss the liver . . . unless of course, you are offering for us to examine yours, that is."

He paused, a glint surfacing in his dark eyes.

"For . . . comparison, let's say."

Kit stared at the suddenly highly attentive man in confusion as Evan waved wildly from the kitchen, mouthing emphatically.

Say no, say NO!

Kit paused, drinks still in hand.

"Um, no?"

The well-suited March sat back, somewhat disappointed and deflated.

"Ah well. More's the pity."

Leaving Kit to shrug as he turned back to the kitchen.

"Well, I don't suppose anyone's interested in my special brownies either."

Tate immediately pole-vaulted the couch.

"Hang on, man! When you say 'special' . . ."

'W2K16', the latest in Evan's proud collection of World Wrestling Entertainment videogames was blaring from its spot in the corner.

". . . really getting his comeuppance tonight! Look at the carnage!"

Not everyone was as enthusiastically gleeful as the pixelized Jerry 'The King' Lawler.

"Dammit, will you please press another button?!" Tate admonished a partially zombified, newly resurrected Kyle Spencer.

Who grunted nonsensically and glared at the grappling animations, repeatedly mashing the x button, the only button he could figure out how to work aside from the left joystick.

Subsequently pummeling Tate's imposing deadman Undertaker with his Goldberg-parodied Gilberg embarrassment.

"Hey, man! Stop it!"

All out of patience, the infuriated Tate knocked the controller out of Kyle's hands.

"Stop pressing 'x', stupid! I can't get ahold of you! It's not fair!"

Kyle stared uncomprehendingly at his empty hands then up at the petulant Tate.

"Garrrhhh!"

And launched himself at the Kurt Cobain-loving apparition.

"Hey! Let me go! Ahhh, stop pulling my hair!"

Evan ran in from the kitchen.

"Guys, guys! Hey, watch it! Kathy gave me that ragrug! Don't get blood on it! Hey!"

James Patrick March perked up from his bored stupor in the corner.

His thinly mustached face alit with emergent delight.

"Oh my, now this just may be an improvement we needed in our revels! Oh dear, watch that right hook, my good man!"

Kit, their resident hippie and peacemaker, crossed his arms disapprovingly across his hemp woven shirt.

"We don't really need to resort to violence to settle our disputes, do we? Come on, multiple personality family mee- AH!"

And he was undercut and dragged down by the tussling, brawling boys on the floor.

Evan facepalmed himself.

I should have gone trick-or-treating with the girls. They asked me. All I had to do was dress up as the cowardly lion. Sigh.

Hello, anybody still out there! I am alive! Isn't that nice? ;)

I've really let the negative aspects of life get to me lately and strangle the creativity right out of my floundering brain. But I think I'm back to stay now. Hopefully?

Anyway, this wack-a-doodle lil fic is for DinahRay and her unfailing patience and kindness. I hope it makes you laugh, my friend.

And all the rest of you too. :)

Of course you'll let me know what you think.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.