I do not own American Horror Story anything.
And I swear I am not stoned or anything. Just really silly right now.
American Horror Story: RV.
Kit Walker was going to, by god, make it to Disney World.
If it killed him.
Which he suspected it just might.
But he was driving, he was in control. And so far had restrained himself from propelling them all off the many cliffs that promised to offer the sweet, sweet solace of quiet peace at their no doubt fiery bottoms.
It wasn't easy.
The scene behind him could be described as chaotic.
But that would only be the beginning of the description.
And he didn't know enough words in the English language, Spanish, or even pig-Latin, to create a truly accurate picture.
It didn't help that Madam Delphie LaLaurie sat next to him, mumbling to herself and erratically giggling at whatever she was staring on her iPhone6.
"Oooh, I love it," she'd charkle manically. "Let's see, 'hashbrown MamaAdorbs' . . ."
Hayden McClaine, practically hanging over the former sadistic slave owner's shoulder, huffed in frustration.
"It's 'hashtag', stupid, not 'hashbrown'. And you would stop it with the hashtag, you're obsessed with hashtag!"
Madam LaLaurie shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to shake off the annoying poltergeist girl.
"Oh shut up, you little hussy! I know exactly what I'm doing! Be gone with you!"
Hayden threw up her hands in disgust and wandered off.
Twenty-five seconds later, after much grumbling and fussing and shaking of the infernal contraption . . .
'Oh, Jiminy Cricket, what is wrong with this thing?! Uh, little hussy, I might have spoke too soon . . .'
But Hayden was gone.
So Madam LaLaurie was left alone with the infuriating little device.
Which would not draw blood or feel pain no matter how many times she rapped it on the dashboard in frustration.
And of course, there was Misty Day.
Who just wanted Kit to allow her to use magic instead of the GPS to find their route.
". . . so easy, darlin'. All we'll need is some chicken's blood . . ."
Which perked Madam LaLaurie up from her technological stupor.
"Would you be willing to substitute human blood? I've got some of that in my make-up bag . . ."
Distracting Misty's magical machinations by giving her the hebbie-jebbies and arousing her mystical curiosities at the same time.
"But wouldn't that skew the all-seeing eye's perceptions . . ."
Much to Kit's confused mixture of horror at the notion and simultaneous relief at being left alone.
Sort of.
Because behind him was more of this roadtrip madness.
"I just don't know how they expect me to make a decent soufflé with all this jerking and swerving!" Chad Warwick was bemoaning to Ma Petite. "I mean it's like they don't understand the simple mechanics of the culinary sciences!"
Ma Petite, perched on the counter and gripping the water faucet for stability, smiled and nodded understandingly at his outrage.
And tried to offer up her own advice to completely solve his culinary conundrum.
"Hotcakes?" she brightly suggested.
Chad grumbled and deftly caught a sliding bowl of whisked eggs as Kyle maneuvered the mammoth vehicle around the tinny-engined hot pink Smartcar in front of them.
What the hell was that little thing?! Who can even fit in that? A matchbox car is bigger!
And Chad tried in vain to remain aggravated at the tiny beautiful, bright eyed doll woman grinning winningly at him.
"No hotcakes, Ma Petite! They go straight to your hips, I told you!"
She shrugged and sparkled her dark eyes at him.
"Hotcakes?"
He rolled his eyes again and finally gave in to her charms.
"Fine, maybe after the soufflé and trifle, okay?"
She cheered victoriously as Shachath, the Angel of Death, threw down her poker cards in defeat at the miniature eating table.
And glared at the lobster-handed, dimpled boy across from her.
"You're cheating, aren't you, Jimmy Darling?"
The boy with the blond, tousled, duck hair sitting across from her grinned impishly.
"Well, I already beat taxes, bein' a carnie and all. Why not you too?"
She squinted her eyes at him, her painted red lips a narrow frown, refusing to show her amusement.
"You're lucky you're cute, boy."
He winked at her devilishly.
"That's what my mamma says."
And tried not to kick Infantata, who was huddling under the table.
In abject fright at the leering face before him.
Pepper, squatted down, peering at him, a giant, deranged grin on her simple face.
"Play with me!"
Infantata whimpered and wedged himself further into a corner, fearfully licking his fangs.
"Play with me!" she encouraged again, her hand reaching out in invitation.
And was nearly trod under foot as Dr. Arthur Arden hobbled through, dogging the heels of Desiree Dupree.
"That was completely unnecessary and out of hand, Ms. Dupree! I should contact the authorities immediately!"
She spun on her heel and he reflexively flinched as she flung out one red-painted fingernail, pointing at him.
"You brought this on yourself, you creepy little man! I told you that if you didn't quit asking to examine my private lady parts, I'd kick you in yours!"
He pouted like a child.
"But I simply wanted to understand your physiology so that science might better . . ."
She reached up and whapped him in the forehead with the palm of her hand faster than he could react.
"NO! Now, stop asking!"
She pushed past him again and he shied away from her, one hand instinctively covering his man parts.
Shoving past Tate Langdon, who was fairly growling into the frontward face of Edward Mordrake.
"I'm warning you, Eddie! Not one more word!"
Edward Mordrake tapped his long, black cane impatiently on the floor of the moving psycho ward.
"I am not trying to arouse your ire, dear boy. I simply do not understand your fascination with this cacophony you insist on calling 'music'."
Tate's barely-there self-control snapped and he flung open the side door, making Kit swerve the vehicle nearly onto the shoulder of the road in surprise.
"Nobody hates on Nirvana! Nobody! Kurt Cobain was a god, do you hear me? A god!"
And he shoved the 19th century Englishman out of the moving RV with a hideous snarl.
Slamming the door triumphantly, he turned back to the interior of the cabin with a satisfied smirk.
To face Edward Mordrake.
Quite unharmed and unruffled.
"Really, dear boy. I am an immortal of the spectral plane. What did you think would happen? Now as I was saying, some good Beethoven or some Bach, perhaps . . ."
To which Tate Langdon squawked some sort of nonsensical garble deep in his throat and stormed off in a huff.
Right past the bathroom door. Through which a very unique, very loud conversation was emanating.
"Ouch! Stop that, you crazy hag!"
Thumping sounds and muted voices.
"I must exorcise the demon from you! You must be cleansed!"
More scuffling sounds.
"I don't need to be cleansed, you sadistic blackbird! Get away from me!"
Muffled thuds.
"Your behavior toward your children would prove otherwise, Mrs. Langdon. And if I worked to vanquish the demon from Lana Banana, I can certainly expel the one from you!"
The sounds of struggle were overwhelmed by another tirade from a much different, yet much the same, inhabitant of the RV.
"NOOOO!"
It was a petulant, childish cry.
That came from an individual who looked very much more like a man than a child.
And was being hounded by a skinny, bobble-headed looking female.
"What, Dandy? What is wrong with you?!"
Dandy Mott glared furiously at Madison Montgomery.
"They only gave me one packet of sweet and sour sauce! One packet! There's at least ten chicken McNuggets here and I wanted a sweet and sour packet for each one!"
Madison pulled herself together, seeming to use all her powers of restraint not to slap the brat right off the handsome richie.
"I wanna turn this boat around and go back so I can kill them! And get my sweet and sour sauce!"
His handsome face was twisted up in a decidedly un-handsome lined visage of a chronic whiner.
Still, Madison Montgomery gave it a whirl.
"Oh, now, come on, Dandy. You promised you wouldn't commit any acts of violence until we got to the Magic Kingdom."
She trailed a sensual finger down his chest.
"Besides, I bet we can find something interesting to do with the contents of that McDonald's bag. . ."
He put his face down close to hers as though he were going to kiss her.
And whispered in a seductive, surrushing tone.
Though none of it were words she expected to hear.
"Then let me ask you this, Miss Madison Montgomery . . . is your cootch made of sweet and sour sauce?"
She blanched in confusion and shock.
"Uh . . . no."
He stood up straight and tall and dignified, every bit the Mott Family heir.
"Then get out of my way!"
And stomped past her, toward the back of the RV.
Where Nora Montgomery was sitting in the back window of the rolling vehicle of insanity. Sticking out her tongue at all the other drivers behind them and flipping them off.
And giggling softly.
"What in the world are you doing, love?"
Nora turned her head to look at Paul, the Illustrated Seal.
"Oh, it's so much fun! I can do anything I want and they can't do anything about it because we're driving eighty miles an hour down the interstate!"
And kissed him sweetly on the cheek.
"But aren't you concerned of what they think of you, my dear?"
"Oh, aren't you adorable, you sexy tattooed man," she cooed dotingly. "Of course not! In three seconds, I'll never see those idiots again!"
And gave him another sweet kiss.
As, nearer to the front of the cruising lorry of chaos, Taissa Farmiga paced back and forth unsteadily on her cell phone, her long hair flowing out behind her.
Her voice was strained but not yelling, though she really sounded like she wanted to.
"Come on, Ryan! I'll be anything! A doorhop with a dark secret! A cleaning maid with her eye on The Lurker! Come on, you gotta find me a spot on 'Hotel'!"
In the driver's seat, Kit Walker, trying desperately to ignore all the hubbub, was once more considering driving off the next high, plunging cliff.
AHHH! They are driving me crazy!
But he really wanted to go to Disney.
So he took a deep breath, veered away from the oncoming guardrail, readjusted his SkullCandy earphones, and turned up the volume on his iPod.
'Take me by the tongue and I'll know you . . .'
Ahhh, that's better.
'Kiss me 'til you're drunk and I'll show you . . .'
Readjusting his grip on the wheel, he checked his mirrors.
Pressed his foot down harder on the gas.
And jumped right in.
"All the moves like Jagger, I've got the moves like Jagger, I've got the moo-oo-oves . . ."
Well, there you go, people. The result of the weirdest plot bunny I have ever had. Hope you enjoyed it.
I dedicate this wack-a-doodle eruption to The Cry-Wank Kid (who has a brilliantly strange mind) and for some odd reason, also to the Muppets Movie circa 1979, the year of my birth.
What's that you say? I left out your fav character? Well, start typing and put him/her in there, yeah? Think of all the possibilities: American Horror Story: Day Camp. Or American Horror Story: Beach Day. American Horror Story: The Office.
XD
And the song Kit's singing at the end? Yep, Maroon 5's "Moves Like Jagger'. 'Cause the Adam Levine totally bought the farm in Asylum. Which was cool 'cause he was a big jerk. Ha!
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