The Wicked Games We Play
After Mr. March exchanges a few words with the new ghoul haunting the hotel, he's intrigued and wants to know more about his new tenant. (Mr. March/Claudia Bankson)
AN: I don't own Claudia or Mr. March. The American Horror Story creators do.
There was something fascinating about death. It's so easy to take a life; Mr. March discovered this when he first killed someone. Her name was Annabelle, an old friend of his. With a quick twitch of his finger he blew her brains out and she lay lifeless at his feet. It was then Mr. March had found his sense of purpose. Death has been a very lucrative business and mistress since the beginning of time. Why not sate it?
This hotel is the product of that realization; it's the instrument to execute his purpose. So many deaths, so many bodies and so many looks of horror as he kills each one with no second thought. As usual, all good things must come to an end; luckily for him, he died by his own hand and resides in this hotel for eternity.
He observes the people that came and went as decades stretched on; nearly each tenant becoming a permanent one as they haunt the hallways, looking for a purpose and trying to avenge themselves. He sees them in all shapes, sizes, colors, classes, and even religions. It's safe to say he'd seen it all.
Until he stumbled upon a very interesting character known as Claudia Bankson.
She's a fresh one; stabbed to death over a case of mistaken identity. She haunts her hotel room, doused in her bloodied nightie, critiquing any living being's fashion choices with a look so cold it'll make even the hardest of hearts shiver.
Hell, she targeted the two dead tourists for practice; made one of them cry without breaking a sweat.
That's true power.
It's one thing to cut someone down with an ax or a chainsaw, it's another to use your tongue; Mr. March watches in awe as she destroys John's wife into a terrified and crying heap.
She's good.
Mr. March was strolling down the hallway when he's graced with her presence. She's sitting on the counter, filing her nails and looking at her nightie in disdain.
"Of all the days to die, I had to die in this god-awful nightie! Why couldn't I die in Dior!" She gripes. Mr. March chuckles. Claudia's eyes zero in on him and she glares.
"Are you lost?" She asks.
"Why, no, my dear. I happen to be the founder of this hotel."
"That explains the gaudy decor and the tacky architecture. And where did you get your suit? It's a far cry from vintage couture, more like 1940s trash passing itself off as glamour. If I were you I'd fire your stylist and invest in silk, not cheap polyester."
Okay, that was a little rude. If she wasn't already dead, he'd kill her where she stood.
"And that mustache!" she gasps. "It's so thin! Like you've drawn it on with a pencil! I'm beginning to wonder if you're simply a prepubescent brat who decided to wear a big man suit for Halloween. Tell me, how old are you, really? 12? 14? No, wait! 16. At least then you can pretend your balls have dropped."
"Save your acid tongue for the guests, sweetheart."
"You call that an acid tongue? I was merely being nice. You don't know how truly acid-tongued I can be. And don't call me sweetheart, little man. Your grape-sized balls can't measure up to a woman like me."
Despite her insults, he's intrigued.
"Well, show me, my dear." He holds out his hand for her to take. Turning her nose up at him, she grabs it.
"I have nothing better to do, anyway. Those Swedish bitches stopped being fun after I made fun of the ugly one's accent and fashion sense."