I do not own American Horror Story: Hotel.
Will probably never visit a hotel again. Ever.
The Evolution of Detective John Lowe
It only took five years.
A long time to you maybe but what is time to an apparition, one is already dead and simply passing the endless void over and over?
Besides, once I saw him on that fateful day, I knew.
Knew he was the one. The others, they didn't have the true talent, the true need, the true rage of this one.
He kept it all inside and when it peeked out it was a glorious beast, a fantastic masterpiece of death and dismemberment only awaiting its medium.
So I took my time.
Pondered his musings and pain, posed my own quieries, challenged him to dream beyond the stifling straitjacketed restrictions of a society too quagmired in its own meaningless moralities to serve any true purpose.
He was a tough one to break, this quietly desperate man. You couldn't snap him like a dry twig or a fragile collarbone, no.
You had to patiently chip away at him, over and over again, like a sculptor's chisel at the waiting marble slab. Little by little wear him down.
To fragment him and reveal the magnificent art within.
He would see the murders in the harsh light of day as atrocities, obscenities.
Because he had been conditioned by his ridiculous social morays to do so.
But, opening his mind, submerging him slowly from the restrictive parameters of his suffocating existence and down into the warm fetid morass of murder.
That was the key.
Like easing him little by little into a hot soothing bath.
Of simmering, shimmering, metallic blood and freedom.
The absinthe helped.
As did Liz's martinis.
Iris' accommodating personality.
And Sally's feminine wiles.
And of course, The Countess' abscondication of his innocent, blond haired son.
Only when he was brimming with both blood lust and the intolerable numbness of his eternal soul did I reveal all to him.
And watched his need, his hunger, his lust for revenge, for justice, for freedom fill him up, pushing all else aside.
And as I could now only influence his actions and no longer act out my own, I am sure my ghostly eyes gleamed with mad delight and salivating anticipation.
As I watched the slow, delicious evolution of Detective John Lowe into what he was to become.
My masterful protégé.
The Ten Commandments Killer, they call him.
A beautiful dark monster.
I have rarely been prouder.
And then I unleashed him upon the sleeping, unsuspecting world.
And watched his glorious work unfold.
Okay, anybody else freak out on this ep? Yeah, yeah, we all knew John was the TCK. I mean I knew that and I haven't bothered to watched since ep 2.
I'm talking about the cold, calculating, ridiculous perfection of James Patrick March that Evan Peters has created in this character.
Plus it's just hypnotizing how he chews on his words, rolls them around, and then spits them out when they're properly molded and shaped to his liking.
I think even Sir Anthony Hopkins would get the chills even as he was chuckling and mainlining microwave popcorn.
Okay, yeah, I need a nap.
Which is why I had to write this. So I could sleep again.
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