I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I can't really call this a horror story or a freak show anymore. It's just a story now :)

Jimmy, Not Moses

Echoes of the Past

Jimmy ambled down their short driveway carrying a full garbage bag toward the shiny tall cylinder sitting at the curb.

The street was quiet, the afternoon still and cloudless.

To his right came the shuffling figure of Lucy Brown's husband, Max.

Who looked disheveled and three sheets to the wind.

At only 11 o'clock in the morning? Jimmy wondered, glancing at his watch.

Jimmy dumped the garbage, replaced the lid.

And grabbed the newspaper in preparation to head back into the house, the Florida sun warm on his shoulders.

Unfortunately the inebriated Mr. Williams had noticed him too.

And decided to be neighborly.

Sort of.

"Boy, those sure are some shiny hooks you got there. Don't see many fellas with a complete set like that."

Jimmy replied only with a curt nod.

"You know, I heard of a guy over in the eastern part of the state somewhere who had, you know, fused fingers. Like a freak or something."

Jimmy felt a chill run up his spine though he managed to keep his face smooth and impassive as he turned back around.

To face the man tottering right up to him.

"Yeah, he killed these rich ladies at this Tupperware party. Cut 'em up. Threw them in a pool. Then when he got to jail he cut off his hands and escaped."

The man's sour aroma washed over Jimmy and enveloped him in a putrid fog.

"Wow, that's, uh, quite a story," he managed, nearly unable to breathe through the stench.

Sweat trickled down the small of his back as the creep leered at him.

"Yep, they never found him," the guy said, his beady eyes poring drunkenly into his prey. "But they sure fried some poor crazy nut just the same."

Jimmy knew if he edged away, tried to escape the conversation, the guy would think he was suspicious.

And might go after Bette and Dot.

So he planted his feet and held his face still.

As the drunken Max barreled on.

"And you ain't got no hands."

"Doesn't look like it," Jimmy agreed, appearing outwardly calm and feeling inwardly queasy.

The man grinned wickedly now, showing tobacco stained teeth.

"So, you might could be him."

"Might," Jimmy conceded, hoping he still knew how to bald-faced lie to a rube.

It's not a lie if you believe it.

He'd heard that somewhere.

"The only problem with your story is that I didn't lose my hands in jail," Jimmy informed him coolly.

Technically true.

"They were cut off by a medical trauma surgeon."

Partially true.

"See, I used to work up north, logging. And I lost 'em saving a friend from falling timber."

Bald faced lie. Thank you, Dot and Bette. And now for some emotion.

Jimmy swallowed thickly, allowing his eyes to water up just a little.

"I miss my hands, sure."

True.

"But my buddy's okay and so it's worth it to know he's alive and well."

Bald-damn-faced lie.

He sniffed a little. That was a good touch.

"And now I got a good job and can provide for my family. So that's okay too."

Now bring it on home with a little up and comeuppance.

"At least I can work and take care of my family. Unlike some people," he concluded pointedly.

The idiot's face flushed.

"Why you son of a –"

And he swung drunkenly at Jimmy who stepped back and watched the guy faceplant the ground.

So that's what that looks like from this end, Jimmy thought as the guy groaned on the sidewalk. Man, that's just sad.

Bette and Dot were making supper in the kitchen.

And wearing their full apron.

It was especially made for them, by them.

Sky blue with light pink lettering.

Jimmy's Darlings.

It usually made him smile.

Usually.

Today his face remained solemn as he reflexively patted their back, moving past them to the fridge.

Dot noticed first, as Bette was preoccupied with timing the tenderness of the sizzling steaks.

"What's wrong, Jimmy, my darling?"

He popped the top on the cola and took a swig.

"I've just had a run-in with Lucy's husband. Max. He thinks he knows about me and my hands."

Bette turned at the grim statement, her brow furrowing along with her sister's.

"Jimmy, there's nothing to tell about your hands. Not anymore," Dot insisted.

Jimmy looked at his darlings, his guts sour and worried.

"Just be careful, okay? He's a drunk and dangerous, I think," he cautioned worriedly.

The next day, a baseball bat showed up in their quiet little house.

It lay propped up against the wall next to the fridge.

Though none of them ever played baseball.

A few days later, Jimmy opened a knock on the front door.

And found a burning brown bag on his front step.

Just as he was raising his foot to stomp on it, a whiff of foulness wafted up and caught his nose.

Ugh, what the –

But he knew what it was.

Dot and Bette were in the shower. He had only minutes to spare.

He raced to the kitchen for a glass of water and back again.

Dumping the water on it, he waited a moment more for the licking, stinking flames to subside.

Stupid kids playing tricks.

Then he saw the block writing on the charring, damp brown material.

It was water-smudged and messily written.

But he could still make it out.

GET OUT FREAKS

Jimmy stared fixedly at it.

Then scooped it up into a garbage bag.

Which he deposited into the silver can at the curb.

And went back in the house.

He wiped down his hooks and removed them in favor of his wooden lobster claw hands.

And, forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly, ventured out into the hall.

Bette and Dot were just coming out of the bathroom, wrapped in their honey silk robe.

Jimmy went to them without a word, wrapped them up in his arms.

And kissed them each gently, sweetly.

They responded to him, smiles adorning their freshly scrubbed faces.

"Everything okay?"

He nodded.

"Yes. I . . . I just . . . love you both so much."

The next week, Jimmy was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water from the tap when Bette and Dot stormed in from the back yard, their faces both stormy.

He set the cup down and turned to face them.

"Jimmy, someone has thrown mud all over our sheets!" Bette announced, anger discoloring her lovely face into something furious and wretched.

He blinked in confusion.

"And now we're going to have to wash them all over again!" Dot concluded, fury painting her words with something much worse than mud.

He glanced out at the clothesline.

Sure enough, Dot and Bette's fine white sheets were splattered with dark, drying mud.

He went outside and looked around. Nobody was in sight.

And no one to be heard on the other side of the fence either.

Jimmy went and banged on Max Williams' front door.

Nobody answered.

So he gave up and helped the distressed Bette and Dot take down the laundry.

And start again.

Catch the Constanza line? Heh heh ;)

And I know, I know, why does the drunk idiot have to be smart? Well, I personally knew an guy who stayed smart when he was drunk and it sucked, I tell ya.

But there's more of the story left to tell.

Thanks to brigid1318, DinahRay, autumn2010, haily94, Justbychance, Midnightrebellion86, Jurana Keri, and The Cry-Wank Kid for kindly reviewing.

Thanks also to RandomSecret for adding your support to this rambling tale. :)