I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.
Wherever You Are
Should Have Stuck With The Fop Farts
Sometimes, life is grand.
Peachy keen, jelly bean.
"Oh my gosh, this is delicious!"
"Ummm, agtmwsfb . . ."
"Where did you get this again?"
"That little seven-eleven on the corner."
"Argm, pass me that tray-"
"Here, Jimmy, try some-"
"No. Fop farts."
"I am not having this conversation with you again."
"Fop farts!"
And sometimes . . .
"Oh. My. God."
"Ugh."
"I don't . . . I don't think we should have eaten that."
"No. Urgh-"
. . . it totally and unequivocally . . .
"Is The Baby okay?"
"Uh, I think so. He's watching Inspector Gadget."
"Is Sam okay?"
"Ugh, yeah. He's needs a walk."
"Oh god."
. . . blows chunks.
"I think . . . I think . . . I think we need to call your parents."
"Yeah. Me too."
"Can you do it? I need to throw up."
"I don't . . . I don't know how to dial a phone at this point, hurg-"
Like, literally.
"Mrs. Walker?"
"Hello? Who is that?"
"Patrick, is that you?"
"Why are you being so form-"
"Can you come down here and . . . help us? We've got . . . food poisoning. I'm really sorry to ask you, we're mostly concerned about The Baby-"
"Oh, no, darling, we're glad to help! We'll be down just as soon as we can pack a bag!"
"Thank . . . thank you."
"Of course, darling. We love you!"
We're going to get sick off this, you know.
We may. But we have to help.
There's going to be no room for us.
No. But it's not a holiday.
"Jimmy, darling, Bette and I are going to Sarasota!"
"Okay . . . wait, what?"
"You sure you'll be okay?"
"Yes. They need our help."
"Do you . . . do you think I should go with you?"
"No, darling. We'll be stuffed in there as it is. They're not even set up for us."
"It's not going to pleasant, that's for sure. You stay here and keep the home fires burning."
"Well, okay. If you're sure."
"We are, darling."
"We'll call you when we get there."
"Okay. I love you two."
"We love you, darling."
Surely people gawked at them.
Stared at them.
Had to focus to avoid swerving into coming traffic when they saw them.
But Dot and Bette Tattler Darling Walker didn't notice.
Turn right two streets down.
Okay.
Because they . . .
And then a left at this stop sign.
Alright.
We're almost there.
Thank goodness.
. . . were on a mission to help their son-in-law.
And whoever else was sick in that house.
"-coming. I'm so sorry to have c-"
"No, Patrick," Dot interrupted gently. But firmly. "You did exactly what you're supposed to do. Where's the baby?"
"Taking a nap. He's not sick so far."
"Good. Now," Bette directed authoritatively. "Go to the bathroom or get in bed. We'll take care of everything."
"And Sam-"
"We'll take care of Sam too."
Patrick's anxiety and worry-filled face relaxed so much they momentarily thought he would simply collapse at their feet.
Then-
"Okay. Thank you."
-he turned and steadily shuffled away.
Poor boy.
Yes.
Well, let's check the rest of the unwell.
Jimmy first.
The thirty-second phone call. No time to spare, darling.
"-you."
"I love you two."
Now we can get on with it.
There wasn't much it to get along with.
The abode was very small. Not even a hall afforded extra space.
Two bedrooms separated by the most space-efficient bathroom . . .
Careful, Sister. We don't want to get stuck in there.
Well, we just won't turn around then.
. . . they had seen since Annabel's apartment in Colorado.
To the left, Little Jimmy's room.
A quick, careful peek reassured them the child was asleep in his bed . . .
I thought he slept with them.
Not in their current condition he's not.
. . . quite peacefully.
Four steps from that door to the next and . . .
Oh dear, it smells.
Sick people smell like that.
. . . a cursory glance showed them a disheveled Annabel and Patrick huddled pitifully in their shared bed.
Pale and weak and wan.
As Annabel twitched a trembling hand . . .
Poor baby girl.
We'll hug her after she showers, Sister.
. . . they responded briefly.
And closed the door again.
And then they went to work.
Let's see what we have here.
Peanut butter. Jelly. Bread. Potato chips.
Toaster pastries.
Carrots. Grapes. Milk.
Cookies. Candy. Bananas.
Okay. This is all fine to start Little Jimmy off with.
But it will not help the sick ones.
We'll get to that.
Then they really got to work.
Lysol. Borax. Baking soda. Cloths.
And hot water.
Copious, copious amounts of hot water.
The kitchen first, so they could assure a cleanly environment with which to nourish their charges.
A through Lysol spraying of the living room area.
And then . . .
Are you ready, Sister?
No. Let's go.
. . . the bathroom.
You can always tell how sick people are by the condition of their bathroom.
I think they might be dying.
Don't even joke.
And they cleaned.
Oh Sister, I think we could use some coffee.
Especially after Annabel just went back in the bathroom after we cleaned it.
Yes. I know.
If they weren't sick, I'd be mad.
If they weren't sick, we wouldn't be here.
They had just poured a small cup for each of them.
Taken the first sips when . . .
"Ma-Ba? Ma-Da?"
"Well, hello, Little Jimmy!"
"Did you have a good nap, darling?"
"Where's Mommy and Daddy?"
Warm kisses. Strong but gentle hug.
Hair soothing . . .
Look at that cowlick in the back.
He just couldn't be any cuter.
"Mommy and Daddy are sick in bed. We're here to take care of you."
Careful consideration by the world's most precious, little . . .
"Fop farts?"
. . . conniving four year old ever.
"Pardon?"
Bette and Dot read books to Little Jimmy.
Watched TV with Little Jimmy.
Fed the dog with Little Jimmy.
"Hello, you sweet pooch."
"How's your tummy?"
"Whine."
"Scuffy Sam fine."
Walked the dog with Little Jimmy.
"Ma-Da, he pooped!"
"Yes, darling, we see."
"Poop yucky!"
"Well, better out than in, I always say."
Tell that to Annabel and Patrick right now.
Hush.
They fed him peanut butter sandwiches and carrots and milk.
Themselves nibbled on more of the same.
Thereby keeping the nausea-inducing smells to a minimum for the sickies.
And of course . . .
"Just checking in on you, darling. How are you?"
"Still puking my guts out, Ma-Da. How are you?"
"Well, we've brought you some ginger ale and crackers. Try to nibble and sip a little."
"Thank you, Ma-Ma."
"You're welcome, Patrick."
And they closed the door and stood in the space between the living room space and the kitchen space.
Wait, did Patrick just say Ma-Ma to you?
He's ill, Sister. He was mumbling.
. . . they checked on the sickies.
I am not bathing him in that bathroom.
Not yet, no.
Maybe tomorrow.
They slept on the couch.
We need more milk, Sister.
And toilet paper.
And cleaning chemicals.
I think it's time, Bette.
Yes, Dot.
Are you with me?
You know I am.
"Alright, Little Jimmy . . ."
"Would you like to go for a ride in the car with Ma-Da and Ma-Ba?"
"Yes!"
They left a note.
See, balance tilted. Digestive balance that is.
And real. My husband and I were deathly ill once when our oldest was four months old. It was godawful. And my godmom dropped everything immediately and stayed and took care of our boy and us. While my husband's blood family who lived closer refused to help.
So, you know, whatever. I choose my godmom. And the Tattler Sisters, don't you?
But now they're out in the world. Wonder how that's gonna go?
Thanks to brigid1318, smclendon (we all have those little regrets, you never can see just what will be; i hope you're alright), and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing before! Hope your tummies are okay. ;)