I do not own American Horror Story: Apocalypse.

I do not own a hotel.

The Ides of March

James Patrick March laid the two of hearts down upon the small scarred card table before him, completing the final suit.

He had finally won.

Solitare.

Riveting.

He signed heavily in resignation, staring dully at the empty air hanging above the chair across from him.

Things were ever so much more boring now that the Negro girl was gone.

What a divine morsel she had been.

What a divine, delightful, heavy-set, ebony-skinned, nine-course morsel.

With her generous red lips and beady little, disdain-filled black eyes.

Why, he had thought they would play cards forever, the two of them.

Forever.

Or until something new and better caught his roving, ghostly eye.

Something shiny perhaps.

Or wet and bloody.

At any rate . . .

". . . play this game, Mr. March. It's stupid."

"Well, that's too bad, my dear. Because short of inciting a riot amongst the other incorporeals and tossing about a bunch of dust motes, there's really not much else to do around here right now. It's Thursday."

. . . he thought he had been quite amicable in teaching her to play gin.

Welcoming her little living friend in to play for a while.

Watching the two of them run in and out and all around his beloved hotel for days and days . . .

Such enthusiasm for the athletic pursuits. Quite admirable.

. . . on end until she had returned for the final time.

And her little living friend . . .

Good show, my dear. Top drawer effort. Ta.

. . . had left alone.

And they had . . .

"Well, now that you've got that out of your system, where were we?"

"Hell."

"Haha, no, no. Hell is much warmer, I've heard tell. And dare I say, more than a touch less stylish."

"Whatever."

. . . gone right along swimmingly.

"Gin."

The only problem after that had been . . .

". . . thirty- third hand in a row I've won."

Blast.

"Only amateurs keep score."

. . . his gal Queenie had seemed to be something of apparitional card shark.

I shall soon lose my shirt to her, I fear.

Unfortunate.

It will not fit her.

But then again, it remained preferable to sitting alone in a time-stale, dusty suite in his own hotel playing cards against himself.

So he had upheld his mannerly decorum . . .

Remember, good manners are as valuable as gold.

And you did stab her to death after all.

. . . and smiled across the table to Queenie . . .

What a positivity fantastic moniker. So carelessly regal.

. . . and prepared to have another go.

All eternity, my dear. All eternity. I'm bound win sometime.

And then the door opened . . .

Oh my.

. . . and He walked in.

And Queenie . . .

"Take his hand, Queenie."

"And what if I don't want to?"

"I'm not sure you have a choice."

. . . walked out.

He had watched them go, his phantasmal heart setting heavy in his chest.

He loathed to watch her go with Him.

As bad as I am, I'm practically that up-and-comer Clark Gable next to Him. She's in a real spot of trouble now.

More's the pity.

That had been some time ago and the undead world along with all the others had continued to turn.

James Patrick March sat alone in a still, lost room high up in the crumbling high rise of his precious Hotel Cortez.

And spoke disconsolately to no one at all.

"I'm bored."

He sighed again, drumming his fingers restlessly on the rough tabletop, feeling quite sulky and put out.

"There must be someone around here to kill or something."

There wasn't.

The Ides of March refers to settling debts. As well as a fun play on March's name.

Anyway, that whole March thing in ep 4 of the new season was FUN!

Anyway, thanks for reading and of course . . .

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.