02x05 - Chanel Pour Homme-Icide

Previously on Scream Queens...

I'm afraid you have kuru.

No one must know.

If the board finds out, [over headphones]: they'll think I'm unfit to run the hospital.

Hester: Massacres tend to happen in this hospital on Halloween night.

You tried to kill me with punch?!

Bitch, just as soon as I get...

[electricity crackles]

Chanel #5: Help!

I could've swore I heard Chanel #5 scream.

How did you hear her from across the hospital?

[scream in distance]

She's drawn to Chanel #5's pain like a shark to blood in the water.

She's developed a fine-tuned addiction to it.

[all gasp]

[groaning weakly]

Come on. Help me. Help me.

She's dead.


Zayday: Oh, God, that's horrible.

Um, guys, passing out...

If the killer can take out a special agent of the FBI, are any of us safe?

The miracle is this didn't hit a vital organ.

Oh, my God, I'm passing out.

For the love of God, Number Five, Denise is dead!

Can you maybe let us all have two minutes that isn't about you?

We have to take this body and throw her in the swamp.


We can't just dump her in the swamp!

Denise was our friend!

Munsch: I loved Denise as much as the rest of you, which, admittedly, wasn't that much.

We just can't let her death have a... negative impact on the work being done here.

I mean, if word got out that a FBI agent was killed here, they would just shut us down!

And that means no patients.

And the life-saving research that we are doing here would end.

And we can't have that... can we, Zayday?!

Even if I wanted to dump her in the swamp, don't you think the Feds are gonna come looking for her?

But then I will tell whomever comes that Denise just took off on a secret mission for some... top secret shadow organization within the FBI.

Now, somebody get me a gurney.

Because Special Agent Denise Hemphill's going for a little swim.

[men screaming in distance]

Chanel #5: Uh, guys? Guys?

Wait, really?

Guys! [groans]


Zayday: Oh, my God.

Who could have done this?

We just need to find the guy dressed as Aaron Burr.

It's gonna be pretty hard to cover this up, Dean Munsch.

Girls... we have no choice, I have to call the authorities.

Go change out of your costumes.

No. Zayday.

I need you to help with something first.

Come with me.

Remind me when we're done here, I must send someone up to help poor Chanel #5.

I told you, I'm not dumping Denise's body in the swamp.

Well, of course not.

She's still alive.


When did you know she was alive?

When I took her pulse.

She had the faintest heartbeat.

I mean not enough to resuscitate her, of course.

She's basically brain-dead.

And you were still gonna throw her in the swamp?

No, no, no. That isn't an option.

What, with the kind of massacre that just occurred upstairs, I can't be sure that they're not gonna dredge or even drain the swamp during their investigation.

But rest assured, Denise did not die in vain.

She's going to be an integral part of our little "save my life" research project.

Come, see-see it.

[panting]: This... is the secret cryogenic chamber I had built with just a small portion of the Radwell fortune.

We're gonna put Denise in here and give this baby... a little test drive just to make sure it works, just in case my condition proves fatal before we can find a cure.

This doesn't feel right.

Well... we could just take Denise upstairs and hook her up to a feeding tube and watch her as she slowly deteriorates.

Or we can put Denise in here, in the freezer, until they find a cure for being electrocuted.


[mechanical whirring]



It's getting worse.

Please, Zayday, help me.

I don't want to end up in that tank like Denise.

[mechanical whirring growing louder]

It worked.

I peed out all the blue.

My butt is still really blue, though, so I kind of look like a blonde baboon.


I gave you a healthy dosage of deferasirox.

It's a chelation solution that sort of leeches out the... heavy metals in the organs, and especially the skin, and helps you pee 'em out.


Now, if you've noticed some... silver in the fleshy part of your butt, it'll... it'll normalize soon, I promise.

I'm sorry about the, uh, silver poisoning.

I mean, I have no idea who did that.

I mean, someone must have messed with my solution.

Could have been anyone, really.

They're all jealous of you.

It was probably Dean BoxMunsch.

I mean, she wanted to make sure her and her gray pubes had you all to herself.

Well, first of all, she's rockin' a full Kojak down there.

And second, I really appreciate that everyone's rooting for me and her to be the new power couple.

And third, the s*x was exquisite.

I mean, the best I've had since I spent the weekend with Sean Young [groans] right when she started her crazy phase.

Look, the only reason why I got busy with Munsch is because I was bummed out that I lost the chance with you.

I don't know.

I mean, you guys are more age-appropriate.

You do realize you were, like, 30 when I was born, right?

[elevator bell dings]

Besides, I don't know if I can love anyone after what happened with Chad.

I mean... I need time.

Take all you need.

Not really.


I probably only need a couple hours.

I have, like, zero emotional object permanence.

Munsch: It had finally happened.

The sword of Damocles had fallen.

[camera shutter clicking]

I finally knew what it felt like to be Freddy Krueger.

[camera shutter clicking]

Because I, Cathy Munsch, was walking through a nightmare.

Woman: Dr. Munsch, what do you have to say about these murders?

Munsch: I knew in that moment my dream had been shattered.

The C.U.R.E. Institute was dead, and I wasn't far behind.

But one week later, something equally unexpected happened.

The hospital was thriving.

As it turns out, the old adage is true... there is no such thing as bad press.

News reports of the murders gave us hundreds of hours of free publicity.

And medical anomalies from all across the world started coming out of the woodwork.

And they weren't worried about being knocked off by a serial killer.

Any risk was worth the miracle of maybe having their horrible physical fates reversed.

Excuse me, Dean Munsch.

[groans] Yes.

What, with the current influx of patients...

Munsch: This bitch...

I hired Nurse Hoffel to make my job easier... i.e. showing me how to run a hospital... and now, this pill-popping battle axe thinks she's invaluable.

An expenditure like that should really be run past the board of directors.

I'll look into it.

The good news is that we were busy.

So many patients to meet.

Well, my name's Marguerite Honeywell.

I suffer from Marfan Syndrome.

Wow. That name is really kind of a mouthful.

Do you mind if I called you "Marfan"?

Um... yes, actually, I would.

Munsch: Now, Daria, it says here that you were diagnosed with Moebius Syndrome in 2013.

Is that right?

That's right.

I do online beauty tutorials, and my total inability to move any part of my face is really getting savaged in the comments section.

Munsch: But there was one case that really intrigued me.

Woman [british accent]: I must say that coming here today was not my decision, but rather that of my employers at the United Nations.

Wait. You work at the United Nations?

That's really cool. I've always wanted to go there.

[Swedish accent]: I worked in the diplomatic corps as an interpreter for close to 20 years now.

And I'm the model of perfect health, so I have no idea why I'm even here.

Chanel: Wait. I'm sorry. Are you Swedish?

I thought you were from the U.K.


[French accent]: I'm from Minnesota originally.

Maybe that's what you are picking up on.

My husband says I sound like I'm straight out of the movie Fargo.

Munsch: Wow. Inability to land a single accent.

It's fascinating.

[Australian accent]: Now, I did slip and fall a few weeks ago, and I was taken to hospital, but they said it was just a mild concussion, and I was released that afternoon.

When-when you're talking, are you aware of the way you talk sort of... shifting?

[with Russian accent]: I speak the way I speak.

I don't know what you are getting at.

Can I just say...

I think it's fascinating that she's doing all these accents, but she hasn't done one that anyone could deem offensive.

[with Indian accent]: Accent? Why does everybody keep bringing up my accent?

I told you, I am from the Midwest.

Okay. Never mind.

Ms. Hotchkiss, I am afraid at this point, we do not know what it is you may have or not have, nor if there is a treatment or a cure, but rest assured, with all the resources available here at the C.U.R.E. Institute, we will not stop until we find one.

Right, team?

Hey, this can't be the most sanitary way to clean bedpans.

I mean, aren't there rules and... laws and stuff?

A few weeks ago, I was in charge of giving fentanyl to a patient, who, based on Zayday's recommendation, was about to get a lobotomy.

Also, we dumped a body in the swamp, so I don't really think rules are a priority around here.

Hello, non-doctor idiots.

I'm sorry to interrupt your hard work cleaning bedpans... the only thing you're qualified at any other hospital on Planet Earth.

You... Dead Inside...

I need you to rinse and sanitize these catheter tubes.

Oh, careful.

Some of 'em are still sort of juicy.

And I'm gonna need you to strain these fecal samples, place them in saline solution, and then load them in enemas for fecal transplant.

Ew! No, I'm not doing that!

Sorry, Dr. Tiny Bitch, but Crohn's disease isn't gonna cure itself.


Why are you wearing sunglasses? Are you hung over?

Pethidine doesn't give you a hangover.

That's why I love it so much.

But it's great to manage moderate to severe pains in the ass who don't belong within ten miles of a hospital.

Oh. I also need you to get a semen sample from the guy in the coma in room 1219.

His ex-wife's just dying to pull the plug.

She's claiming their kid isn't his.

How am I supposed to get his semen?

[whispering]: I think you know.

[chuckles] Catch you later, bitches.

[Chanel grunts]

Chanel: That is it! I am not cleaning one more pooey bedpan.

Number Three, finish cleaning all of these, and then, bring me a latte and a scone at the Korean spa.

I am getting a manicure and a vag steaming.

No way.

If anyone's vag is getting steamed, it's my vag.

[crying]: This is all just so wrong.

I mean, an Oberlin hasn't worked in over 300 years.

We have been genetically perfected over centuries of ordering people around to be good at only one thing.

Ordering people around.

That's it.

The reason we have lost the will to live is because what's the point of living if we don't have people to boss around?

Who are we if we don't have pledges to torture and make do stuff for us?

How are we supposed to recruit pledges?

We're not in a sorority anymore.

This hospital is suddenly full of gross, sick people.

I mean, way too many for the limited staff we have now.

Dean Munsch and Nurse Hoffel need to hire more people, so we're gonna do it for them.

We'll train them to be Chanels and make them our minions.

I mean, if I learned anything from surviving the last serial killer who tried to kill us, it's that you always need a group of less attractive, less popular, less interesting people around for the killer to kill before you.

Okay, that is genius.

Which is why I'm the brains of this operation.

Now let's hit the spa.

These bedpans can wait until we find less attractive people around to clean them.



Dean Munsch, there's something I need to talk to you about.

Mm-hmm. What is it?

It's Chamberlain.

I have my suspicions that he's the baby in the belly from 1985, and it's driving me crazy.

'cause I need to find out how you found him and... what his interview was like?

Who's Chamberlain?

Chamberlain, the candy striper you hired from your Craigslist ad?

We don't have a candy striper.

And I would never take an ad out on Craigslist.

That's where married men score meth and hook up with each other.

So wait. You're saying you didn't hire him?

Big guy, African-American, loveable, a bit of a stalker?

Oh, that guy.

I thought he was Dr. Brock Holt's assistant.

Dr. Holt doesn't have an assistant.

I mean, now he's my prime suspect.

Oh, you think?

An adult man wanders into a hospital and pretends to have a weird volunteer position... that's almost exclusively reserved for young girls?

It might not even be a thing anymore.

You think... that he might have something to do... with mass murder?

I'm gonna get to the bottom of it.

If we're gonna find out who that baby is, we're gonna need to find the mother first.


[door closes, door opens]

Come on, Mama, let's find out where you are.



Woman: [groans]

Help me.

Oh, my gosh!

Chanel #5, what happened?

Well, I was just trying to get up to get a teaspoon of mayonnaise, and then, I tripped, and I couldn't get up.

What are you even doing here? You should be in the hospital.

Yes, I should be in the hospital!

I-I just had a machete thrust nine inches into my thorax, breaking three ribs, puncturing my left lung and entirely severing my right trapezoidal.

I should be in the ICU.

That's where I thought you were.

Oh, I was, until Chanel wheeled me in here.

But then she told me it was just that I was more convenient to insult.

In the meantime, no one is taking care of my actual life-threatening injury!

I have received exactly zero Edible Arrangements.

Well, listen, I will be happy to take care of you.

And in return, I could really use your help.

[scoffs] Help with what?

We're gonna find the mother who was pregnant in the hospital on Halloween in 1985.

I'm thinking we can head down to the police station and try to access the archives.

I mean, if her husband went missing, she would have filed a report, right?

I don't know. I mean, I don't really think in a way ... that is helpful to anyone.

Just come on!


I need an update Number Three.

Any responses?

What about the Chanel wait list?

No responses, and everyone on the Chanel wait list passed.

What is happening?!

Two years ago, if I had posted on my socials that we were accepting applications for new Chanels, we'd have throngs of skinny, rich bitches banging down our door!

I just don't understand why we even need any more Chanels.

I told you, cow. We need cannon fodder.

We need new Chanels for the Green Meanie to attack so he doesn't murder us!

Uh, you already have that, Chanel.

Her name is... me!

The Green Meanie's already tried to murder me twice.

Yeah, and pretty soon, he's probably going to succeed, and then where will we be, Number Five?

It's time to start taking desperate measures.

We need to start interviewing patients.

Why do you think you'd make a good Chanel?

Um, I don't, actually.

I don't really know what you're talking about.

You said you had some important information about my condition.

No, I do have very important information.

Your condition is about to improve by potentially becoming a Chanel.

I don't understand.

What's a Chanel?

Duh. Us. We're Chanels.

You like money, right? And telling it like it is?

Yeah, I guess.

It's done. Congratulations.

You're a Chanel.

How long would it take you to run a full sprint?

I'm sorry?

Like if a grown man was chasing you with a big stick that's shaped like a knife but made out of metal?

So, a knife?

Yeah. Do you think you could outrun him?

Probably not.


You're a Chanel.

Let's go find the next potential Chanel.

There aren't anymore. That's it.

Those were all the patients.


Damn it, Number Three! We need at least one more Chanel to double our chances of survival!


We're gonna have to do the unthinkable.

No, not him.

Look, I don't like it any more than you do, Number Three.


We're gonna have to call Tristan.

We first learned about Tristan when we were appealing our murder conviction.

Some psycho was writing these handwritten novels where all the Chanels were lesbians, and all we did was have s*x with each other.

This is for you.

"Hey, Chanel. My name's Tristan St. Pierre, and I'm your biggest fan. I heard about your murder trial, so I thought I'd send you some of my Chanel fan fiction. Enjoy!"

Chanel: I didn't think twice about it, and then, three weeks later...

[phone chimes]

"Hey Chanel! It's Tristan!! Congrats on your acquittal! What did you think of my fan fiction?"

[phone chimes]

"Your lawyer gave me your number. I hope that's okay!!"

[phone chimes]

[overlapping voices reading text messages]

Tristan: "... and I love it."

Chanel: That I was turning to Tristan now, meant that it was dark times indeed.

I don't understand what's happening here.

Who are these people?

Chanel #7 and 8, Number Five, show some respect.

One has Abe Lincoln disease, and the other one can't move her face or something and is torture to talk to.

Marfan, get out of the way.

Who is that you're talking to?

Number Five, may I introduce Chanel Pour Homme?

What?! No. Okay, this is not allowed!

A Chanel who is male and gay? I mean, that's simply out of the question!

He's gonna steal all of our makeup and besides, Chanel, he seems like a serial killer.

Okay, well, there's really no need to keep whispering, because everybody heard that!

And besides, gays don't murder people.

I mean, they're a-a peaceful, musical people, right?


Name me one gay serial killer.

John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer.

It's a good bet one of those Menendez brothers was crawling into bed with the other one, too.

Okay, fine. You know what?

Maybe he is a serial killer.

But he's also a twee, which means we could easily fight him off.


And Number Three and I aren't cleaning your bedpans, Number Five.

Plus, we should all feel a little safer now that we're surrounded by our new servants, slash human shields.

Wait. Your what?

A toast.

To Number Seven, Number Eight... and Chanel pour Homme.


Cassidy: Okay, so, you were in the U.N. commissary, and it was lunchtime you said?

[Southern accent]: Yes, I-I slipped on a plantain heel, and I hit my head on the linoleum floor.

I told you, now I don't know how many times...

Ms. Hotchkiss, you seem to be unaware of the fact that each time you speak, you take on a different accent.

[Belgian accent]: What did you say?

He's right.

In the last ten minutes, you've done Texan, Austrian, Norwegian, Vietnamese, Algerian, Botswanan, Tajik and something that sort of sounded like Bernie Sanders.

Foreign Accent Syndrome... that's what she has.

There's no way there's actually something called "Foreign Accent Syndrome."

I spent the whole night going through the medical files, going through white papers.

Foreign Accent Syndrome is a real thing.

Although it's extremely rare and usually associated with stroke or traumatic brain injury.

See, right here.

First condition was identified in 1907.

61 cases have been reported since 1941.

[Scottish accent]: Now wait a minute.

Are you saying I might have had a stroke?

[Scottish accent]: No. You didn't have a stroke.

Did I just say that in sort of a weird Scottish accent?

[Irish accent]: Yes. Why did your accent just change?

[Irish accent]: Maybe it's contagious. Wait.

Did I just say that in a weird Irish accent?

[Irish accent]: Sweet mother in heaven. It is contagious.

[Scottish accent]: Is that a Canadian accent?

Has this disease somehow mutated and gone viral?

Not Internet viral. Contagion viral.

[Irish accent]: Oh, crap.

This must be what happened to Madonna.

We need to call her.

Thank you, Tristan.


Now, stay close in case I need my face wiped or to have pieces of arugula picked from my teeth.

Tristan, what is this?

It's some new fan fiction.

All of these new stories are just bursting out of me in thick ropes of inspiration.

I can't stop writing.

What is on your lips?


Did you steal my lipstick?


That is Koko K on your lips.

It is not. I wouldn't dare steal any of your makeup.

It's all expired, and who knows what's living on your lips.

[gasps] How dare you!

Just for that, I'm gonna make you go get me more sweatpants.

These ones are full of farts.

Zayday: Guys! Stop arguing.

Look what I found in the file we got from the police department.

A Jane Hollis filled out a missing persons report for her husband Bill November 2, 1985.

That's exactly 48 hours after that nurse said she threw the patient in the swamp.

I'm thinking if we find this Jane Hollis, we might be able to figure out who the killer is.

Huh, there's an address in the file, Number Five.

Maybe if we're lucky, she still lives there.

[crickets chirring]


[eerie moaning]

[rhythmic beeping]

[woman moaning]


[moaning continues]

[moaning continues]

Woman [whispering]: Make them stop.

Make who stop?

The voices... in my head.

Number Five, is that you?

What are the voices telling you to do?

[whispering]: Kill... you.

[both scream]


What is wrong with you?

I'm psychotic and a sociopath.

I'm also allergic to gluten, but most importantly, I miss you.

A little birdie told me that you're recruiting new Chanels.

I can't say I wasn't hurt that you didn't ask me first.

We didn't ask you to rejoin because you tried to kill us!

Which is exactly why you need me.

Hey, whores...

Hester is moving in with us.

I prefer Chanel #6.

[French accent]: No way!

She's a murderer and a brunette.

There would be dead people and dark brown pubes all over the apartment.

She told my parents to say that I was adopted.

She also has the mind of a serial killer, which means she can help us avoid getting killed.

And why are you speaking in a French accent?

[Italian accent]: A patient came in with a disease that makes you speak in-a foreign accents.

It's-a contagious.

Look, I appreciate that bringing Hester here creates a small risk that she may decide to slaughter us in our sleep, but I, for one, think the trade off of helping discover who the Green Meanie killer is makes it worth it.

Well, then, why doesn't she just tell us who the killer is now?!

It doesn't work that way.

There are rules.


Watch. So, Hester, which one of the new Chanels should we use as bait to catch the Green Meanie Mm. and, thus, keep him from killing us.

Great question, Chanel.

The choice is obvious. Kill the annoying twink.



[British accent]: I disagree.

Hester: Number Three, I have all the answers.

Fine. But she has to room with Number Five, just in case she decides to sleep-murder.

And we cannot kill Twink.

Ugh, fine!

We'll kill Moebius girl. Agreed?


Number Five, I've got to ask you something.

When you were at the apartment earlier, there was a strange pair of panties in the hamper that reeked of this really strong perfume and I thought I recognized the smell, but then I remembered... that was Hester's perfume.

But those are my panties.

I really liked Hester's perfume, so I decided to start dousing my panties in it.

That's not what I was expecting.

And what did you expect?

That we finally tracked down Hester and asked her to live in the apartment with us, so she could help us find the killer, even though it's possible that she's the killer?

That would be insane!

That would be insane.

Then maybe you should just not worry about it.

And maybe you should stop sniffing panties that you pull out of the hamper.

[doorbell rings]

Ms. Jane Hollis.

I'm sorry, but

I haven't seen my son in years.

We've never had what you call a close relationship, but he is all I have.

I never remarried and I never had any more children.


Uh, the coffee's disgusting.

It's not coffee, it's tea.

I'm pretty sure that I ordered coffee.

You didn't order anything because this is a home, not a restaurant.

So, Ms. Hollis, speaking of your husband, um... what do you think happened to him?

Well, I think he died that night.

I think Dr. Mike and Nurse Thomas faked the paperwork releasing him from the hospital and then just tossed his body into the swamp to cover their tracks.

I'm sure of it.

Are you... sure... that they dumped the body in the swamp?

And are you sure that you aren't the one who murdered your husband?

Look... maybe you two got into an argument.

You fly off the handle, accidentally murder him, and then, what are you gonna do?

You have to figure out a way to get rid of the body.

And what better way to dispose of your husband's dead body, than bringing him to the ER, complaining of chest pains and then leaving it to Dr. Mike and poor Nurse Thomas to throw him in the swamp for you.

I didn't murder my husband.

I'm so sorry.

Could you just give us a moment, please?

[Zayday clears her throat]

What is wrong with you?

You are the worst sidekick ever.

I'm sorry.

I thought we were trying to solve a murder here.

Forgive me for asking the tough questions.

Those aren't tough questions.

Look, it doesn't matter.

Let's just get out of here because we already know what we came here to find out.

That the baby in the belly can't be Chamberlain.


Because she's white.

Um, Chanel #5 and I are gonna have to run. We, uh... we forgot we had an appointment.

[chuckles] Thank you for your time.



Who is that NBA player with you in that photo?

Oh, was it like a Make-A-Wish sort of situation after your husband was murdered?

That is my husband.

Zayday: Do you know what this means?

Of course I don't.

This means that Chamberlain could be the baby in the belly.

I guess you're not such a bad sidekick, after all.

This doesn't make any sense.

She said she fell backwards and hit her head, right?

[South African accent]: But the part of the brain that processes language is called the Broca's area and it's located in the front of the brain.

Oh. I think my accent just changed.

[British accent]: Yes, I just noticed that.

I mean, it's still a terrible accent, but before you sounded like Keanu in Dracula.

[Australian accent]: Now you sound like Leo in Blood Diamond.

Crap, I think mine just changed, too.

Yeah, before you sounded like Winona Ryder in The Crucible and... now you sort of sound like Cameron Diaz in Gangs of New York.

[door opens]

[Cockney English accent]: I think I got a cure.

Damn it. My accent keeps changing.

Now I sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.

What exactly did you figure out? What's the cure?

[German accent]: Now, that is the worst accent I've ever heard.

When Ms. Hotchkiss fell and hit her head, she suffered a mild concussion, which caused swelling in the part of the brain that processes language.

[Australian accent]: Right, but the MRI showed swelling in the anterior part of the brain and the Broca's area is in the frontal lobe...

As the first of two neural structures sub-serving linguistic processing.

[German accent]: The Broca's area in the front and the Wernicke's area in the back... precisely where the MRI indicated swelling.

[English accent]: Wait, now you sound like Brad Pitt in Seven Years in Tibet.

So, what do you propose?

[Polish accent]: Steroids?


Why steroids?

[German accent]: It should reduce the swelling in the temporal gyrus of the brain's dominant hemisphere, which, in this case, happens to be the left.

I mean, it'll take me, what?

Ten, 15 minutes to prepare the injection?

Then I'll have you on a plane back to the U.N. in time for supper.

Ah, eh...

[Polish accent]: Oh, thank you.

I'm so relieved.

But that doesn't explain what's happening to the three of you.

[in German accent]: I know. I fear the three of us will speak in... [Scottish accent]: sad, inconsistent accents [in German accent]: for the rest of our lives.

Come on, let's go, little guy.

All right, here we go.

Zayday: You're a real freak, you know that?

Okay, hold on, many men enjoy light butt play during s*x, all right?

Doesn't make us freaks. I am as God made me.

I'm talking about the kind of freak who just walks in off the street and pretends to get hired at a hospital.

Okay, you caught me.

All right? I'm sorry I lied, but there's nothing freaky about this.

I just really like helping people, you know?

And I was looking for a professional environment to do it in.

You know the kind of looks I get wheeling around a magic cart on the streets, randomly doing good deeds?

And you just happened to, what? Choose this hospital?

Yeah, it's walking distance from the house.

How can I wheel this big ass cart all the way across town to County General?

They'd never let me on the bus, ever.

This is crazy. Man, I thought you was different.

I thought you would understand that there are actually some people who don't want to feel rich or be superior to everybody else.

For some people, putting a smile on somebody's face is payment enough.

[cat meows]

Look, Zayday, all right, I'm a good person, okay?

So, if that makes me a freak, then I'm-a let my freak flag fly.

How you feeling today?

[door opens]

[posh British accent]: Hello, everyone.

I have good news and better news.

The good news is our accents have all apparently settled into the same dignified, upper-crust, inconsistent English accent.

[posh British accent]: It's really incredible.

We sound like the cast of Remains of the Day.

The better news is I think I found a cure.

Now, I found nothing in the medical literature about spontaneous Foreign Accent Syndrome occurring without the presence of brain trauma, except... a really obscure paper by an evolutionary biologist named Kleinfeldt from the University of Vienna, who coined the term "Madonna Syndrome."

Madonna Syndrome?

Brock: Madonna Syndrome, yes.

You see, when you're around a foreign accent, you start picking it up so you don't stand out.

It's a method of social camouflage for the cultural outsider.

You see, the more you fit in, the more likely you are to procreate.

[posh British accent]: Okay, well, how do you cure it?

Kleinfeldt called the technique "Total Visuo-Linguistic Immersion."

We basically lock ourselves in a room and watch nothing but movies and tele-shows that feature straight-down-the-line, American accents.

The three of us will spend the weekend watching these.


Love American Style... ooh, American Bandstand...

American Gigolo.

And I thought we'd start by binge-watching The Americans.

The Americans is about Russians.

That's, like, the whole point of the show.

Brock: Fine. Then we'll binge-watch Neil Diamond singing "Coming to America."

It's a rousing anthem that every American should watch, in my opinion.

It's what we need as a nation.

Um... I can't.

I've got something planned this weekend.

I'm sorry.

Well... looks as though it's just, uh... going to be you and me.



You wanted to see me.

Yes, please, come in.

Um... why don't you take a seat?

Actually, you know, I'm gonna save you the effort.

You're fired.

Excuse me?

You heard me.

I don't like the way you treat my staff.

Oh, I presume you're talking about the Chanels, whom you hired as doctors, despite the fact they're not doctors.

It's my hospital.

It runs on my funding, which means I can hire whomever I choose to perform whatever task I deem appropriate.

And, frankly, the way you treat and speak to the Chanels is, "A." offensive, and "B"... you're obviously addicted to pethidine.


Where do you get off, you boozy, old hag?

Yes! I take a daily dose of pethidine!

A-a-and, yes, it's a very large dose, something like you would prescribe for a Clydesdale.

But you know what? I love it!

It is, hands down, the best friend I have ever had.

It is lover, friend, all wrapped up in some tiny, little, white tuxedo.

I mean, I do. I do, I do. I think about it.

I think about it at morning, noon, and night, but addicted? No!

I am not.

Yes, I obviously am, but how dare you, you creaky, old whore!

I want your office cleaned out in an hour.

Oh, no.

I don't think I'm going to be going anywhere.

I just fired you.

And I think you're about to rehire me.

Unless you want word out about your disease.

That's right.

I know all about your little terminal illness you picked up accidentally eating human brains, which is insane, but somehow not quite as crazy as accidentally getting on a plane to New Guinea when you thought you were headed to New Jersey.

I... I just wonder what the press would do with that little nugget.

Oh, wait, I can see the headlines now.

"Crone munches down on brains, gets kuru, buys hospital, still dies."

You wouldn't.

I will.

Wait, wait, what's that?

Oh... I think that's the sound of me getting rehired.

Don't cross me, slut, or I'll make damn sure it's the last thing you do.


Sorry, you scared me.

Where have you been all day?

Running errands... like you told me.

Yeah, I don't care.

Listen, I have awesome news.

While you were gone, the Chanels and I decided it would be super fun if we celebrated the new Chanels by throwing a slumber party at the hospital.

And we're gonna give each other makeovers.

Oh, my God, I'm so excited.

["Dancing in Heaven" by Q-Feel plays]

♪ Are you ready? Here we go ♪
♪ Slow, slow ♪
♪ Quick-quick, slow ♪
♪ Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow ♪
♪ Dancing in heaven ♪

♪ Here we go ♪

♪ I never thought ♪
♪ I'd ever get my feet this far ♪
Orbital be-bop
♪ Dancing in heaven ♪
Here we go
♪ I never thought ♪
♪ I'd ever get my feet this far ♪
Orbital be-bop...

Time for gifts! Gather around.

We have a special surprise gift for you, Chanel #8.

An Hermès Infinity Choker hidden somewhere in the morgue that you have to go all by yourself now to find it.

No way! This is so much fun.

♪ Boogie my way... ♪

Think the Meanie will take the bait?

Consider it his or her sacrifice for the week and leave us alone?

Fo' sho'.

[clears throat]

Geez, you scared me.

Listen up, bitch.

I've been saving up to buy a Hermès silver Infinity Choker forever, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna stand by and let you have it.

But they said it was for me.

Then you'd better find it before I do, bitch.

Where is it?

♪ I'll be the first to bossa nova ♪

Wasted space.

♪ Boogie my way beyond the radar ♪
♪ I'll bring a jive to outer space ♪
♪ Dancing in heaven... ♪

What are you doing here?

I was looking for my present, but then Chanel Pour Homme said he wanted it more than I did so I figured I'd just let him have it and I came back up here.

Oh, no.

♪ Here I am ♪
♪ I hear the universe sing the celestial swing ♪
♪ I am not alone ♪
♪ Are you receiving me clear? ♪
♪ There's others out here ♪
♪ Dancing in heaven♪

♪ Here we go. ♪

♪ I never thought ♪
♪ I'd ever get my feet this far ♪
♪ Orbital be-bop. ♪

[squelching sounds]


Munsch we can explain.

Explain what?

That you hired three new Chanels to be bait for the Green Meanie?

Um, I...

Yeah, I heard all about it.

Chanel #5 told me.


You stupid bitch!

Chanel, a man died.

I didn't want Chanel Pour Homme to die.

I sent Chanel #8 to the morgue.

I'm standing right here!

[posh accent]: You know, the more that I think about it, I don't really think we thought this plan through.

Yes, we did. These Chanels are bait.

Yes, but we never set a trap.

The Green Meanie just took the bait and got away.

And where is Hester?

Her cell is empty.

If I don't find out what happened to her, I'm gonna have to report that breach to the FBI.

I don't know where Hester is.

I mean, am I my sister's keeper?!

Maybe she killed herself!

Or maybe she's moved to a neighboring state with a less onerous tax burden and started killing people there.

Honestly, that's probably what happened.

I mean, she is always going on about how onerous the taxes are here.

Isn't that right?


So onerous.

Stop talking!

I must commend you.

Your idea had merit.


I mean, with the added influx of new patients to this hospital, the workload here has doubled, so if these Chanels help you work more efficiently, then I'm all for it.

Although I officially cannot condone the... [clears throat] you know?

Look, we get it. We're human shields.

We can all stop pussyfooting around it, because I, myself, am fine with the arrangement.

I've really gotten used to the clothes.

Munsch: Well, to your point, I have taken the liberty of adding some additional Chanels myself.


This is Addison, Andrea, and Midge.

Chanel #9 here is a semiprofessional Dungeon Master.

Chanel #10 was born with no kidneys but has 30 extra feet of large intestine.

And Chanel #11 has 11 fingers.


Yeah. So, Chanels #9 through #11, meet Chanels #1 through #8.

Listen up, bovines.

Polite society says we can't haze you.

But we can insist that you clean Chanel #5's bedpans before we return home.

And she takes monster dumps.

I want that thing sanitized.

I want it so clean that we could eat novelty sundaes out of it!



I am going to find out what happened to Hester if it's the last thing I do.

And if it turns out that you three harbored a known serial killer, I am going to report you as accessories to murder.

And when they sentence you to the electric chair, I'm gonna stand there and watch you fry.

Now... [squeaks] who wants to tell me where Hester is?

I don't get it. What's in it for us?

Like, do we get paid?

I don't know. I think it's more like an internship.



Oh, my God.

Thank you!

[door opens]

Baby, is that you?

[door shuts]

I'm making breakfast for dinner.

I know how much you like that.

Cassidy: Hi, Mom.

Smells delicious.

Wash your hands and sit.

Some people came by from the hospital.

They know about your dad.

They asked about you.

Well, not you, exactly, but... my baby.

You think we need to do something about it?

Don't worry, Mom.

I'll take care of everything.

You are so good to me.

After all you've been through and all you've done for me, you deserve it.

You deserve the whole world.