Murder, masquerades, and minions, oh my! Season 2 of Scream Queens is turning every Tuesday night into Halloween.
This Scream Queens review contains spoilers.
Scream Queens Season 2 Episode 5
What do you do when you’re a vapid pink-fluff-wearing, back-talking, lipstick-hoarding, label-obsessed misanthrope who witnesses murder after bizarre murder in a hospital that swallows all the bodies in the swamp out back? You recruit minions as machete fodder, of course.
Questionable ethics haunt this episode as the Chanels scramble to seek out fresh meat after #5 was nearly filleted by the Green Meanie on Halloween night. She should be thankful to be strung up in casts and braces like a marionette. The slimeball in the Beelzebub mask went on a bloody rampage after leaving the most unwanted Chanel and Denise’s brain-dead body (which now resides in a cryogenic chamber made possible by the Radwell fortune) for corpses. You would expect Chanel to say that the reason she’s decided to basically turn the hospital into her own twisted sorority is because without #5, she’d be bereft of a personal slave. What you wouldn’t expect out of Chanel is to make over patients she’s personally diagnosed with Abe Lincoln Disease and Can’t Move Her Face Or Something to be her human shields.
Don’t forget the most fabulous Chanel of all—Chanel Pour Homme.
So we all know Hester was unleashed at the party that turned the hospital into a haunted house, except that red stuff splattered all over the walls wasn’t corn syrup. She knows things. She knows scandalous and possibly incriminating things she won’t even think of confessing unless someone scours eBay and manages to find her holy grail eye cream that’s been discontinued since the Clinton era. Now the Chanels are hiding her in their apartment as if she were that doomed Hermés choker nobody is going to want around their neck after finding it in the morgue. Between her and Chanel Pour Homme still writing creepy erotic fanfiction, that place looks like it’s on the verge of being covered in that telltale yellow tape that screams Police Line Do Not Cross.
Even the Chanels’ ulterior motives have nothing on Dean Munsch’s desperation to mask the fact that she somehow mistook a flight to New Guinea for New Jersey and ended up eating liquefied brain custard. Body disposal was going to be courtesy of the cesspool of green gloop in the backyard—until she realizes that the FBI might close down the hospital and obliterate any chance of curing her cannibal syndrome if they drain the swamp. There’s nothing to do for Munsch but kick her Manolos up on her desk, plug herself into an IV of vodka, and text Dr. Brock for (another) booty call until the paranoia passes. Whether she’s just an opportunist or a possibly murderous sociopath is still up for diagnosis. Pill-popping Nurse Awful uses the brain blackmail opportunity to her advantage when she’s on the razor’s edge of being fired.
Not that anyone has evidence that Ingrid M. Hoffle has been leaving a glowing trail of primordial ooze on the vinyl tiling, but she sure has a homicidal streak. This is if you forget for a moment that she also swallows enough prescription drugs to take down a Clydesdale. While I didn’t exactly blame her for reminding Miss Oberlin that the tip of her pink satin stiletto can’t even touch a real doctor’s scrubs, she almost committed career suicide by running her mouth like a chainsaw at the Chanels. Never mind that Munsch almost signed her head nurse’s death certificate over that, I still think these Cher Horowitz wannabes more than deserve to disinfect catheters and shine chamber pots until they’re sparkling.
Back to Nurse Awful. She does seem to have that irredeemably evil persona which may or may not be the supernatural force wielding that slime-covered machete.
I haven’t covered all the potential suspects in my amateur detective files yet. Zayday has not been able to bury the gnawing suspicion that the baby born at that Halloween party massacre in 1985 has taken the form of something that looks like a mashup of Swamp Thing and Slimer on steroids. Even an impromptu DNA analysis isn’t enough to shake her skepticism. Anyone who’s watched enough crime shows after 10 p.m. knows the mother of said baby was getting pseudo-innocently defensive in the way that would make any interrogator leery.
Grab some popcorn or cotton balls and suck in your breath for the phantom who opens the door later that night.
