The Ballad of Billy's Demise: A Hilariously Morbid Investigation into AHS: NYC's Most Confusing Casualty
Ah, Billy Loomis. No, wait, wrong 90s heartthrob tragically meeting his maker. We're talking about AHS: NYC's Billy, the aspiring writer with a penchant for leather and... well, let's just say questionable life choices. But hey, the man had charisma, even if it was the kind that makes you clutch your pearls and wonder, "Honey, where'd it all go wrong?"
The Crime Scene: A Bathtub Full of Trouble
So, how exactly did Billy shuffle off this mortal coil? Let's just say it wasn't exactly a Viking funeral with a flaming longship. Billy's demise unfolded in the least metal way possible: a bathtub. Now, picture this: Billy, strung out like a wet noodle after another night of questionable activities, decides a nice soak is just what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, the good doctor probably wouldn't have prescribed a bathtub full of AIDS-infected vampire blood. Oops.
Theories Wilder Than Richard Ramirez's Haircut
Now, how this vampiric bathwater situation came about is a whole other can of worms. Some folks theorize it was a suicide pact gone wrong (because apparently, even death pacts in the AHS universe are messy). Others think it was just another Tuesday night gone awry in the underbelly of 1980s New York. The truth, as always with AHS, is probably somewhere in between, shrouded in more glitter and eyeliner than a David Bowie convention.
The Verdict: Death by Disco Nap
Here's the thing: the show never explicitly tells us how Billy met his watery grave. Did he slip and crack his head open? Did the vampire blood induce a fatal case of the boogie woogie flu? Maybe he just zoned out so hard, lulled by the pulsating bass from downstairs, that he simply forgot he was even in the tub. We'll never truly know.
In Conclusion: A Hilarious (?) Mystery
Billy's death may be the most unintentionally hilarious casualty in AHS history. It's a bizarre, almost comical end for a character who embodied the chaotic energy of the season. Maybe that's the point – a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the horror genre, sometimes death is just a really unfortunate bath time.
So, the next time you're feeling inspired to write the next great American novel, maybe skip the vampire blood bath and stick to a nice cup of chamomile tea. Unless, of course, you're going for that "undead writer" aesthetic. In that case, by all means, proceed with caution (and a good rubber ducky).
