Title: The Great Hoe-Down Massacre

Rating: R

Warnings: Horror, violence, gore, depravity?, creepiness, dapperness?

The cow-patty had been the final straw. Kurt grimaced at the pun he'd just thought, pushing the steel further into his latest victim before finally yanking the pitchfork out, biceps bulging. He'd already tossed his white jacket (white? really? he and Blaine were not fucking brides, thank you) over some hay bale when it had been splattered with the first bit of blood. Now, his sleeves were rolled up, dress shirt unbuttoned and tie somewhere on the floor, probably in a crimson puddle.

He'd been married in a barn. Kurt Hummel did not do barns. He didn't do spur of the moment weddings, either, but he'd caved to the pressure from those who happened to be at Brittany and Santana's celebration. He had no idea why in the hell Blaine's mother was there, nor why Cooper wasn't if this had been some secret plan between their friends and family. Frankly, Kurt didn't care.

The urge to just give in, get a little tipsy on cheap champagne, and actually dance with his husband had taken over, and he had been trying to do just that, when he lost it. His shoe slipped in something on the barn floor, and when he looked down, he was irate.

Cow. Shit. He had just stepped and slipped in fucking cow shit! At his fucking wedding! This was just… wrong! No, Kurt Hummel did not have a wedding with cow shit for a guest!

Kurt had stalked to the wall of the barn then, his husband watching with curiosity and concern on his face, and grabbed an abandoned pitch fork. He was so damn mad. In more than just one definition of the word.

The first victim was a bale of hay, which Kurt stabbed repeatedly, checking the weight and movement of his chosen weapon. Nobody took much notice, besides Blaine who looked more concerned now, shuffling dutifully to Kurt's side. “Are you okay?” the dapper boy asked, only to get a grunt in return as Kurt pulled the fork from the now-destroyed hay.

"I'm just wonderful, honey,” he said, eyes glowing maniacally. In a split second, Kurt whipped around and stabbed the pitch fork into a nameless guest's stomach, smiling creepily as he pulled it out and stabbed again. “Perfectly fine.”

The other guests had only just started noticing that something was wrong. Friends and family started yelling his name at some point, but Kurt didn't hear them. No, he was much too busy forcing four steel rods through the guts and chests of unknown people who were, for some reason, at his wedding. They had no reason to be there, so he'd just remove them. Then he'd get the stupid cow shit off his stupid shoe. Then he'd run away with Blaine and have a real ceremony where Coop could be there and their friends from New York actually knew about their lives.

Blaine, having apparently come to terms with his husband's murderous rage, was trailing behind him, checking on his victims. Ever the gentleman, he wiped trails of blood from open mouths with his handkerchief, closing the eyes of each person so they looked like they'd just fallen asleep in pools of red paint. Or ketchup. Or something.

His final victim was made such due to the fact that the pitch fork wouldn't come out of the sternum he'd just rammed it through. Kurt leaned back only for Blaine to support him, wiping Kurt's forehead with a bloody hankie and cooing in his ear. “Feel better now, sweetheart?”

The shorter man supported Kurt for a minute before leading them both out of the barn and to the decorated ‘just married' grooms' car. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they both ignored them. It was no time before they'd driven off toward the horizon, heading for New York and the future they actually wanted. Perhaps they'd end up caught for what had happened, but perhaps they'd just go on with their lives. People killed people every day, after all.

They cuddled as best they could while Kurt drove, eyes and voice full of devotion. “I love you,” Blaine said softly, kissing the blood-splattered knuckles of Kurt's right hand.

"I love you too."