Which leads us (this is Scream Queens, never ask questions) to the dramatic reading of Boone’s will, party of two. Get this: Chad Radwell’s dead gay friend bequeathed his most cherished possessions — namely, a shoebox full of lube — to Pete Martinez, the former Dickie Dollar Scholar wannabe who never seems to have a clear end goal (let alone a concluding paragraph) in sight. The real shocking part about this scene by far is that Pete has a last name. My wild theory of the night — much wilder than the robots — is that Pete was born female, Boone was his twin brother, and they’re both the Red Devil killers. And it's insecurity, not guilt that prevents Pete from scoring with Grace. Boom. Answers. Robots.

Add one unqualified cop to the dead body count, please. During an after-midnight mall lockdown that was somehow not as scary as the movie Mannequin because IMHO the Red Devil has yet to really come alive, our dead-inside killer shoots one of new police chief Denise Hemphill’s henchmen — this time with a crossbow and arrow. Of course, Denise Hemphill couldn’t care less about her fallen soldier, not to mention Chanel No. 1 staging her own arrow wound to the chest a few feet away on the floor. Maybe Chanel assumes she's on hidden camera for a Black Friday/Hunger Games crossover docudrama. Maybe Denise Hemphill is orchestrating all of these murders while playing dumb. Or maybe Denise Hemphill just found a cheeseburger in her pocket. When it comes to Denise Hemphill, anything is possible. Case in point: She still insists the Red Devil is Zayday.

Overall, this episode is a slow tease and burn before next week’s finale. The poolside meeting between Dean Munsch and Chanel is sort of funny in a “for once Chanel isn’t going rogue” kind of way (more evidence of the dean’s exquisite mind control), but points must be taken off as this is the third scene in a row to serve as a glorified Samsung commercial. I bet Jamie Lee nabbed the product placement deal herself, that robot bitch!

Who is Pete running from: his mysterious phone enemy, the devil in his tiny closet, or himself? Is Dean Munsch playing everyone in an elaborate mousetrap, the end of which is a bathtub full of red wine, short-ribbed for her pleasure? Damnit, now I’m thirsty. See you next Tuesday for the explosive conclusion to the haziest animated blood-drip of our lives!