The morning sun began to bleed over the horizon of Stevenson County, Illinois, casting long, amber shadows across the parking lot of Corpse High School. The chaotic neon energy of the "Karma-Oke" was fading, leaving behind a world that felt strangely quiet—yet charged with a new, simmering electricity. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, burnt rubber, and the faint, lingering smell of Randy's discarded burrito
.
Earl Hickey stood near the school's back entrance, his flannel shirt wrinkled and his mustache slightly askew. In his calloused hands, he gripped the wooden Mask. It felt heavy, dormant, but Earl knew its power. It was a weight that felt both like a curse and a lucky charm. He was about to tuck it away into his bag when a scent of expensive orchids and danger wafted into his personal space.
Theo Keyoko was no longer just watching from the sidelines. She approached Earl with a slow, deliberate sway of her hips that made the laws of motion seem like mere suggestions. Her exotic, almond-shaped eyes locked onto Earl's tired ones.
"You know, Earl," Theo purred, her voice a low, sultry vibration that made the hair on the back of Earl's neck stand up. "The green guy was... flashy. He was fun. But I've always had a thing for a man who carries a notebook and actually cares about his karma. There's something very... sturdy about you."
She stepped closer—much closer. Her large, firm breasts, encased in her tight outfit, pressed flirtatiously against Earl's muscular arm as she leaned in. The contact was electric, a soft pressure that sent Earl's thoughts spinning faster than the Mask ever could. Earl's brain, which had just survived a supernatural transformation, felt like it was melting into a puddle of radiator fluid.
"I think," Theo whispered, her breath warm against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine, "that you and I have some unfinished business that doesn't involve singing. Maybe you can show me more of that... list of yours."
Earl's grip on the Mask faltered. He was so distracted by the intoxicating feeling of Theo's body molding against his arm, the curve of her hip brushing his leg, that his fingers simply went numb. The green artifact slipped from his hand, tumbling toward the floor in a slow-motion arc.
The Rise of Professor Mask
At that exact moment, Ross Geller came sprinting out of the science wing. He was disheveled, panting, and still fuming about the lack of scientific rigor in the school's chemistry department.
"I've had it! I am a doctor of Paleontology! If I see one more student try to neutralize a hydrochloric acid with orange soda and a prayer, I'm going to—"
SQUISH.
Ross's designer loafers hit a stray, oversized banana peel—a remnant of the Mask-Earl's earlier antics. His feet flew out from under him, sending him into a spectacular, slow-motion backflip.
CLICK.
The Mask, falling at the perfect trajectory, met Ross's face mid-air.
A blinding flash of emerald light hit the hallway, reflecting off the trophy cases. When the smoke cleared, Ross Geller was gone. In his place stood a figure in a tweed suit with neon-green patches, wearing a graduation cap that pulsed with rhythmic light. His face was a glowing, manic shade of lime, and his eyes were wide with a terrifying intellectual hunger.
Mask-Ross didn't scream "We were on a break!"
Instead, he pulled a giant, three-meter-long periodic table out of his sleeve and laughed like a mad scientist.
"GREETINGS, CARBON-BASED LIFEFORMS!" Mask-Ross shrieked with the voice of a caffeinated opera singer. "The molecular structure of this school is INFERIOR! I must go! There are electrons to excite! There is covalent bonding to be done! AND I'M GOING TO TEACH CHEMISTRY UNTIL YOUR PERIODIC TABLES BLEED! WE WILL BALANCE THE EQUATIONS OR WE WILL PERISH!"
With a sound like a sliding whistle—VREEE-OOOP!—Mask-Ross zipped down the hallway at Mach 3, leaving a trail of test tubes and mathematical equations glowing in the air.
Theo didn't even flinch. She didn't even look at the green blur that used to be a paleontologist. Her focus remained entirely on Earl. She pressed her body even closer, her exotic curves a distracting, mischievous weight against him, her hip giving him a playful nudge. "Ignore the science teacher, Earl. I'm interested in our chemistry. Let's find somewhere quiet."
Earl let out a weak, strangled noise of agreement, his eyes wide as Theo's playful, sultry smile promised a very different kind of list-fixing.
The High Life on the Roof
While the romantic tension simmered below, the atmosphere on the roof had reached a level of "enlightenment" that could be seen from space.
Shorty, Randy, Chandler, and a now-unmasked Doofy were sitting in a circle, surrounded by a cloud of smoke so thick it looked like they were sitting on a literal cloud. Doofy, wearing his bumbling deputy uniform but looking incredibly relaxed, was currently explaining why he thought squirrels were actually tiny government spies sent to monitor the consumption of acorns.
The roof door flew open. Catalina Aruca burst out, her face red with worry, her breathing heavy from the stairs. "Randy! Randy, where are you?! I've been looking everywhere, I thought a ghost ate you or you fell into a giant mop bucket—"
She stopped, staring at the circle of men who were currently watching the sky with glazed, happy eyes.
"Catalina!" Randy cheered, his voice sounding like he was talking through a pillow. "You made it! Come sit down. We're watching the sky-movie. It's got subtitles tonight, but they're in a language made of sparkles."
Catalina looked at the joint Shorty held out. She looked at the stress of the night, the monsters, the screaming, and the general madness of Stevenson County. Without a second thought, she snatched the joint and took a massive, professional hit. She exhaled a cloud that looked like a heart-shaped technicolor dream.
"Okay," Catalina said, sitting down between Randy and Doofy, her legs crossing as she felt the roof start to hum. "Now I see it. The world is very... wiggly."
The five of them looked up. The "God's List" was flickering in the morning sky, but the numbers were changing, written in shimmering golden script across the clouds.
"Look," Chandler giggled, leaning back against a vent. "Number 5001: 'Tell Chandler he's a pretty, pretty boy.' Wow. The Universe has surprisingly good taste when it's high. I always knew I had 'ethereal beauty'."
"And look at 5002," Shorty added, pointing to a swirling nebula of smoke. "'Make sure the green man doesn't forget his lab coat.' I think Ross is in trouble, man. The atoms are coming for him."
"I like the numbers that look like kittens," Randy said, nodding solemnly. "They're very soft numbers. I want to pet the math."
The Foul-Mouthed Duel
Down in the school's courtyard, a different kind of confrontation was happening. Phoebe Buffay was wandering through the bushes, her blonde hair tangled with leaves, calling out for her feathered friend. "Polly? Polly! Come out, little bird! I have a song about a lonely cracker and a bird who forgot how to fly straight!"
She found Polly. But the parrot wasn't alone. Dwight Hartman was there, sitting firmly in his wheelchair. He was positioned in the middle of a pile of debris, his face a mask of fierce independence. He was trying to clear a fallen branch from the path, his arms bulging as he gripped the wheels and shoved against the obstacle, refusing to let his physical situation slow him down.
Polly the Parrot was perched on a low branch of a dead oak tree, bobbing her head aggressively at Dwight.
"Get out of the way, you rolling roadblock! You oversized shopping cart!" Polly shrieked, her voice a gravelly, foul-mouthed assault. "I've seen better wheels on a broken tricycle! Move it, or I'll pluck your eyebrows and use them for a nest, you son of a—!"
"Listen here, you overgrown feather-duster!" Dwight barked back, locking the brakes on his wheelchair so he could lean forward and point a defiant finger at the bird. "I don't need a talkative chicken telling me where to roll! I can clear this path myself! I can fight a bird myself! I can do EVERYTHING MYSELF!"
"Eat my tail-feathers, you grumpy tin-can captain!" Polly screamed, letting out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush and hide under a deck. "Go find a parking spot that accepts stubborn idiots and their squeaky chairs!"
Phoebe stood there, blinking, her guitar strapped to her back. She looked at the bird, then at the man in the chair. "Oh... I think I have a song for this. It's called 'The Rolling Man and the Bird who Needs a Bar of Soap for her Beak'."