The hallways of Corpse High School were not designed for joy. They were narrow, lined with dented lockers that smelled of rust and unwashed gym clothes, and lit by flickering neon tubes that hummed with the sound of a dying mosquito. It was a place of academic misery, but today, that misery was being shattered by the presence of something vibrant, emerald, and completely insane.
Theo Keyoko walked through the double doors, her hand tucked firmly into the arm of the man in the bright yellow zoot suit. She walked with her head held high, a small, knowing smile on her lips as she watched the students and faculty freeze in their tracks. Beside her, Mask-Earl didn't just walk; he strutted with a rubbery, rhythmic bounce, his oversized shoes making a comical honk-squish sound with every step.
"So, big boy," Theo purred, leaning her head toward his glowing green ear. "Since you're so good with jewelry, what else can you do with those hands of yours?"
Mask-Earl's head suddenly transformed into a giant steam whistle. A high-pitched TOOT-TOOT! erupted from the top of his hat, followed by a cloud of white steam. "Baby, I can do things with my hands that would make a Swiss watchmaker retire in shame! I can juggle chainsaws, knit a sweater out of spaghetti, and I've been told I make a mean balloon animal that actually breathes!"
As they rounded the corner toward the cafeteria, the smell of burnt mystery meat was suddenly replaced by the sharp, aggressive scent of lemon-scented bleach and high-grade organic basil.
The Kitchen Dictatorship
Inside the cafeteria, a revolution was underway. Monica Geller had found her way into the kitchen, and it wasn't a pretty sight for the regular staff. She was currently wearing a hairnet that looked like a battle helmet and was waving a stainless-steel spatula at a trembling lunch lady.
"I don't care if it's 'state-mandated gravy'!" Monica shrieked, her voice reaching that high-pitched frequency that could shatter safety glass. "This kitchen has a grease layer so thick I could carbon-date it! I found a spatula that hasn't been washed since the Carter administration! From now on, we are not serving 'Meat Rectangle #4'. We are serving a deconstructed braised short rib with a balsamic reduction! And if I see one more person touch the ladles without sanitizing their elbows, I will lock you in the walk-in freezer!"
In the middle of the dining hall, far away from Monica's wrath, two titans of consumption were engaged in a different kind of battle. Joey Tribbiani and Shorty Meeks were sitting at a table piled high with "Free Sample" cups of mystery pudding and tiny squares of pizza.
"I'm tellin' ya, man," Shorty said, his eyes half-closed and a relaxed grin on his face. "The secret is the breathing. You gotta breathe between the pizza. It opens up the chakras in your stomach."
Joey nodded solemnly, his mouth full of four different types of pudding. "I hear ya. But you're neglecting the 'Joey Special'. You gotta have two pizzas, but you stack 'em on top of each other like a sandwich. That way, the calories think they're only one pizza. It confuses 'em."
"Deep, man. Real deep," Shorty replied, leaning back and stroking a stray crumb on his shirt.
The Confrontation
The swinging doors of the cafeteria burst open. Mask-Earl and Theo entered like they were walking onto a Broadway stage. The room went silent, except for the sound of Monica scrubbing a pot in the back with enough force to generate sparks.
Standing near the juice machine was Ray Wilkins. Ray was the pinnacle of Stevenson County athleticism—broad shoulders, a letterman jacket that fit just a bit too tight to show off his biceps, and a jawline that could cut granite. He was currently leaning against the wall, trying to look cool for Brenda Meeks, who was sitting nearby, looking bored out of her mind.
Ray's eyes widened as he saw Theo—the school's undisputed queen of exotic charm—walking in with a green-faced freak in a yellow suit. Now, Ray wasn't dating Theo; he was with Brenda (though Brenda spent most of her time yelling at him for being an idiot). But Ray had a reputation to uphold. He was the alpha. He was the guy who owned the 200-song custom mix CD (the one currently sitting in Earl's "Karma List" as a broken memory).
Ray stepped forward, blocking their path. He puffed out his chest, his muscles rippling under his jacket. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell is this? Who's the Jolly Green Giant in the pimp suit, Theo?"
Mask-Earl stopped, his body recoiling like a giant spring. He looked Ray up and down, his eyes literally popping out of his head on stalks for a second before snapping back. "Well, if it isn't the king of the locker room! Nice jacket, pal. Does it come with a map, or are you just lost on your way to a protein shake convention?"
Ray growled. He didn't like being talked down to, especially by someone who looked like a radioactive lime. "Listen, Slimer. I don't know where you came from, but in this school, I'm the one who calls the shots. You want to walk around with a girl like Theo, you gotta prove you're man enough to handle the spotlight."
Brenda rolled her eyes from the table. "Ray, sit your ass down. You're embarrassing me. He's got a glowing face, you got a C-minus in gym. Just let it go."
But Ray wasn't letting go. He felt a strange, competitive spark. It wasn't just about Theo. There was something about the way the Green Man moved—the confidence, the style, the... elasticity. "I'm calling you out," Ray declared. "A duel. Right here. Right now."
The Duel of the Hearts
Suddenly, a crackle came over the school's PA system. The sound of a throat clearing echoed through the cafeteria.
"Uh, hello? Is this thing on? Testing, one, two... testing. Okay, hi, Stevenson County. This is Chandler Bing. I've been locked in the principal's office for the last twenty minutes because I asked him if his toupee was trying to escape his head, and honestly, the acoustics in here are better than the conversation."
Chandler's voice was dry, sardonic, and perfectly amplified. "It appears we have a stand-off in the cafeteria. In the red corner, we have Ray, a man whose neck is thicker than his plot in this story. And in the green corner, we have... well, a man who looks like a highlighter had a baby with a jazz singer. Could this be any more ridiculous?"
Mask-Earl looked up at the speakers and winked. "The stage is set, the mic is hot! Let's see what you got, Captain Cardio!"
"The rules are simple!" Chandler's voice boomed. "Since we can't have a physical fight—mostly because Monica would kill anyone who gets blood on her freshly mopped floor—we're going to have a Flirt-Off. The goal? To see who has the most irresistible charm. Our judges will be everyone who isn't currently eating mystery meat."
Ray stepped forward first. He looked at Theo, then at the crowd, then back at Theo. He flashed a blindingly white smile and flexed a bicep. "Hey, Theo. If you were a gym, I'd never skip a day. How about we get out of here and I show you my... trophy room?"
The crowd groaned. Chandler's voice came over the speaker: "Ouch. A gym metaphor? That's about as smooth as a gravel sandwich, Ray. My grandmother has better pick-up lines, and she's been dead since the 80s."
Joey Tribbiani, sensing a challenge, stood up from his table. "Move aside, amateur." He walked up to the group, looked Theo in the eye, leaned in slightly, and gave his legendary smirk. "How you doin'?"
The effect was immediate. Half the girls in the cafeteria sighed. Even Brenda looked impressed for a second.
"A classic!" Chandler narrated. "The 'How you doin'?'—simple, elegant, and requires zero brain cells. A strong entry from the Italian stallion!"
But then, it was Mask-Earl's turn. He didn't just speak. He transformed.
His yellow suit shifted into a tuxedo made of starlight. He pulled a rose out of thin air, but the rose wasn't a flower—it was a tiny, fluttering bird made of crimson silk that sang a perfect romantic melody before landing on Theo's shoulder.
He zoomed around Ray, then around Joey, moving so fast he created a heart-shaped vacuum in the air. He stopped in front of Ray, but instead of insulting him, he leaned in and whispered a line so smooth it felt like velvet. He didn't just flirt with Theo; he flirted with the room.
"Ray, honey," Mask-Earl cooed, his voice shifting into a sultry baritone. "You've got the muscles, but you're missing the magic. Why settle for a trophy room when you could have a galaxy?" He winked at Ray, and for a second, a small green heart floated out of his eye and popped on Ray's nose.
Ray froze. He looked at the Green Man. He looked at the perfect suit, the glowing skin, and the sheer, unadulterated confidence. Something shifted in Ray's mind. His bisexuality, which he usually kept tucked away behind his jock persona, suddenly flared up like a neon sign.
He didn't hate this guy. He wanted to be with this guy. Or at least ask him where he got his teeth whitened.
"Whoa," Ray muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "You... you actually smell like expensive cologne and... lime Skittles. That's actually... really hot."
"And the plot thickens!" Chandler's voice crackled. "Ray is having an awakening! Joey is confused! And I'm still stuck in an office with a principal who thinks 'The Macarena' is still cool! This is truly a massacre of social norms!"
The Smoke in the Parking Lot
While the drama reached a fever pitch inside, the world outside was much quieter—or at least, much blurrier.
Randy Hickey was wandering around the parking lot, looking at his hands. He was still trying to process the fact that his brother was now a green superhero who could make jewelry out of napkins. His brain felt like a computer that had tried to download too much data and had simply decided to stop working.
"Earl? Green Earl?" Randy called out weakly. "I think I lost my burrito. Or maybe the burrito lost me."
From behind a large, rusted dumpster, a plume of thick, sweet-smelling blue smoke drifted into the air. Shorty Meeks stepped out, holding a glass pipe that looked like it had been designed by an alien. He was wearing his trademark beanie and a smile that suggested he was currently watching a movie in his own head.
"Yo, big man," Shorty said, his voice a soothing, gravelly rasp. "You look like you're vibrating on a very stressful frequency. You need to align your soul with the pavement, brother."
Randy blinked, looking at the smoke. "Is my brother in there?"
"Nah, man. Your brother is in the zone. But you? You're in the 'now'. And the 'now' is much better when it's fuzzy." Shorty held out a hand-rolled joint that was roughly the size of a cigar. "This is the Stevenson County Special. It'll make your thoughts feel like they're made of marshmallows."
Randy looked at the joint. He thought about Earl's list. He thought about the green tornado. He thought about how much he missed his burrito. "Does it taste like marshmallows?"
"Better," Shorty grinned. "It tastes like the color purple."
Randy took a seat on the curb next to Shorty. He took a long drag, coughed for approximately three minutes, and then suddenly, the world became a very friendly place.
"Whoa," Randy said, his eyes glazing over as he stared at a nearby pigeon. "That bird is wearing a very tiny hat. Do you see the hat, Shorty?"
"I see the hat, I see the shoes, and I think I see the pigeon's aura, man," Shorty replied, leaning back. "We're all just birds in tiny hats, if you think about it."
"You're smart," Randy nodded solemnly. "You're like a doctor. A smoke doctor."
And so, as the flirt-duel of the century raged inside—with Ray questioning his life choices and Joey trying to figure out if he could eat the silk bird—Randy and Shorty sat in the parking lot, completely oblivious to the fact that a serial killer in a Ghostface mask was currently hiding in the bushes ten feet away, crying because nobody was paying attention to him.