The atmosphere in Corpse High School shifted from "absurd comedy" to "low-budget horror" in the blink of an eye. One moment, the cafeteria was a battleground of flirting and lasagna; the next, a heavy, mechanical thud echoed from the basement. The humming neon lights flickered once, turned a sickly shade of purple, and then died with a collective pop.
Silence swallowed the school, broken only by the sound of Monica Geller letting out a frustrated scream that could be heard three floors up. "I was halfway through descaling the industrial dishwasher! Who turned off the juice?!"
The Darkness and the Routine
In the pitch-black hallway, Cindy Campbell and Brenda Meeks didn't panic. They didn't scream. They simply sighed in unison.
"Here we go again," Brenda muttered, her voice echoing off the lockers. "Every time I find a place with decent cell reception, some fool in a bathrobe wants to start a slasher flick. Cindy, you got the flashlight?"
Cindy clicked on a small, pink plastic flashlight. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating a pair of floating, glowing green eyes and a set of oversized white teeth. Mask-Earl was leaning against a trophy case, his yellow suit now glowing with a faint, radioactive luminescence.
"Don't worry, ladies!" Mask-Earl chirped, his voice bouncing off the walls like a rubber ball. "The lights might be out, but the party is just getting started! I've always found that the dark is the best time for a little... theatricality!"
"Listen, Greenie," Brenda said, pointing a finger at his glowing nose. "We got a killer on the loose. He's probably behind that corner, breathing heavy and thinking about his mother. We need to get out, get to the car, and find a place that sells tacos and has a working security system."
The Kidnapping and the Chase
Before Mask-Earl could respond with a pun about "light-headedness," a dark figure lunged from the shadows of the gymnasium entrance. Ghostface moved with a clumsy but determined speed. In one fluid (well, mostly fluid) motion, he grabbed Theo Keyoko, who had been standing slightly apart from the group, checking her reflection in a dark window.
Theo let out a startled "Hey!" as the masked killer threw her over his shoulder like a sack of exotic potatoes.
"A-ha! The damsel is in distress! The plot thickens like a bad gravy!" Mask-Earl shouted. He didn't look worried; he looked thrilled. He pulled a giant, old-fashioned brass trumpet out of his ear and blew a triumphant fanfare. "Unhand that lady, you overgrown tuxedo!"
Ghostface didn't stay to chat. He scrambled down the hallway, but this wasn't a normal chase. As Mask-Earl gave pursuit, the very laws of physics in Corpse High began to melt.
Mask-Earl's legs transformed into a pair of giant, spinning unicycles. He zoomed down the hall, leaving a trail of burning rubber and confetti. Every time Ghostface turned a corner, Mask-Earl would already be there, leaning against a locker, reading a newspaper, or dressed as a grandma knitting a sweater.
"Coming through!" Mask-Earl yelled, his body flattening into a two-dimensional pancake as he slid under a locked door, only to pop up on the other side and trip Ghostface with a giant, polka-dot banana peel that appeared out of thin air.
Slip! Crash!
Ghostface tumbled, Theo sliding across the waxed floor (though she managed to land in a very graceful, seated pose). The killer scrambled to his feet, waving his knife in frustration. He lunged at Mask-Earl, but the green trickster simply unzipped his own chest, pulled out a massive wooden mallet labeled "THE PERSUADER," and bopped the killer on the head.
BOING!
Instead of a skull-crushing blow, the mallet made a sound like a spring-loaded toaster. Ghostface's head actually compressed into his shoulders for a second before popping back up with a confused squeak.
Ross and the Scientific Slasher
While the cartoon chase raged through the hallways, Ross Geller was having a very different kind of crisis in the darkened science wing. He had dropped his glasses when the lights went out, and he was currently on his hands and knees, patting the cold tile floor.
"My glasses! I can't find my glasses! My father always said I should have had the strap!"
A dark figure approached him. It was Ghostface, having briefly escaped the green tornado of Mask-Earl. He saw Ross—a perfect, easy target. He raised his hunting knife, preparing to strike.
"Is that you, Chandler?" Ross asked, squinting at the dark shape. "Listen, whoever you are, watch where you step. These are transitional lenses!"
Ghostface paused, his arm frozen in mid-air. He let out a low, menacing hiss.
"Wait, wait," Ross said, standing up and squinting at the knife. The blade caught a tiny sliver of moonlight from a high window. "Is that a buck knife? You're holding it all wrong. The grip should be firm but flexible to allow for maximum leverage on the downward thrust. And honestly, the angle? You're going for the carotid, I assume? If you want to be scientifically accurate, you need to tilt the blade fifteen degrees to the left."
Ghostface tilted his head, looking down at his hand. He adjusted the knife slightly.
"No, no, that's too much," Ross corrected, stepping closer and actually grabbing the killer's wrist to adjust his form. "There. You see? You're using your deltoids when you should be using your triceps for the initial puncture. Honestly, do they teach you kids anything in Serial Killer 101? It's basic biomechanics!"
Ghostface stared at Ross. He looked at his knife. He looked back at Ross. The killer seemed genuinely touched by the academic feedback, nodding slowly in the dark. For a brief moment, they weren't hunter and prey; they were teacher and student.
Then, Mask-Earl's voice echoed from the end of the hall. "HEY, STABBY! CATCH!"
A giant, 500-pound safe fell from the ceiling, landing exactly where Ghostface had been standing a second before. The killer jumped back, his new scientific training forgotten as he fled toward the boiler room, whimpering in terror.
The Higher Grounds: God's List
High above the chaos, on the gravel-covered roof of the school, the air was thick with something other than fear.
Shorty Meeks and Randy Hickey were sitting with their backs against a massive ventilation fan. The "Stevenson County Special" had done its work. The world below didn't matter anymore. The screams of Cindy and the honking of the Mask were just background noise to the cosmic revelations they were currently experiencing.
"Look at the stars, Randy," Shorty whispered, his voice sounding like it was underwater. "They aren't just balls of gas, man. They're like... bullet points. A giant list in the sky."
Randy's eyes were the size of dinner plates. He was staring at a flickering neon sign across the street that said DRY CLEANERS, but to him, it looked like the handwriting of the universe. "I see it, Shorty. It's God's list. Number one: 'Make the moon look like a taco.' Number two: 'Stop the birds from screaming so loud.'"
"Deep," Shorty nodded. "So deep it's shallow."
Suddenly, the roof door burst open. Chandler Bing stumbled out, gasping for air. He looked disheveled, his tie was loosened, and he was covered in a light dusting of flour.
"I can't do it anymore!" Chandler cried out to the night sky. "Monica is making me categorize the school's spice rack by region of origin! I'm a data processor, not a botanist! And there's a man with a green face trying to marry a woman he just met while a guy in a ghost suit tries to kill us all! I want to go home! I want to be in my apartment where the only thing that scares me is the possibility of Joey forgetting to pay the electric bill!"
Shorty looked up, his grin wide and welcoming. "Yo, Mr. Sarcasm. You're vibrating at a very sharp frequency. You're like a jagged rock in a smooth river, man."
Chandler stopped, looking at the two stoners sitting in the smoke-filled air. "And you two are... what? Having a board meeting? Is this where the 'not-caring' club meets? Because I would like to apply for a lifetime membership."
Shorty held up a fresh, hand-rolled joint. "No application needed, brother. Just a willingness to see the colors. Take a hit of the 'Universal Truth'. It'll turn that jagged rock into a cloud."
Chandler looked at the joint. He thought about Monica's spice rack. He thought about the giant safe that had just fallen through the third floor. He thought about his own life.
"You know what?" Chandler said, snatching the joint. "At this point, if I start seeing dragons, at least they won't ask me to help them move furniture."
He took a massive, desperate hit. He held it in for three seconds, coughed a dry, sarcastic cough, and then exhaled.
Almost instantly, his eyes glazed over. His shoulders dropped six inches. The frantic energy left his body. He sat down cross-legged between Randy and Shorty.
"Oh," Chandler whispered. "Oh, I see it now."
"The stars?" Randy asked.
"No," Chandler replied, pointing at the DRY CLEANERS sign. "I see the List. And you know what the weirdest part is?"
"What, man?" Shorty asked.
"Number 3031," Chandler giggled, a sound that was entirely new to his vocal cords. "It says: 'Chandler Bing needs to stop being so uptight.' And I think... I think I just crossed it off."
"Whoa," Randy said, leaning his head on Chandler's shoulder. "We're all just items on a list, man."
"Exactly," Shorty said, passing the joint back. "And right now? We're the best items in the store."
Below them, a massive explosion of green light and a muffled "SMMMMOKIN'!" signaled that the chase was still ongoing, but on the roof of Corpse High, three men—a stoner, a simpleton, and a cynic—were finally at peace, watching the universe's handwriting flicker in the neon glow.