The sun over Stevenson County, Illinois, didn't just shine; it beat down with a relentless, humid aggression that made the asphalt of the Corpse High School parking lot smell like burnt tires and old gym socks. Despite its name, Corpse High wasn't a cemetery, though it certainly looked like one. It was a community college with gothic spires, flickering fluorescent lights, and a general atmosphere that whispered, "Someone is going to be murdered behind the bleachers tonight." It was the kind of place where the students were either too tired to care or too busy surviving horror-movie tropes to attend class.
Earl Hickey sat on a wooden bench that was more splinters than seat, squinting through the heat haze at his crumpled, yellow legal pad. His mustache was slightly damp from the humidity, and his brow was furrowed in that specific way it did when he was trying to solve a problem that required more than a third-grade education.
"Number 3031," Earl muttered, his voice gravelly. "Broke Ray's ultimate custom mix CD. 200 songs. Two. Hundred."
Beside him, Randy was engaged in a Herculean struggle with a burrito the size of a small toddler. Shredded lettuce and mystery meat were dangerously close to falling onto Earl's list, but Randy was too focused on the flavor profile to notice.
"Earl," Randy said between giant, muffled bites. "We don't even know what was on that CD. It's like trying to remember every bird we've ever seen. It's impossible. All I remember is that one song about the weather... you know, the one where it rains dudes?"
" 'It's Raining Men,' Randy," Earl sighed, shaking his head. "And that Gregorian chant he liked to listen to while he lifted weights. Ray was... he was a complicated guy. But the point isn't the songs, Randy. The point is the loss. That CD was his pride and joy. We accidentally used it as a coaster for a hot frying pan back in '99, and then we used the melted plastic to fix the wobbly leg on Joy's kitchen table. Karma doesn't forget a melted masterpiece."
"But why are we at a college?" Randy asked, wiping sour cream from his chin with the back of his hand. "Ray's a jock. Shouldn't he be at a gym? Or a mirror store?"
"My sources tell me he's here for a summer athletic program," Earl explained, looking around the gloomy campus. "Karma brought us to Stevenson County for a reason. We just gotta find him, apologize, and somehow replace the irreplaceable. Maybe we can find a music major to help us."
Earl shifted his weight, and his heavy work boot kicked something hidden in the shadows beneath the bench. It made a hollow, wooden clack sound. Curious, Earl reached down. His fingers brushed against something cold, smooth, and strangely vibrant despite the dust. He pulled it out.
It was a mask. It was carved from a dark, ancient wood, but it had a distinct green tint that seemed to glow from within. A single, horizontal metal bar was riveted across the bridge of the nose. It looked old—older than the school, older than Earl's mistakes, maybe even older than the Crab Shack's oldest beer.
"Hey, look at this, Randy," Earl said, holding it up. "Maybe this is a sign. Maybe we can sell this to a museum and buy Ray a state-of-the-art CD burner with the fancy labels."
Randy squinted at it. "It looks like it's smiling at me, Earl. I don't like it. It looks like it wants to tell me a joke I won't understand."
"It's just wood, Randy. Probably a theater prop."
Just then, the heavy, rusted double doors of the main building groaned open. The sound was like a signal. The world seemed to shift its axis. The gritty, low-budget atmosphere of the morning suddenly transformed into a high-budget music video.
Theo Keyoko stepped out into the sunlight.
She didn't just walk; she glided with a hypnotic, exotic sway that defied the laws of Illinois physics. Her hips traced a rhythmic, swaying arc that seemed to vibrate through the very air. She was wearing an outfit that was mathematically impossible—tight enough to be a second skin, but flexible enough to emphasize every curve. Her long hair caught the sunlight, and as she moved, gravity itself seemed to lose its grip. Her presence was an intoxicating mix of sweetness and raw, seductive power.
Earl Hickey, a man who had survived Joy Turner's wrath for years, was completely defenseless. His jaw didn't just drop; it hit his chest. His brain, usually occupied by thoughts of karma and lottery tickets, completely short-circuited. He went to point at her—to tell Randy to look, or perhaps to ask the heavens for mercy—but his coordination had vanished.
In his dazed, lovestruck clumsiness, his sweaty grip on the green mask failed. The artifact slipped. Earl lunged for it, his hands flailing like a panicked crab, but instead of catching it, he fumbled it upward. The mask did a slow-motion somersault in the air and landed perfectly, squarely, and with a terrifying CLICK onto Earl's face.
The world didn't just go green—it exploded.
A flash of brilliant, emerald light erupted from the bench, blinding Randy and sending his burrito fillings flying across the parking lot like shrapnel. A literal tornado of green wind whipped around Earl, a spinning vortex that shrieked with the sound of a thousand slide whistles and honking horns.
When the smoke and the spinning stopped, Earl Hickey was gone.
Standing in his place was a figure that defied reality. He wore a zoot suit so bright yellow it made the sun look dim, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and a polka-dot tie. His face was a smooth, glowing mask of neon green skin, and his teeth were a row of perfect, oversized white piano keys set in a grin that stretched from ear to ear.
Theo stopped in her tracks, blinking her long, thick lashes in genuine confusion. "Umm... hello?"
Most men, upon becoming a supernatural trickster god, would have started a riot or robbed a bank. But this was still Earl Hickey underneath. His heart was filled with the desire to do good—and at this moment, his heart was also filled with Theo.
Mask-Earl didn't scream. He didn't go crazy. Instead, he struck a suave, 1940s Hollywood pose, his body snapping into a perfect "V" shape. With a blur of motion that left a trail of yellow and green sparks, he zoomed across the twenty feet of asphalt in less than a nanosecond. He stopped inches from Theo, leaning on an invisible cane.
"Well, call the fire department, baby, 'cause you just set my heart on a five-alarm blaze! And I think I've got a fever that can only be cured by a slow dance and a fast conversation!" his voice chirped, sounding like a golden-age radio announcer who had just drank ten espressos.
Theo let out a soft, surprised giggle. "You're... green."
"I'm more than green, gorgeous! I'm the emerald king of your dreams, the lime-flavored lover of Stevenson County!"
Mask-Earl reached into his pocket. He pulled out a plain, greasy, crumpled napkin—the very one Randy had discarded from his burrito. He held it up between two fingers. "A woman of your stature shouldn't be walking around without the proper accessories. It's a crime against nature! It's a violation of the cosmic dress code!"
With a quick zip-zap-zop of his neon-green fingers, the napkin began to glow. It spun in his palm, weaving itself with impossible speed. The paper didn't just change shape; it changed its very molecular structure. In a split second, it wasn't a greasy napkin anymore. It was a shimmering, handcrafted necklace of white pearls and emerald-green silk, glowing with a soft, magical light.
With a flourish and a theatrical bow, Mask-Earl draped the necklace around Theo's neck. His touch was light, almost electric.
"For the lady whose beauty makes Karma look like a chump and makes the sun want to retire early," he whispered, tipping his hat so low it defied gravity.
Theo looked down at the necklace, feeling its weight—it was real. It was beautiful. She looked back at the green-faced lunatic standing before her.
Anyone else would have run for the hills, but Theo Keyoko was used to strange things. She smiled, a slow, appreciative curve of her lips. "Well... you're certainly more interesting than the guys in this school. Do you always give out jewelry to strangers?"
"Only when the stranger looks like they fell out of a dream and landed on my list!" Mask-Earl winked—a massive, cartoonish wink that made an audible ping sound.
In the distance, tucked behind the rusted brick corner of the school gymnasium, a figure watched them. He was wearing a cheap, slightly oversized black robe and a distorted, screaming white mask. Ghostface tilted his head to the side, his gloved hand coming up to scratch the chin of the mask in utter confusion.
Behind that mask, Doofy Gilmore was having a very difficult time. This wasn't in the plan. He was supposed to be the scariest thing on campus today. He was supposed to be hunting the "naive" students. But how was he supposed to compete with a man who could turn trash into pearls and had a head the color of a Granny Smith apple?
Doofy gripped his plastic knife tighter, a confused whimper escaping his lips. Something was very wrong in Stevenson County, and for the first time in his life, the "bumbling deputy" wasn't the weirdest thing in the room.