The darkness of Corpse High School didn't last long. In the center of the building, within the cavernous, moth-eaten auditorium, a transformation was taking place that made Monica's kitchen renovation look like child's play.
Mask-Earl stood in the center of the dusty stage, his green face glowing like a radioactive emerald. He snapped his fingers—CRACK-BOOM—and the dilapidated wooden floorboards morphed into a shimmering sea of neon glass. The velvet curtains, previously smelling of 1950s mildew, turned into waterfalls of liquid glitter. From the ceiling, thousands of disco balls descended like a glittering army.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and masked slashers of all ages!" Mask-Earl's voice boomed, now echoing with the reverb of a stadium announcer. "Welcome to the Karma-Oke City! We've got 200 songs, two desperate men, and a list that needs a giant red checkmark!"
He pointed a gloved finger at Ray Wilkins and Joey Tribbiani, who were standing near the edge of the stage, blinking in the sudden, blinding light.
"Ray, baby!" Mask-Earl zoomed over to him, his legs stretching like taffy until he was towering over the jock. "I heard you lost your favorite mix. Well, tonight, we aren't just giving you the songs. We're giving you the experience! But Karma has a price: you've gotta sing 'em all! And since Joey here never met a stage he didn't want to marry, he's your backup!"
The 200-Song Mega-Mix
Ray looked at the glowing green man. He looked at the sequins on his own jacket, which had magically appeared the moment Mask-Earl snapped his fingers. Usually, Ray would have punched someone for this. But his heart—that confused, athletic heart—was thumping a different rhythm. He looked at Mask-Earl's perfect teeth and felt a wave of... something.
"I... I don't know if I can do 200 songs, man," Ray stammered, his biceps flexing nervously.
"Don't worry, Ray!" Joey shouted, already grabbing a golden microphone that had sprouted from the floor like a mushroom. "It's just like acting! You just make the faces and the sounds happen! Plus, I think there's a buffet behind that curtain!"
The music started. It wasn't just one song; it was a high-speed, techno-remixed, orchestral medley of every track Ray had ever loved.
"It's Raining Men!" began to blare, but before the first chorus finished, it transitioned seamlessly into "Bohemian Rhapsody," then into that one Gregorian chant Ray used for bench-pressing.
Ray and Joey began to move. Joey was doing a weird, flamboyant 1920s jazz dance, while Ray started with some stiff jock-shuffles. But as the music pumped through the neon floor, Ray let go. He grabbed a second microphone. He started belting out the lyrics with a passion no one knew he possessed.
As he sang, Ray kept locking eyes with Mask-Earl, who was sitting in the front row, wearing a "Number 1 Fan" foam finger and eating popcorn out of a hat. Ray realized it then: he didn't care about the CD. He didn't care about the broken plastic or the 200 songs. He cared about the fact that this green, chaotic god had done all of this for him.
"I love this man!" Ray shouted into the mic during a particularly intense bridge of a Backstreet Boys song. "I mean, I love women! But I also really, really love this green guy!"
"That's the spirit, Ray!" Joey yelled, trying to harmonize but mostly just making loud "Yeah!" noises.
The Lighting Crew from Heaven (or the Roof)
High above the auditorium, on the windy roof of the school, the "Technical Crew" was hard at work. Or, more accurately, they were hard at something.
Chandler, Randy, and Shorty were huddled around a massive, ancient-looking control board that Mask-Earl had "borrowed" from a 1970s sci-fi movie set. Thick clouds of sweet blue smoke swirled around them, blending with the night mist.
"Okay, okay," Randy giggled, his eyes half-shut as he stared at the buttons. "This one says 'Laser Storm'. But I think it actually says 'Lazy Storm'. I'm gonna press it."
"No, man," Shorty cautioned, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "You gotta feel the vibe of the music coming through the vents. It's purple. The music is definitely purple right now."
Chandler, who was currently wearing a feathered boa he had found in a storage chest, was leaning over the edge of the roof. "Do you guys see that? On the wall of the gym? I'm trying to project 'Emotional Resonance', but I think I've just projected a giant, glowing pink pig eating a donut."
"It's a sign, Chandler!" Randy cheered. "God wants us to know that pigs are people too!"
Chandler took another long pull from the joint Shorty passed him. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke form shapes of middle-management executives dancing.
"You know, back in New York, I used to worry about whether my jokes were too mean. But up here? I realize that jokes are just... sound-flavored air. And the air is delicious."
He began sliding the faders up and down at random. Downstairs, the auditorium was hit by a barrage of strobe lights, bubbles, and indeed, several holographic pink pigs that began dancing around Ray and Joey.
The Arrival of Ghostface
The roof door creaked open. A shadow fell across the gravel.
Ghostface (Doofy) stepped out, his hunting knife gripped tightly in a gloved hand. He had been through a lot. He had been bopped by a mallet, lectured by a paleontologist, and ignored by a green man with a suit. He needed a win. He saw the three sitting ducks by the control board.
"Finally," Doofy hissed behind the mask. He crept up behind Chandler, raising the knife high.
Chandler didn't turn around. He just stared at the moon. "You know, if you're here to kill us, you're really late. The irony of your timing is almost as sharp as that knife, which, by the way, Ross says you're holding at a suboptimal angle for a thoracic puncture."
Doofy froze. He let out a low, confused growl.
"Yo, Ghost-man," Shorty said, not even looking up from the joint he was rolling. "Sit down. You're standing in the 'Anxiety Zone'. It's messing with the frequency of the lights."
"I... I'm going to gut you like a fish!" Doofy squeaked, trying to sound menacing.
"Gutting is such a messy metaphor," Chandler said, finally turning his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had a serene, terrifyingly calm smile on his face. "Tell me, Ghostface... why the mask? Is it because you feel like your true self is unworthy of being seen? Is this a manifestation of the bumbling deputy persona you use to deflect the crushing weight of your own perceived inadequacy?"
Doofy's arm began to tremble. "What?"
"It's okay," Chandler continued, his voice dripping with weed-fueled empathy. "We all wear masks. I wear sarcasm. You wear... well, a cheap plastic face from a costume shop. Was it your mother? Did she not give you enough stickers when you were a deputy? Or is it that you're secretly afraid that even as a killer, you're still just a punchline?"
A small, pathetic sob escaped from under the Ghostface mask. The knife lowered.
"It's just... nobody takes me seriously!" Doofy wailed, collapsing onto a pile of gravel. "I try to be scary! I put the robe on! I sharpen the knife! And then a green man drops a safe on me! It's not fair!"
Randy patted Doofy's hooded shoulder. "There, there, Mr. Ghosty. Earl says the things we do don't define us. It's the things we fix. You wanna fix your bad vibes?"
Shorty leaned over, blowing a thick cloud of smoke directly into the Ghostface mask's mouth-hole. Doofy inhaled instinctively.
There was a long silence.
Doofy's head tilted back. He looked at the sky. He looked at the glowing pink pig projected on the gym wall. He slowly reached up and pulled off the mask, revealing his gapped teeth and confused, watery eyes.
"Whoa," Doofy whispered. "Everything is... vibrating. The gravel feels like it's singing to me."
"That's the Karma, man," Shorty said, handing him the joint. "Take another hit. We're watching the List."
"The List?" Doofy asked, taking a puff.
"Yeah," Randy said, pointing at the horizon where the sun was beginning to think about rising. "God's List. And look! Number 4002: 'Make the scary man stop crying.' We just did it, guys!"
Doofy sat down between Randy and Chandler. The four of them—the stoner, the simpleton, the cynic, and the serial killer—sat in a row, their legs dangling over the edge of the roof.
The Grand Finale
Downstairs, the music reached its crescendo. Ray and Joey were dripping with sweat, standing back-to-back as the final notes of the 200-song mix faded into a beautiful, shimmering silence.
Mask-Earl stood up and clapped his hands. A giant, golden stamp appeared in mid-air and slammed down onto Earl's legal pad with a satisfying THUD.
ITEM 3031: COMPLETED.
Ray turned to Mask-Earl. He was panting, his hair a mess, his heart full. "I don't need the CD, Earl. I don't even need the music. I think... I think I found a new version of me tonight."
"Me too!" Joey shouted. "I think I'm a tenor!"
Ray walked to the edge of the stage and looked up at the ceiling. "Hey, Chandler! The lights were great! The pigs were a nice touch!"
From the roof, a muffled, happy shout came back: "WE LOVE YOU, RAY! ALSO, DOOFY SAYS HE'S SORRY ABOUT THE STABBING ATTEMPTS! HE'S A VEGETARIAN NOW!"
Theo walked onto the stage, draped in her new pearl necklace, and leaned against Ray's shoulder.
Joy Turner marched in, looking at the neon mess and shaking her head. "Earl, I don't know what the hell you did to this school, but if we don't get a tax write-off for this, I'm gonna kill you myself."
Mask-Earl just grinned, his green face fading as the sun began to rise. "Karma, Joy. It's a beautiful thing. And tonight? Everybody's on the list."
As the green light faded and Earl Hickey returned to his normal, flannel-wearing self, he looked around at his weird, beautiful, multi-universal family. They were a mess. They were survivors, cleaners, actors, and stoners. But as the sun came up over Stevenson County, for the first time in a long time, the list felt a little bit lighter.
The mask in the Earl's hands...