The Smiling Man.

That was the latest gossip going around, like an online trend or internet joke that everyone seemed to be talking about. His presence had grown so rapidly in such a short time. First it was a few select conversations on 1 or 2 websites, then the entire website, then real life. Before they knew it, The Smiling Man forcefully infested everyone's conversations, like a tick attaching itself to the skin.

Now anyone who has even an inkling of knowledge about the internet would say that normally, something becomes popular and dies down over time. That was simply just how culture worked. It came and went, gone like a ghost. People would talk about it for maybe 1 or 2 months, then it was forgotten.

The Smiling Man refuses to be forgotten.

He even set up his own little shop on the busiest corner of the busiest city, complete with a massive rendition of his own head on top. No one would forget him now. No one would ignore him, no one COULD ignore him. They'd talk and talk and talk, exactly how he wanted it.

However, words can only get someone so far. Soon enough, people could simply… stop talking. Ceasing any and all mentions of The Smiling Man. They'd grow to hate that name, violently gag at the mere sound of its 4 syllables. Eventually, they may stop talking all together, to stop any possibility, any risk of his name forming on the tongue and being flung into earshot. They would instead communicate through facial gestures. Looking at others' faces would become the new kind of communication. An angry expression, blinking a few times, maybe a click of the teeth, the click being produced through the force of the jaws clamping of course, don't want to risk speaking a word after all.

However, one day, peoples' faces started to change. One woman's face was yellow, having a black nose, and yellow triangle shaped ears that poked out the top. A man over the counter at the local cafe had a face which was a rocky gray, featuring blood red markings all over, which formed some eerie smile, accompanied by a massive yellow eye in the middle. The postman who delivered the morning mail had a woman's face, long pink hair gliding behind him, the hair being longer than his entire body. Soon enough, everyone had a new face, or rather, a new mask.

The days they called him The Smiling Man were over, those seemed like years ago. Now, he was simply known as The Happy Mask Salesman.

During the period when people were much more hesitant about speaking his name, The Happy Mask Salesman suddenly opened his hut to the public, now branding it as the Happy Mask Shop. He began selling strange masks he claimed to have collected during his travels around the world, marketing the masks as having mystical powers.

Wearing these masks meant the buyer contributed to his legend. His business. His opacity.

They were his customer, his property, he owned them. It didn't matter if everyone stopped talking about him, just looking at another person and seeing the mask on their face was enough to remind someone of this inescapable fact:

The Happy Mask Salesman is real, and he will never go away.

Those who tried to do something about the situation, just became another buyer, another click and cha-ching of the cash register. Some would watch as police officers entered his shop, wanting to see if he had a warrant to sell his merchandise. Just a few minutes later, they would all come out, wearing his masks. Those who tried to take an indirect approach through the courts, would watch as the judge dismissed their case, that orange-haired man with the grin standing by his side. As the door closed, they could barely make out the last of the judge's face, a big black sphere with a crudely shaped skull painted on it.

Wait, was the judge wearing a mask too?

It has been so long since the residents had seen someone without a mask, or was it a face? When you looked in the mirror and saw your head covered by the image of a peach-skinned boar with tusks on each end of its mouth, was that just how you looked? This… face you were born with?

Those who denied this indisputable fact, who tried to peel off the painted wood, found themselves unable to. This was their face now, something they tried so hard to deny. In fact, why would someone deny it? Who tries to tear off their own face?

Now, you looked at the people of the past, who others like you called The Insane Ones. For millennia, they didn't have faces. How could one live without a face? You went throughout your house, looking at old pictures of yourself from… who knows how long ago. In your rage and disgust of seeing your own innards, you smashed the photographs to pieces, the shards of glass cutting your skin, drawing blood.

Wait, something's wrong.

You rush over to the bathroom, and fall to the floor, screaming at the sight in the mirror. Eventually, you muster up the courage to look at the damage. A little bit of wood was chipped off when you were destroying your old photographs, the glass flew out and struck your face. In your horror, you sprint out of the house and into the public square, spying your safe haven:

Your best friend, whom you've named The Provider, as he is the one The Happy Mask Salesman entrusted his shop to on his off-days.

You rush over to him, a warm feeling explodes throughout your body as you see the man who gifted you with your beautiful face. This warm feeling is replaced with a deep regret, a regret that forces you to crumple to the ground.

You must now apologize for damaging the gift from Your Provider.

Your Provider smiles at you as he leans against the fountain, but that smile is deafened by a worried, then angry expression. "You damaged your face!?"

Your Provider's tone is cold, this is a malicious side he's never shown before. You're terrified, fearing what he may do. He leaps over the desk with agility newly displayed, as he grabs you by the arm, dragging you outside to the middle of the square. Bystanders look at you as Your Provider shouts to them, telling them of the heinous act you committed.

The onlookers boo and shout, all terrible words, some throwing a few curses you haven't heard of before. Your Provider glares at you angrily, before tearing off your face. As the wood leaves your head, you submit to an overpowering breakdown, as you collapse to the ground.

Oh how terrible it was to lose your face, to have your skin peeled off.

To add insult to injury, Your Provider gives you a new face. Although you are comforted for the moment, this new face of yours is a reminder of what you did. And worst of all, it was a face resembling that of The Insane Ones, your new face was meant to look like those who had none.

Pale skin, combined with long bluish hair and hollow, black eyes. You had a new face, but it wasn't something to be proud of. As you turn away from the disgusted crowd, you can barely make out The Happy Mask Salesman, grinning through the window. He puzzles you, to an extent. Despite being the one who gave everyone their faces, he does nothing but stay in that small tent of his, perhaps it doubles as a house? You want to apologize to him, your previous face was one he himself crafted years ago, a face that you disrespected.

"I'm so sorry…"

The words come out of my mouth in an instinctual tumble. I had meant to say something much grander than that, something worthy of a true apology. But no, I can only muster the dignity to spit out 3 or so words, like the despicable traitor I am.

I destroyed my face, the only thing of value in this world.

I walked back home alone that night, everyone avoided me like the plague. In fact, as I walk into the door now, it seems that some have formed a riot, throwing rocks at my window. I grew to expect the rocks, the cursing, the sudden jumpings of a gang, furious with my treachery.

Every day seemed to blend together, Sunday transformed into Monday, Tuesday to Friday, and eventually, we all decided to ditch our calendars. Looking at anything that wasn't a mirror or reflective surface pretend us from gazing at the most beautiful thing in all creation: Our face.

On a regular day, I saw at least 20 people just… staring at their car door or the surface of a pool, so they could look at their own faces. Sometimes, if my schedule allowed it, I would happily join them.

This blending of days and discarding of time was abruptly halted when I noticed a massive crowd of people migrate to the northern edge of town, shouting and holding picket signs. Apparently, they were protesting, against a similarly large group they called The Foreigners.

People from outside our town.

I joined them without hesitation, how dare a conglomerate of the naked attack our beautiful community! Assembling a banner and slogan of my own, I quickly drove my care to the advertised protest, alongside many others with beautiful faces.

What lay beyond our town were monsters, monsters hypocritically clad in blue, sporting golden badges. How could officers of the law dare show the innards of their heads? Similarly, news reporters were also at the scene, spreading devious lies about our beautiful new faces. Although our screams and shouts were loud, I unfortunately picked up on some words the "reporters" were saying, as "police" set up a boundary of yellow caution tape, separating them from my fellow protesters.

"The city of Shirakawa has officially been quarantined, the Prime Minister has ordered any available Heroes to investigate the supposed culprit, known only as The Happy Mask Salesman."

TO BE CONTINUED…