Mummy face, Institute sweats. Not as weird as Harvey taking his bandages off at night and letting cheek muscles flap in the germ-filled breeze. But trying to kill them made the answer obvious.

"Zombie chew toy or superflu, pick one. Just do it quickly before Captain Trips here gets a lucky hit in." The guy was staring (if you could call it staring without eyeballs) at the blood on his sword like it was the gateway to Nirvana. Or dinner.

Or he was high as a kite and always looked like this. It was possible.

Aside from using broom handles to re-enact lightsaber fights, S.T. didn't know a damn thing about swordfighting, so instead he went with the assumption that the guy didn't have enough functioning brain cells to realize that S.T. was trying to hit him over the head with the pipe.