The register beeped as Squidward slid the calamari rings across the counter, the golden fried legs of his once-nemesis nestled in a red-and-yellow cardboard boat. The customer took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and gave a thumbs-up.
"Mmm. Complex. Smoky. Slightly judgmental aftertaste."
Squidward didn't respond.
He just stood there.
Staring at the now-empty fryer.
Staring at the spot where Squillium Fancyson's smug, velvet-clad body had slipped, flailed, and boiled like a high-society sea sausage.
His tentacles twitched.
Had he really done that?
Had he really murdered a guy… over a failed bribe and a smug attitude?
Yes, the answer echoed.
But did he deserve it?
"Don't tell me you're chickening out now," Lurala purred beside him, her voice like sugar rubbed into a paper cut.
Squidward didn't look at her. His eyes were still fixed on the fryer. "He was… awful," he said slowly. "But he didn't kill anyone. He didn't… I don't know. Deserve that."
Lurala scoffed, floating upside-down like a lazy, decaying bat. "Squillium Fancyson was a parasite wrapped in a cashmere shell. The kind of creature who charges orphans for napkins. He weaponized public office. You did the world a favor."
Squidward swallowed.
"But I did it… for me."
"Oh, boo-hoo," Lurala sneered. "You did it because he threatened your livelihood. That's called self-defense. Or, better yet—proactive karmic realignment."
Squidward closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I need a vacation."
Just then, Mr. Krabs's office door burst open with the grace of a ship hull breaching under pressure.
"Squidward!" he barked. "I told ye to knock off the incense!"
Squidward blinked. "What?"
Krabs stomped into the dining room, sniffing furiously. "You think I can't smell them fancy little nose-wands from me office? Smells like a coral brothel in here!"
"I'm not burning anything!" Squidward snapped. "Maybe check with the walking kelp nugget in the kitchen."
Krabs growled and stormed into the back.
Seconds later—
"SPONGEBOB WHAT IN THE HOLY NAME OF DAVY JONES'S BUDGET REPORT IS THAT?!"
SpongeBob's lazy drawl drifted out through the kitchen doors. "Yo, Mr. K... chill. It's just a little sea kush."
Squidward smacked his forehead.
Lurala burst into laughter, spiraling like a ribbon around the ceiling. "Ohhh, this is getting good."
Inside the kitchen, Krabs could be heard gasping, shrieking, slapping things off counters.
"SEA KUSH?! IN ME RESTAURANT?!"
"You don't have to be such a narc, dude," SpongeBob said, still very much toasted. "Maybe if you smoked a little, you wouldn't be so obsessed with your bottom line."
"Drop the bong or yer fired!"
SpongeBob appeared through the service window, his eyes red, his pupils dilated, his uniform singed at the collar. He set the clam-shaped bong on the counter with delicate reverence.
Then he turned to Krabs, and pointed one trembling finger.
"You... you're the real problem here."
Krabs blinked. "Come again?"
"I work every day of my life," SpongeBob said, voice rising. "And what do I get? Peasant wages. No benefits. No pension. I don't even know if I'm legally alive in the tax system. You hoard money like a dragon with arthritis. Patrick is dead, man. And what do you do? You cut my hours and try to garnish my wages."
Krabs opened his mouth, but SpongeBob kept going.
"You know what I've been reading lately?" he growled. "The Sea Manifesto. By Kelp Marx. 'From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.' That should've been the foundation of Bikini Bottom. But instead—we have you."
Krabs sputtered, caught between outrage and existential dread.
SpongeBob pressed a hand to his chest. "It should've been you, Krabs. Not Patrick. You're the one who doesn't feel anything."
And with that, he ran out the front doors, crying, his spatula left sizzling on the grill.
The silence that followed was deep. Heavy. Like the ocean just before a tsunami.
Krabs stared after him, claws trembling. "He—he told me to smoke seaweed and die."
Squidward stood behind the register, slack-jawed.
Lurala was hugging herself, grinning like a lunatic. "This is my favorite episode."
Mr. Krabs cleared his throat, adjusted his collar, and slowly turned to Squidward.
"Well," he muttered. "Guess that means you're promoted."
Squidward blinked. "Promoted?"
Krabs clapped a claw on his shoulder. "Congratulations, me boy. You're now officially a floater. Kitchen and register duty. 1.3 times your current pay. No benefits, no breaks, no escape."
"Wait—what?!"
"Think of the prestige!"
Lurala leaned down beside him. "You could write his name down. You could be manager."
Squidward looked at her.
Then at Krabs.
Then back at the Death Note still hidden beneath the register
His eye twitched.
The customers screamed for more calamari.
And somewhere in the distance, SpongeBob screamed for revolution.