The morning sun in Bikini Bottom filtered lazily through the salty water, throwing faint golden ripples across the front windows of the Krusty Krab. Squidward Tentacles shuffled toward the restaurant's entrance with the slow, deliberate gait of a man already exhausted before the day began. His clarinet practice had been interrupted by Mr. Krabs' shrill voice over the phone, summoning him in early for "an urgent business opportunity."
"Urgent business opportunity" in Krabs' vocabulary usually meant: I found another way to make money at the expense of everyone else's time and sanity.
The moment Squidward stepped inside, he was greeted by a familiar, unwelcome sight—SpongeBob bouncing in place behind the grill, eyes sparkling like he'd just swallowed a gallon of espresso.
"Good morning, Squidward!" SpongeBob chirped. "Are you ready for our special mission?"
"No," Squidward replied flatly, hanging his coat on the rack. "I'm barely ready for being awake."
Before SpongeBob could pelt him with another wave of uncontainable enthusiasm, Mr. Krabs barreled out of his office, waving a clipboard like it was a treasure map.
"Boys! We've struck gold!" Krabs' eyes glimmered. "A big-shot customer ordered twenty deluxe Krabby Patty combos. This ain't just any customer—it's the mayor's cousin! He's expectin' his order in exactly one hour!"
Squidward blinked. "And what exactly does this have to do with me?"
Krabs slapped the clipboard into his chest. "Yer deliverin' it, of course."
That made Squidward's blood run cold. Deliveries were SpongeBob's territory. If something spilled, got soggy, or mysteriously caught on fire, at least SpongeBob's relentless cheeriness kept customers from demanding refunds.
"You want me," Squidward said slowly, "to leave the safety of the cash register and personally deliver greasy sandwiches to some self-important nobody?"
"Not just sandwiches," SpongeBob corrected. "Krabby Patty combos with extra sea pickles, side kelp fries, and double-seafoam sodas!"
Krabs nodded solemnly. "And I'm trustin' you with this, Squidward. The mayor's cousin is a big spender. Mess this up and we lose a golden opportunity. But—" He leaned closer, lowering his voice like a conspirator. "—pull it off, and I'll give you a ten percent bonus."
That perked Squidward's ears. Ten percent of a large order might not buy him a ticket out of Bikini Bottom, but it could at least fund a weekend away from SpongeBob.
"Fine," he muttered, snatching the clipboard. "Let's get this over with."
Twenty Minutes Later
The order was packed into a bulky, square delivery box strapped to the back of an ancient, squeaky Krabby Krab Delivery Bike. Squidward climbed on, wobbling slightly under the weight.
"Be careful!" SpongeBob called from the doorway. "Those sodas are very sensitive to turbulence!"
Squidward rolled his eyes. "I'm delivering fast food, not flying a submarine to Mars."
With a reluctant push, he pedaled off toward Coral Street. The bike's rusted chain clanked with each turn, making the ride even more unpleasant. The route should have been simple: cut through Jellyfish Fields, skirt around the Old Shipwreck, and follow Seaglass Avenue straight to the customer's address.
It would have been simple—if the universe weren't personally committed to making his life miserable.
Halfway through Jellyfish Fields, a swarm of jellyfish drifted into his path. Normally, Squidward would just pedal around them, but these jellyfish seemed oddly interested in the delivery box.
"Oh, no you don't," he growled, picking up speed. The jellyfish matched his pace. One darted dangerously close to the handlebars, its tendrils crackling with static. Squidward swerved sharply, narrowly avoiding a zap.
The sudden turn sent the delivery box tilting dangerously. He heard the slosh of sodas inside.
Don't spill. Don't spill. Don't spill.
He shot out of Jellyfish Fields like a harpooned sardine, panting, legs burning. The jellyfish didn't follow, but his nerves were already shredded.
The next obstacle came at the Old Shipwreck. As he coasted past, a group of rowdy anchovy teenagers blocked the road, tossing a beach ball back and forth.
"Outta the way!" Squidward barked.
Instead, they grinned mischievously and began circling his bike. "Whatcha got there, mister?" one asked, poking the box.
"It's lunch for someone far more important than you," Squidward snapped.
The anchovy smirked, then tapped the brakes on Squidward's front wheel. The bike skidded sideways, forcing him to plant his feet on the sandy road.
"I swear," Squidward hissed, "if one soda is shaken beyond drinkability—"
Before he could finish, the anchovies burst out laughing and let him go. Apparently, irritating delivery workers was their version of a good time. Squidward muttered several unprintable things under his breath and pedaled away.
By the time he reached Seaglass Avenue, he was sweating, irritable, and just two turns away from finishing this ridiculous mission.
That's when it happened.
A shadow swept across the road. Something large—very large—descended from above.
Squidward looked up to see a pelican, wings spread wide, beady eyes fixed on the delivery box.
"Oh, come on!"
The bird swooped low, snapping its beak dangerously close to the lid. Squidward zigzagged desperately, trying to throw it off. The pelican was relentless, squawking with fury every time it missed.
In a panic, Squidward swerved into an alley. The bike's tires screeched on the slick cobblestone, but for a moment, it seemed he'd lost the bird.
Then he heard the flutter.
The pelican landed right in front of him, blocking the narrow exit, beak opening wide.
Squidward froze. "Listen, bird, I've had enough—"
It lunged.
In a last-ditch effort, Squidward whipped the bike around and bolted down the alley's other end—straight into a construction site.
He barely had time to react before the front wheel lodged in a patch of wet cement. The bike pitched forward, and Squidward went flying over the handlebars, landing face-first in a pile of sawdust.
When he scrambled upright, gasping, he saw the horror: the delivery box had toppled. One of the sodas rolled free, hissing carbonation into the air. A kelp fry container lay upside down, spilling its contents onto the ground.
And the pelican was strutting toward the mess like it had just won the lottery.
"No! No, no, no!" Squidward lunged forward, snatching the box just as the bird snapped at it. He crammed it back onto the bike rack, ignoring the throbbing in his knees, and kicked off toward the main road.
By some miracle, he lost the pelican. But his relief was short-lived—he had no idea how much of the order was still intact.
When he finally arrived at the customer's address—a towering coral estate with gilded gates—Squidward's hands were trembling.
A butler opened the door, eyeing him with the suspicion reserved for strangers and undercooked seafood.
"Delivery for the mayor's cousin," Squidward said, forcing a smile as he handed over the box.
The butler peered inside. His eyes narrowed. "There are only nineteen sodas."
Squidward's stomach dropped.
Somewhere out there, a pelican was enjoying the twentieth soda of the order.
The butler's expression darkened. "The mayor's cousin… does not tolerate incomplete orders."
From inside the mansion came a booming voice: "WHO DARES SHORT ME A SODA?!"
Squidward's grip tightened on the handlebars. This was about to go very, very badly.uuuu