Hoooooooooonk!

One yellow lid peels back from a red, glassy eye, then closes against the sting of sunlight spilling through the porthole window. Ow, goddamn it.

Hooooooonk!

Like every morning, Spongebob swings his legs out from under the blanket and sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Gary, his pet snail, slithered over and looked up at him. Meow.

"Go away, Gary," Spongebob said, "I'm not even awake yet."

The alarm went off again, and, flashing, Spongebob knocked it off the nightstand, relishing the sound of it breaking on the floor. I hate that fucking thing. Six days a week it blows my fucking face off. Here, son, Mom said when she gave it to me, it's a housewarming present from me and your father. Jeez, Ma, thanks, just what I always wanted, a metaphorical kick in the nads; next best thing to waking up to a blast of buckshot.

Getting to his feet, Spongebob crossed to the bathroom, snapped the light on, and did his best to avoid looking at his own reflection as he brushed his teeth. Not many people knew this because he smiled in everyone's face, but he hated Bikini Bottom. He hated his job at the Krusty Krab. He hated fucking everything. He was young and chipper once, bouncing around like a goddamn dumbass (I'm ready, I'm ready), but he woke up and smelled the coffee real quick - everything sucks. Five years ago, when he first started working for Mr. Krabs, he loved making Krabby Patties. He loved the taste, the smell, the way the grease popped and burned the shit out of him - somewhere along the way, though, he lost his passion, and ever since then, he'd been a miserable, unfulfilled bastard. This wasn't living...this was him going through the motions and hoping a boat ran him over crossing Main Street so he wouldn't have to face another long night of lying awake with his regrets.

He spat into the sink and dropped the toothbrush in after with a grumble. At his closet, he grabbed a suit and pulled it on: Brown pants, white shirt, tie, same thing he wore every day as he did the same thing in the same place for the same people at the same time in the same way for the same low stinking fucking pay.

I know I sound like a bellyaching bitch, but you know what? I am a bellyaching bitch. Fuck you.

He grabbed his hat from the dresser and started to leave, but stopped when Gary meowed. "I don't care about my nametag," he said with strained patience.

Meow.

"I don't have time for this," Spongebob said. He went down the stairs and turned left into the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, crumbs littered the sticky floor, and last night's dinner sat cold and rotting on the stove. Roaches scurried out of his way and a rat watched from under the table, a fallen cracker in its hands. Spongebob ignored it all and opened the fridge; the smell of spoiled food wafted into his nostrils and he grimaced. I gotta clean this thing out.

He grabbed the sea horse milk and closed the door.

Maybe tomorrow.

Sitting at the table, he poured Kelpo into a bowl and sifted through it, sneering when he came back empty handed. What, no prize? Pfft. He topped it off with milk and ate with the unhurriedly leisure of a man who didn't give a fuck if he was late or not. Spongebob, you're two seconds behind, me boy, I'll dock yer pay for this. Yeah, dock it, you red, cocksucking Jew, it's not like I can pay my bills anyway. I still gotta beg money from my parents. Pretty fucking sad, huh? I've been working for this guy for years and he still fucks me over on pay. I'd almost rather work for Plankton - if Plankton wasn't a complete failure who presided over a barren wasteland of a restaurant. All this time he's devoted to stealing the secret formula he coulda put into building himself up. If he tried to perfect his own recipe even a fraction as hard as he tried stealing Mr. Krabs, he'd be a millionaire. Instead he sat behind a desk in an empty slophouse like the captain of a voyage to nowhere and twiddled his thumbs while his wife cheated on him with an ATM. Don't wait up, Sheldon, Matt's making a deposit tonight...a very big deposit.

She was getting fucked by someone with a bigger dick is what he was saying.

Finished, he got up, took his bowl to the sink, and dropped it in. He went to the pantry, dragged out a big ass bag of snail food, and scooped some out with his hands; he dropped it into Gary's dish. "Gary, chow," he called. He dusted his hands on his pants and went into the living room. What time was it? Could he sit in his armchair and wallow for a while? He glanced at the clock, saw that he couldn't, and sighed. Whatever. I'll just go sit in one of the bathroom stalls at work.

Putting his hat on, he went out the door and locked it behind him. He turned and scanned the street, then started to cut across Squidward's yard but stopped when ole Dick Nose himself stuck his head out the second story window. "Spongebob!"

Aw, Christ, this guy. You think I'm bad, wait until you meet him. For one thing, he's the biggest fucking malcontent in the world, I swear. He could get his dick sucked by the most beautiful woman alive and he'll still find a reason to bitch. For another, he's a gigantic narcissist who paints nothing but self-portraits, and then jacks off to them while listening to Kelpy G records on his hipster bought-at-the-mall turntable. He thinks he's better than everyone else because he watches public television. Guess what, asshole, my TV gets channel 3 too.

He's the kind of guy who buys the "artisan" frozen pizza because the crust looks like shit so it must be handmade, I'll take three. He listens to NPR and thinks he's smart for listening to smart people talk; he eats stank ass cheese cuz hur hur it's fancy; he listens to Mumford and Sons while doing yoga like a faggot; he reads classic novels and feels accomplished even though he didn't understand a single fucking point the author was trying to make; he parades around on his days off like he's the toast of the town when in actuality, he's just shit on toast. I fucking hate him. I swear to God, he's the only person in this entire fucking ocean that I legit can't stand. I tried to like him, I really did. I was always upbeat and perky around him, hoping some of it rubbed off, you know? It never did. Now, I act extra stupid with him just to piss him off.

Oh, and let's not forget what a goddamn slacker he is at work. I'm constantly cleaning up after this asshole and doing his work for him while he sits behind the register acting high and mighty. He thinks everyone should bow down to him but, newsflash, you gotta give people a reason to worship you. A few cheap prints of your own ugly face and a dance routine at the talent show that ended with you falling off the stage into the orchestra pit aren't enough. Do something with your life, you lazy, no talent bastard.

Presently, he looked up at Squidward through narrowed eyes. Don't fuck with me, I am not in the mood today. "Spongebob," he repeated in that nasally Jew-voice. "What have I told you about walking on my grass?"

Spongebob looked at the ground.

Sand.

It was fucking sand.

"You don't have grass, Squidward," Spongebob said in a patient wow-you're-really-stupid-let-me-explain tone he usually only reserved for Patrick.

"I am cultivating it," Squidward said and turned his nose up.

Oh. Sneering, Spongebob drew back his foot and kicked the ground, sending up a cloud of sand. "There, cultivate that!"

Squidward's jaw dropped...then his face darkened. "Spongebob!"

Spongebob waved him off and started walking again. Cultivating grass, pfft, like hell, he just wanted something to nitpick about. How miserable do you have to be? I mean, damn, I know I'm a ray of sunshine, but that dude's just over the top. You know, there's a huge difference between him and me. He likes hating his life, I don't. You think I jump out of bed every morning with a hard-on for feeling empty? Bend over, blues, here cum da Sponge! Hell no. I don't like this. I like laughing and singing and being a goofball, but it's hard to do any of that shit when you're staring thirty in the face and the one thing that brought you knee-knocking, panty-wetting joy makes you tired just thinking about it. When I first started at the KK, I'd go to bed at night excited for the next day. I'd wander around the kitchen with big, sparkly eyes and touch everything; I'd strut through the dining room all proud of my name tag (look at me, ladies, I'm licensed to grill), and for the longest time, I'd come in through the back door instead of the front because that EMPLOYEES ONLY sign made me feel flush with importance...like I was somebody. Yeah, I was somebody alright: A goofy goober with his head shoved up his yellow ass.

A dark weight pressed against his chest, and he drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly as he passed Patrick's rock. Patrick leaned against it, one arm out, and nodded. "Hey, Spongebob."

"Hey, Pat," Spongebob muttered.

Patrick's brows knitted in concern. "You okay, buddy?"

What can I say about Patrick? He's a good dude. He has a heart of gold...but a mind of bronze. I love him, but he's the most retarded motherfucker this side of congress. I swear, I don't know how he made it to twenty-eight; the only reason I believe in God anymore is cuz someone's watching out for him. Just last week I watched this clown reach into a pot full of boiling water to grab a piece of coral. He shrieked like a woman, jumped back, and waved his glowing red stub around like an overzealous Nazi with a swazi flag. MY HAND! I felt awful for him, but at the same time...dude, come on, I don't care how dumb you are, you had to know that was gonna fuck you up. He's worse than that blonde girl from the show where the kid has a thousand sisters. Patrick eats that shit up like it's candy, laughing with his one tooth hanging out. Ha ha ha ha ha, good one, Luan! I think that show's gay. I like Kitchen Nightmares. That Ramsey dude's a beast. God, I'd hate to see him come into the KK. He'd cum his jeans over the food, but everything else would have him shaking with rage.

"I'm fine," Spongebob lied.

"Doesn't sound like it," Patrick said somberly. "You should take off work and hang out with me." He smiled and slapped his hands to his bare chest; scraggly black hair stuck out from under his pits and a shitty prison-tier Stingray5000 tat rippled across the pink, gum-like blubber of his upper arm.

Oh, yeah, sure, I'll just call in and get fired, that'll really turn my life around.

See, Pat's on disability. He hasn't worked a day in life and with good reason. If they put him on a construction crew he'd probably wind up killing someone. He calls sitting around the house all day watching The Weather Channel and eating Spam and Colgate sandwiches being "funemployed." I call it hell on earth. I'd rather lick the entire KK clean than spend my days like that.

"Can't, Patrick, gotta work," Spongebob said.

If you looked into Patrick's eyes. you could see the moment his hopes crashed to earth. "Oh. Okay. I'll be right here when you get back."

Spongebob shot him a thumbs up and kept going, his head down and his shoes squeaking against the pavement like a pair of little rubber ducky twins getting fucking pounded from behind. Umm. Now that would cheer me up a little - slamming my dick into a honey.

Well...not just any honey.

Sandy Cheeks.

:Weary face:

Sandy, Bikini Bottom's most eligible minority, lived in a tree dome across town. She was a mammal so had to breathe air. Spongebob tried it once - it worse than mustard gas. A Texan by birth, Sandy was tall, brown, exotic, and when she turned those big, twinkling eyes on you, your heart stopped dead. She and Spongebob did some, ahem, experimenting with each other a while back but stopped short of penetration. Interspecies sex, she said, was wrong, but letting a sponge eat her pussy until her knees shook wasn't, apparently. And neither was sucking that same sponge drier than a cattle ranch on a hot August day.

She wanted them to stay friends, and that was fine, but...you know...deep down, Spongebob really liked her. When they were together, life's little problems didn't seem to matter so much anymore, and he felt free. Aside from Patrick, she was his best friend, and sometimes, when they were hanging out and she looked at him with a happy smile, it took everything he had to not cup her cheek in his palm and kiss her.

But yeah, that's probably not going to happen.

Sigh.

Another link in the chain.

Wasn't that a song?

Hm…

No, it was something about not breaking the chain. Whatever, it doesn't matter.

He crested a rise, and the Krusty Krab appeared in the distance, its sign reaching unto heaven like an outstretched hand from a grave. The Chum Bucket sat across the way, dark and shuddered like always. You know, Plankton's supposed to be a super genius, but has it ever occurred to him to sell something else? People don't want chum, they've made that clear. You know what they do want, though? Tacos. We haven't had a good Mexican place in town since the health department shut La Puta down three years ago. Was he smart enough to capitalize on that? No, he was too busy worrying about the secret formula. He said he was gonna use it to take over the world. Lmao, how are you gonna do that with a sandwich? Adolf Swordfish had an army of millions and couldn't do it, what chance do you stand with a bunch of hamburgers? Retard.

Five minutes later, he walked through the front door of the Krusty Krab and drew a deep, fortifying breath. Another day, another nickel. Lol. Seriously, Mr. Krabs underpays the fuck out of me.

Speaking of Mr. K., he stood behind the register sniffing a dollar like it was a pair of panties, his eyes rolling back in his head and a ribbon of drool coursing down his chin. Get this: One time me and Patrick tricked this guy into going on a panty raid at his own mother's house. The point was to get him to sniff the crotch and jack off into them, then casually mention where they came from….without bursting into laughter at the shocked horror on his face. She caught us, though, and we left Krabs for dead. HAHAHAHA.

At the time clock, he grabbed his card and punched in. One minute early. Wahoo. Employee of the month wall o' shame, here I come. He went into the kitchen, crossed to the grill, and fired it up. He looked around, and remembering how happy this place used to make him sent him spiraling. Maybe it's time for a change. I'm a young sponge still, I can do anything I set my mind to. Capital City was nice; maybe I'll go back there and work for the bank. Or Los Angelfish. That place looks really cool on TV, except for all the smog.

The door exploded open and he jumped a foot. Mr. Krabs, big as life and twice as ugly, loomed over him. "Spongebob!" he yelled.

Uh oh.

"Your workstation is a disaster, boy."

Spongebob looked around. Crumbs and empty wrappers littered the floor; grease and condiments splotched the counters; his spatula lay next to the grill, coated in gunk; oh, and the grill itself...blacker than a Lil' T concert. "Looks fine to me," Spongebob shrugged. It didn't, but oh well, pay me better.

"I want this place ship shape, boy; you're ruinin' me restaurant."

Before Spongebob could grab him by his throat and choke the life out of him, Mr. Krabs spun in a swish of sour sweat smelling air and stormed off.

Ruinin' me restaurant.

Fuck you, the only reason this shitshow's still around is because of me. I'm the one who does all the work around here while you and Squidward dick off. I cook, I clean, I scrub the heads, I even tar the parking lot every two years. What does your fat, red ass do? What does that bald cock-nose PBS loving piece of shit Squidward do?

Seething, Spongebob whipped away from the grill and stalked to the sink, lashing out and kicking an empty box across the floor. Man, fuck this place. I oughta shit on the next patty someone orders. No, I know; I oughta tell Plankton the secret formula. It's [Redacted by order of FFN per injunction filed by Eugene Krabs]. I know, right? Everyone has that in their kitchen. Making a Krabby Patty at home is simple as one, two, three.

Leaning over the sink, Spongebob splayed his fingers on the edge and stared down into yesterday's gray, scummy water. His reflection glowered back, looking old, tired, and worn out. Where did it all go wrong? Too much of a good thing? For a while there he worked a good seventy-two hours a week - he'd come in at 3am to count the sesame seeds then only leave at six when Mr. Krabs kicked him out. I got a life, boy, get lost. On his days off, he'd come in for lunch and sneak back to the grill when Squidward wasn't looking just to cook a patty...one patty...that's all I need, one patty to take the edge of *crazed laughter* Sometimes, after trying and failing to sleep, he'd walk past the KK and just look at it with love and adoration in his eyes.

Now he hoped the fucking thing burned.

When Squidward called through the order window, Spongebob's shoulders tensed. "Hurry up and get these tickets, Spongebob. There's a line of people waiting for patties. God knows while; uncultured swine."

Taking a deep breath, Spongebob got to work.

Sheldon J. Plankton sat behind the desk in his office and intently watched the TV screen before him, his fingers steepled and his single red eye narrowed in concentration. He was clad in his at home attire: Brown shirt, brown pants, black jack boots, a Sam Browne belt, and a red armband with his symbol on it: A black, stylized P with sharp angles against a white background. The chrome walls were adorned with framed photos and propaganda posters of fascist and communist leaders from around the world, both his and the one above: Swordfish, Stalin, Gaddafi a smiling Kim Il Sung, and Nicolae Ceausescu. Plankton was neither a Nazi nor a commie, but he admired and respected strongmen of every stripe. It takes a special breed of man to assume and wield complete power, and Plankton liked to think he was one of them. The dictators on his walls and the ones he read about in bed at night were his heros, his idols, and his kin men. One day, he was going to be just like them.

He just needed that goddamn secret formula first.

Onscreen, Spongebob flipped patties and looked bored.

"The rigors and demands of daily life are taking a toll on him," Plankton mused aloud, "he's overworked, underpaid, and no one respects him. He's miserable." Plankton threw back his head and laughed richly, the idea of Spongebob hating life and wishing for the sweet release of death deliciously pleasing. "How does it feel, you porous buffoon?" he asked the TV. "How does it feel to be so unsatisfied you lie awake at night wishing you were Mr. Krabs?" He leaned in, his nose pressing against the glass. "How does it feel to try and try and try only to wind up in the sticky goo of your own folly again and again? How does it feel to own a restaurant no one eats at? Huh, you yellow bastard?" He slammed his fist against the desk. "How do you like it, you son of a bitch?" He sat back and laughed again. "What a loser."

"Oh, please," Karen said from her station behind him. Plankton forgot she was there. "You have more in common with him than you do any of those men you read about every night."

Ten years ago, Plankton developed the Wired Integrated Female Electroencephalograph (WIFE) software to ease his crushing loneliness and, hopefully, to get a little intimacy now and again. Like everything else he ever created, though, it went wrong, and instead of an obedient housewife who delighted in cooking wholesome meals and sucking her husband's dick after a long day, he got a nagging bitch who never missed a chance to down talk him. Six months ago he snapped and took her offline, but after a week he brought her back because he couldn't handle the deep, endless silence that permeated the Chum Bucket. He'd rather listen to her shit than to nothing at all. "Go away, Karen, I'm plotting," he said.

Instead, Karen rolled over, a computer on a long metal stand attached to a wheeled platform. She put her hands on what passed for her hips and favored him sternly. "Oh? What's the plan this time, genius?"

Her snide tone cut through him and he winced. He was suddenly aware of the warm, comforting weight of the Lugar on his hip. All he had to do was take it out, jam it against her screen, and pull the trigger. "If you must know, I'm going to use Spongebob's newfound cynicism to my advantage."

"How do you plan to do that?" Karen pressed.

A dark shadow fell across Plankton's face, and he smiled evilly. "You'll see," he said. "You'll all see."