Methods

by Hg Muffin-Stuff

Chapter 1: Plotting

Squidward hadn't known whether he would go through with it or not this time. He expected not.

The sack over his shoulder felt unusually heavy to his back given its contents. He put it out of his mind and mulled over the usual disappointments, unable to escape the overwhelming reality that he'd undergone each of these most heart wrenching of disappointments alone. Every forlorn glance he gave to a crack in the pavement or to a measly little sea urchin reflected back to him a reminder that he and he alone had to face this world and all the terrors it had in store for him.

And that just plain terrified him.

He sulked into an alley and collapsed to the ground, a pile of rope, his clarinet, a bottle of pills, a piece of paper, and a knife hitting the pavement with a clatter, a flutter, and a thud. Hitting his head in the door hadn't proven efficient enough, not, at least, when he was this serious about it. At best, he had blacked out for a short while and forgotten his troubles for a few minutes. At worst, he had a headache and panicked that he'd caused some lasting damage. It worked better for him than cutting, anyway.

He couldn't help but cry, and cry buckets. There was so much he could've been, so much he could've done. The Squidward he'd always built up in his dreams never came to be - "it wouldn't be suicide as much as it would be an elegy," he mused. "Why go on living when I'm already dead inside? Not even my clarinet can make me feel better now." He got out the paper, which carried a list of requests. He edited for spelling and grammar:

"If you're reading this, I'm dead. Happy now? Well, good. You're an asshole, then. I can be close to satisfied when assholes dance on my grave in merriment. Thank you! :)

In any event, now that I've killed myself, I have a few requests. First, I want to be buried with my Clari. We've been through so much together, and she's always been there for me when times were tough. That, and I don't want Spongebob to get his filthy paws on her. Second, Spongebob is not allowed within 50 feet of my rotting corpse. I will become a zombie and strangle anyone who refuses to uphold this request. Third, I want all my possessions to be divided among the few people I've ever at any time loved. True, the list is a little short, but here goes: Mama gets my antique..."

Squidward scrunched the paper up. His mom would be so sad and disappointed with him. She made him promise many times over the phone that he'd get help if he became truly desperate. He would brush it off, tell her to relax, that it would never ever come to that. And he'd promise. But his problems were something no psychiatrist could fix. Could a psychiatrist make him a better clarinetist or singer, or make the world appreciate his paintings and dancing? Could a psychiatrist get him out of his dead-end job and away from the irritations that distracted and annoyed him to no end?

Squidward sniffled and scribbled in the margin, "I'm sorry, mama. There's no way out. XOXO"

He was also giving her about four dozen of his self-portraits to remember him by. The rest were going to someone else, though, someone he'd almost forgotten about all those years ago had it not been for his intrusive, obnoxious gloating.

#

Squilliam Fancyson III practiced his exit out of his limousine in one of the many backyards of his mansion, shaking up his mix of dignified, sexy, and artsy in his disposition with each exit.

"Do you have someplace special to go tonight?" asked a butler fish.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

"Why yes, sir, I am. Thank you for noticing!"

"No, I didn't recognize you, I recognized your ignorance of the fact that I always practice my limo exits on Wednesday evenings. I do have that art gallery opening to attend. They're featuring a new artist, and they want me to survey the work and say a few words about it, and paying me handsomely for my time. It's chump change really - this is about keeping up appearances. Giving the art lovers of Bikini Bottom," Squilliam gave two light taps to his right ass cheek while pouting his lips, "what they want."

"I see sir."

"It almost seems ironic, butler."

"Ron."

"Whatever. Anyway, John, I keep thinking about how uncanny it is - this new artist who's being featured has been working in a fast food restaurant for over fifteen years, never a very successful artist - hell, he even plays clarinet - and now he's featured in this gallery."

"What is the reason for delving into all this, Mr. Fancyson?"

"He reminds me so much of Squiddy. What if he actually makes it someday?"

"Um...Squiddy?"

"Oh, yes, you haven't met Squiddy yet, have you? You probably will, I invite him over every few weeks or so for tea, and he's so envious of my lifestyle that he'll accept the offer despite our bitter rivalry. Ooh, you should see him when he's pampered. He is as pliable and suggestible as a baby. You can get him to agree to just about anything, if for only five seconds before he realizes what he's said." Squilliam chuckled in reverie.

The butler fish spoke, "I don't mean to be too bold, and don't take this the wrong way, as I do enjoy your company quite a bit, but don't you have friends you can talk with?"

"I do; they are all enormous gossips."

"Ah. I see. Have you ever given any thought to a girlfriend?"

Squilliam raised his unibrow. "Do I seem to you like I am the kind of guy who chases skirts?"

Unsure how to answer, the butler looked to the side and at the ground and said, "I...don't know. Are...you?"

Squilliam smiled slyly and pulled up close to his face, said softly, "Honey, I'm the queerest queery queer this side of the pelagic zone. You want to find me a girlfriend, knock yourself out, but I'm not keeping her."

"Ohh...so this 'Squiddy', he's your boyfriend?"

"Squiddy and I are NOT boyfriends! How can you even come to that conclusion? You're a sick bastard."

"Well, you call him Squiddy and smile a lot more when you talk about him."

"That's because I'm thinking about how much I love to hate him! And I call him Squiddy because it gives me a feeling of power over him."

"Precisely, and the way you laughed dreamily when thinking about getting him to do whatever you wanted -"

"Okay, that is ENOUGH! Get your mind out of the gutter, dish-boy! I only played pranks on him that were completely non-sexual."

"I never suggested...otherwise."

They stared past each other, a long silence.

Squilliam cleared his throat and said, "Will you fetch the driver for me?"

"Yes, sir!" the butler fish barked out, glad that there was a break in the awkwardness. Squilliam was left to himself until the limousine arrived, wondering - nay, fantasizing - just what he would do if Squidward became a successful artist.