It's Cold Out
One of Squidward's oldest and most-hated foes is back with a vengeance...but it's not who you'd expect with a summary like that. Welcome to claustrophobia.
This has been one of my pet dreams for the longest time, and it's only now that I've had the balls to write and release it.
Disclaimer: If Squid were mine, I'd trap him in a situation like this more often.
It's cold out.
In fact, I think it's
one of the coldest days
we've had for a while.
Anybody worth their saltwater
would be relaxing
by the fire
with a nice mug of cocoa
and a velvety scarf wrapped
around their brittle necks
right about now.
Yeah, well, not me.
Seems I'm not worth my saltwater.
No one's worth their saltwater
in a box.
Yup.
Through a series of (quite frankly)
irrelevant events,
I am now trapped in a box.
About 3
by 3
by 3 ft.
OK, it's not too small.
But it's not exactly
Bikini Bottom Central either.
And it's cold.
I literally have goosebumps.
I don't understand
the world's fascination
with boxes like this.
Little cardboard cubes
used to represent
mathelogical equations
sometimes.
What's to like about boxes?
Trust me, I'm in one.
And I hate it.
It's cold,
it's hard,
it's dark,
it's...
it's...
it's getting smaller...
No.
No this isn't possible.
Boxes can't get smaller.
It's just a trick of the light.
My eyes can do stuff
like that.
Drives me nuts.
Ow!
I just walked into the side
of the box.
Strange. Don't remember it
being this close before...
wait a minute.
It is getting smaller.
It's not possible.
But it is.
it's shrinking, shrinking
uncontrollably
uncomfortably
close.
No.
Squidward, snap out of it.
There has to be a logical
explanation.
This could be a drug sim.
This could be a prank of SpongeBob's.
This could be a car-squashing room.
This could be --
A car-squashing room?!
Hand on the wall.
A vibration.
Akin to a car engine.
No, Squidward, it's a cardboard box.
It can't be a car
getting squashed mercilessly to pieces...
which explains perfectly
the shrinking of the walls
and this growing sense
of repressiveness.
...
But then...
I am.
I'm in a car-squashing room.
And I'm scared.
I've never been scared a day
in my life. Yet I can
feel it.
My heart blistering.
My palms sweating.
Panic setting.
Breath quickening.
Wait. Breath.
I can hear breath, but...
is...
is the box breathing?
It is. In, out,
in, out.
Walls, getting closer. Closing
in around me. Closer with
each breath.
It's colder now. Much
colder. The air stabs my lungs.
What if I can't breathe?!
Oh carp. I'm stuck
in a box. The walls are
closing in.
And I can't breathe.
I can't breathe.
Hyperventilating.
Conserving all I can.
But what if I'm just delaying
the inevitable?
Will the breathing get me first,
or the squashing?
They'll find me here,
choked or squashed
to death.
No!
I can't--!
I gotta get out!
Where's the door on this thing?!
Flaps locked shut!
Scratching wouldn't help!
I'm trapped.
I'm trapped in a doom box!
The walls, the breathing,
the oxygen, the
box.
scarily
close.
close to the end.
The end of Squidward, the end
of life.
Of life! Can't end life! Need
out!
Get me out! Can anyone hear me?!
I want out!
Please, anyone!
Help me!
SOMEONE GET ME
OUT OF THIS CRAZY
CRAZY
BOX!!
SpongeBob turned to his neighbour, worried lines creasing his face. "Patrick, you think he'll be OK in there?"
An oblivious chuckle. "Ol' Santa Claus is sure scaring him good."