AN: Fucking cheesy. In fact, cheesy doesn't begin to define this. Shockingly, I think I'm almost done with this fic. Crazy, huh?
"W-where am I?" SpongeBob whimpered, shaking against the restraints holding him upright. A trickle of blood slipped from his wrists, skin rupturing due to the friction of iron.
"Please . . . I-I . . . I wanna go home," The sponge cried softly, face falling forward. How he wished to just fall asleep. But every time he tried, his captor forced him awake. Beating him, shaking him, screaming . . .
So loud. So painful. So . . .
"P-please let me go!"
But this was worse than that. Being ignored. Alone in the dark, sightless, nothing but the pain to remind himself of his worthless existence. Not even a ticking clock to waste away the hours. How long had he been captive? Had he always been here? It was easy to believe. Surely he wasn't the same being who, only two nights ago, had fallen asleep in the arms of his beloved. Surely this wasn't a chapter of the life of a happy go lucky frycook.
This wouldn't happen to the boy he once believed himself to be, no. SpongeBob was a good person. He always tried his best, always gave what he could (and then some), never expected anything in return.
This kind of thing didn't happen to good people! Hell was for the evil, for the damned, for the . . . the . . .
SpongeBob was . . . was evil? Was he evil? Had his past simply been an escape from his actuality? Was he nothing more than a soulless monster? Was this what he deserved?
Another sob, tears against his bruises stinging and aching. "P-please l-let me go!" He tried once more. Why so many protests? This was his destiny. His punishment. His everything.
His nothing.
He was nothing. And nothings don't deserve freedom. Or love.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"He's everything," Squilliam forgot his turn signal, causing several boats to honk angrily as he changed lanes (it had been so damn long since the cephalopod had driven himself. He was going to kill Pavi for being unavailable. Fucking Pavi!). "Every fucking thing. You know?"
"Um . . ." Patrick was beginning to think Squilliam and SpongeBob bonded over their similar style in driving. "Where did you say you got your license?" Sure, the starfish generally didn't give a shit about much. However, he'd prefer not to die.
"Paid off the driver's ed teacher," Squilliam said absentmindedly. "And don't change the subject."
"What—FUCK, a SEMI!" The boat swerved out of the way in time. "That was close. Um . . . what subject?"
"SpongeBob! Neptune, I thought you were in love with the guy. You'd think you'd remember."
"I remembered!" Patrick said angrily. "I just forgot, that's all."
"I don't know what's more circular," Squilliam remarked, "Your stomach or your logic."
"Huh?"
"Never mind," Squilliam took his hand off the steering wheel, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. "All I'm saying is, somehow that porous friend of yours has become my everything. And I hate how cliché that sounds, but—" He was cut off by yet another car nearly ramming into him . "Oh . . . I'm in the wrong lane, aren't I," He laughed as Patrick groaned fearfully.
After remedying his driving error, Squilliam continued, "All I'm saying is, is that how you feel, too?"
"Feel?" Patrick reiterated dumbly.
"Yes, feel. Like whenever you look at him, you've seen every monument worth seeing. And whenever you hear his voice, you've heard the most glorious symphony? And—"
"Ugh, you sound like a really bad Boys Who Cry song," Patrick felt like slamming his head against the dashboard to drown out the lameness of the millionaire. "Are you sure you're talking about SpongeBob?"
"Of course I'm sure!" Squilliam huffed. "I'm just more eloquent at expressing my feelings than you are. Typical of a poor person, hiding their emotions."
"I'm not hiding anything," The starfish argued. "I know I love SpongeBob."
"Oh really? How do you know?"
"He makes me horny."
Even nympho Squilliam was disgusted by that answer. "How poetic," He said scathingly.
"No! You didn't let me finish. He makes me horny, in my heart," Patrick grinned, satisfied.
"I think I'm going to throw up."
"No, see, what I mean is, I get all fluttery and hot and my heart beats really really fast, and—"
"No! I'm . . . oh FUCK, I'm gonna throw up!" Squilliam pulled the boat over, bolting out to the side of the road, dry heaving all the way.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Forty five minutes later, a very pale and empty stomached Squilliam lay in the back seat, the starfish now driving the vehicle.
"I don't think you're supposed to get car sick if you're the one driving," Patrick said for the fifth time, finally prompting Squilliam to reply.
"I'm not car sick. I'm pregnant."
Cue the (heh heh) pregnant pause.
"Pregnant?" Patrick almost swerved to the side of the road, shocked and appalled. And slightly excited, in an odd "OMG, a BABY!" sort of way. "Really?"
"No, not really," Squilliam sighed. "I can't believe you fell for that."
"Oh," Patrick drove a few more miles before speaking up once more. "So why were you barfing all over the road then?"
"I . . ." Should he tell? After all, if word got around about this, he'd be a laughing stock for sure. "I'm bulimic."
"Really? That's, like, where you're fat and make yourself puke to lose weight, right?"
"You actually knew that?"
"Yup. Fat people are so gross."
Squilliam blinked. "Um . . . yeah, they really are."
"So you're bulimic? Really? I mean, you're chubby, but not really fa—"
"I'm not fat at all, you dunce!" Then, sighing, "And I'm not bulimic, either." Squidward maybe, but certainly not Squilliam. "Besides, that was spontaneous nausea."
"Oh. Yeah, guess you weren't shoving a nail file down your throat."
"Of course not. I have more dignity than that!"
"And a fatty like you would probably eat the nail file."
"Yeah . . . considering how fat you are, you're really not so good at the fat jokes, are ya, tubs?"
"Why thank you!" Patrick was, as usual, not listening.
"Um . . . fine, whatever. Okay, the truth is this: I'm . . ." Time to actually tell the truth. "I have a nervous stomach, okay?" Squilliam sobbed as the words left his mouth; nouns, adjectives, and verbs exploding like some much vomit.
"Nervous stomach?" Patrick thought about this for a moment.
"Yes. Always have. And all those thoughts about my Spongie being tortured or killed . . . I just . . . I can't handle it!"
"So you puke?"
"Yes. Disgusting, isn't it. So undignified!"
Patrick shrugged. "Not really. I mean, it's kinda boring, to tell you the truth. The male pregnancy thing was funner. You should go with that next time you puke."
"Fuck you," Squilliam groaned, stomach clenching again. Ow. "I'm really scared and all you care about is men carrying fetuses."
"So what?"
"So what?"
"Yeah. So what?"
Squilliam had never been considered an uptight man, but this type of blatant 'who gives a fuck'ness was just ridiculous. "Fine, who CARES!" He snapped. Sarcastically, of course. For Squilliam did care. He wouldn't have puked if he hadn't.
"Exactly!" Patrick chirped. "That's the right attitude to have."
"Fine, fuck SpongeBob, right? Who cares if he's being dismembered as we speak? Who cares if someone's slicing him open and playing with his internal organs? Who cares if . . . if . . . if . . ." Squilliam sniffled, crying now, tears his only defense as he had nothing to puke up. "Patrick, just think of all the things that could be done to him. He's so weak and powerless! And I can't protect him. No one can protect him. Can't you drive any faster?"
"Um, Squilliam?"
"Don't argue with me! Go faster! NOW!" Images of SpongeBob's body, splattered and disemboweled, stiff and cold, ran in a loop through the millionaire's brain, bringing another round of nausea. "We won't get their fast enough! There's nothing we can fucking do!"
"Squilliam, um . . . we're here, I think."
"Huh?" He sat up, wiping sweat from his unibrow and blinking. Sure enough, they were parked directly in front of the building the kidnapper's instructions had informed them to go.
"Cute house," Patrick shut the engine off.
"How long have we been parked here?" Squilliam fumbled at the car door, only finding that the child lock was on.
"Ten minutes. I tried to tell you, but you were in the middle of ranting."
"You fucking—UGH!!!" The door wouldn't open, nor would Squilliam's wealth of insults release. Too angry to even cuss out the pink moron.
"Well, let's go save SpongeBob," Patrick walked out of the car, leaving Squilliam to knock irately at the locked car door.
"HEY!"
Patrick turned around, locking eyes with the still captive Squilliam. "Oh, sorry!" He chuckled, opening the door to allow the annoyed cephalopod escape. "With all the puking and crying, I thought you were a baby."
Moments later, Patrick was the only one crying, due to the sudden lump atop his pointed head. Squilliam could punch fairly hard, if angered enough.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Debonair.
The best word to describe the kidnapper. In his white tux, lounging in a chair and staring at the monitor.
He smiled, stroking his chin hair as he leaned forward. It was tough work, being an OC villain. Trying not to overstep the boundaries of Mary Suedom (or what was it called? Not Mary Sue for villains, surely).
The adjoining room was silent now, his little pet having cried himself mute. The suave gentleman leaned forward, glancing at the screen. No, not asleep, bruised sponge trembling on occasion, eyes gazing blankly ahead. Yes, perfect. Perfect face for his video debut.
The man flicked on the lights, flooding the room with sudden brightness and forcing the sponge to scream out, eyes squeezing shut at the first visual stimuli in over twenty four hours. Cameras whirred, catching his image for global broadcast.
Showtime.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"What the fuck kind of house is this?" Squilliam had always been a bit of a snob when it came to interior decorating. But this was downright ridiculous.
The other thing that was downright ridiculous was the amount of times "downright ridiculous" has been typed in this pathetic excuse at a parody. But back to the décor:
Television screens from wall to wall, the single room establishment decked out in plasma screen glory.
"Lame," Squilliam rolled his eyes.
"I like it!" Patrick clapped his hands gleefully. "I want to do my house like this."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do. Fatness and TV sorta go hand in hand, don't they?"
"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"
Before Squilliam could deliver a witty rebuttal, the room dimmed, every TV set in the room flicking on in one magnificent motion.
"OOH! TV!"
Patrick was even more happy when the program on appeared to be . . . well . . .
"Oh my god! SpongeBob has a TV show!" Patrick couldn't help laughing softly, "That would be really weird. If there was a show called SpongeBob SquarePants, ya know? Can you imagin—"
"Patrick. Shut up." Squilliam was not impressed. Or rather, he was impressed. Impressed that the captor had gone to this much trouble. SpongeBob seemed to stare directly into the camera, splashing his tear stained eyes directly onto the multiple television sets for both Patrick and Squilliam to witness.
No escape. Squilliam tried backing away, trembling in guilt and rage and terror. "S-SpongeBob . . ."
Patrick laughed, "You stuttered!"
"Fatass, look at the screen!"
"Yeah, I know, it's SpongeBob." Pause as he realized. "Oh my god! SpongeBob!"
"H-help me . . ." SpongeBob was speaking suddenly, although his words sounded almost rehearsed. Words rehearsed, but the fear genuine. The anguish unscripted. "H-he . . . he said he'd let me go, but only if you bring the money to—"
"I'LL GET YOU OUT OF THERE!" Patrick smashed his body into one of the televisions, setting off a chain reaction, every screen blowing up nearly simultaneously. Shards of glass pummeled both males, although Squilliam barely felt the pain.
"You . . ." Squilliam's eyes were large, fiery. Not to mention pissed off. "You fucking IDIOT! He was going to tell us how to save him, and you went and broke the fucking—"
"I . . . I didn't mean to! Or I mean, I did mean to, but I just wanted to help."
"YOU'RE NOT HELPING AT ALL!" Squilliam barked. "All you've done is fuck everything up. Because of you, SpongeBob's probably going to be killed."
"But . . ."
"SHUT UP!"
Patrick's eyes teared up. "I-I was only trying to help."
"Fuck off, you waste of lard," The octopus turned away, wiping a line of blood off his nose, a small piece of glass wedged into his skin.
"But what about SpongeBob?"
"He'd probably be safe if it hadn't been for you!"
"What? NO! This w-wasn't my fault."
"No, it wasn't your fault SpongeBob was kidnapped," Squilliam agreed. "But it was your fault he was crying when I got home the other day. And it's your fault SpongeBob is still missing now. I would have found him ages ago if it hadn't been for you."
Patrick's multiple fat rolls jiggled as he cried. It was true. All of it. Even an idiot like Patrick couldn't deny the facts when they were forcefed in such a manner. "F-fine! I w-won't bother you ever again."
"GOOD!" Squilliam didn't turn around when the starfish ran out, maroon eyes fixated on the hole in the wall formed from the mini explosion. Damn fatass ruined everything. Every fucking thing! If he ever got his tentacles on him, he'd . . . he'd . . .
"Holy shit!" Tunnel? Squilliam rubbed his eyes, unable to truly believe it.
But it was true. Behind all those TV sets, there was a tunnel. A poorly dug one, but a tunnel nonetheless.
A tunnel to SpongeBob? Was the kidnapper this stupid? Or was this a work of genius?
Or just a dead end? Or a trap?
So many possibilities, but if there was even a slim chance that the crappily crafted dirt tunnel could lead to SpongeBob, Squilliam would take it.
"Patrick, I think I might actually owe you an apol—" He stopped, turning around to discover that the sea star had actually taken the hint earlier and left. Huh. Well, he'd track him down later. He hadn't come all this way to find Patrick, after all. He'd come here to find SpongeBob. His love.
So Squilliam had no choice, getting on his hands and knees in a most undignified manner and crawling through the tunnel.
A lamer fic would have written "tunnel of love", but I'll spare you that. You're welcome.