Chapter 1

1

Squidward Tentacles breathed weakly, pacing around his boss's office, damp tentacles squelching against the marble-plated floor. He's really going to kill me. He will.

His brown polo sopping, pellets of April downpour sluicing down the walls, he recognized the reality of his screw up — and by no means was it thin-on-the-ground. First day on the job, back in the summer of '97, Mr Seltzer had told him to always keep the window shut. "The rain blows crazy out there, probably can knock down the whole building, so keep those windows shut boy-o," he had told him. Squidward made that out to be a caricature, but now he learned otherwise. It all came circling back to him and kicked him right in the ass so hard it left a mark. Probably a visible one too.

"Yeah, it is pretty visible," he muttered, retiring to boss's chair, mind distant. He had left the window open. He kept the damn window open. He was an idiot.

Rain was always coming down heavily in New Kelp City, each storm hacking the city as much as the last; wind currents licking around the buildings, rain not only falling but splaying across busy intersections and parks, turning dead leaves to autumn sludge throughout the lengths of rain-swollen gutters. That, he didn't mind, but now, it was all the rage. He pissed around the office doing everything to impress Mr Seltzer, and he forgot. If it wasn't for the storm, this wouldn't have happened. He would've noticed the window was open and shut it.

Squidward hitched in breath as a door slammed, shaking the walls in a low thrum. What it conjured up in his mind wasn't another office worker entering the building, or even a visitor. He saw Mr Seltzer, a cup of gas station in one hand, a Lil Snapper waving down his shirt from the breast pocket. He knew the man — for King Neptune's sake, he better know him after holding the assistant manager position for the past six months — and though he seemed easy-going and cool-headed, he was anything but. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, he would blow his stack on the littlest of issues. Looking around the room; from its certified water damage; its ruined wooden fixtures; to the insurmountable Kilimanjaros of paper that had been saturated; he was bound to go paddywhack, maybe even dribble foam from his mouth.

His eyes darted to the three large-paneled windows (the ones which he had left open but closed all too late), water pooling at their stills, any light that managed to soak through the brumous clouds slipping into the room. Features twisted in suspense, he shuffled to the window, trying to find something to hide himself. Footsteps began to draw closer, and he grimaced in determination.

It was Mr Seltzer. He knew it. At a certain point you can tell whose footsteps are who's. A voice at the back of his head told him to book it and squeeze past him down the stairs. "I quit!" he would yell, and get the hell out of there without having to face Mr Seltzer's angry counterpart. But his nerves froze him over and he planted his tentacles to the ground, his breathing sporadic.

Why did this have to happen to me, he thought, the words coming out and springing through his head in shallow screams. I didn't sign up for this! He had only pulled the windows open because it was feeling hot. Then it was time for his break. He slipped outside to gather himself in a breath, went to the Deli down the street and bought himself a hoagie, and by the time he was out of the store, rain was pelting the cement like a premeditated shower of arrows coming down on a trench of army-men. How was I supposed to know it was going to rain like this?! But that was his fault. He should have listened. He could almost hear those last thoughts; they broke up tearfully, and that seemed to introduce his eyes to tears. They welled, lined his lids, but never fell.

The thumping of his heart seemed to match with the thud of the person's working feet, and they were neck and neck. Mr Seltzer would be at the office's doorway in seconds. This was it, he needed to take his chances at escaping—

Mr Seltzer came into the room, and Squidward froze.

There was no cup of coffee. Instead in one hand he clenched the Lil Snapper; its bonded leather sagging over strained knuckles, coiled up at the bottom like a malevolent snake; dreamily scratching the cleft of his ass with the other. He walked hurriedly, eyes shrunken into nearly-red slits, arms scribbled with veins, eyebrows tracked into a V. "SquarePants told me you screwed up my office," a wave of uncontrollable anger rippled across his face as he gave himself an eyeful. "You jackass."

Squidward cowered against the wall, paying no mind to the last name SquarePants. "No, no! It's not what it looks like!"

"It's exactly what it looks like," he fumed. "I trusted you, I trusted you to be responsible. Now there's 30 fuckin days of humdrum work destroyed!"

Squidward opened his mouth to speak again, but snapped it shut. Mr Seltzer bellowed at him, head down, the Lil Snapper cocked back. He wrenched his arm down and the ribbon of leather slugged Squidward's back. Squidward drove himself along the wall, running, running, looking for somewhere to go but only running into walls, a strip of flaring agony outlining where the whip had first struck him.

Mr Seltzer rushed at him and swung again, this time belting the nape of his neck with a meaty thwack! Squidward crouched, gripping the desk with wet tentacles, and Mr Seltzer swung again, the whip streaking a path over his head. He took the opportunity as Mr Seltzer stopped to catch his arm, pushing himself onto his tentacles and kicking his leg up with reckless abandon. It arched upward. Mr Seltzer's eyes dropped knowingly, but to no avail. His leg crashed into his groin with a stomach-churning crack.

The room went quiet. Squidward looked down at Mr Seltzer; on his knees, hands curved around his pants where his ballsack probably was (if it was even there anymore), teeth bared. He bent forward and seethed out of his throat. Squidward thought it sounded like a 5th grade 'old man' impression.

He rushed past him, stumbling over the desk and making a beeline for the door.

A rusty scream in Mr Seltzer's voice made him flinch away, and he pulled his lips back in an unconscious snarl. He ran for the stairs now like a bat out of hell, passing countless offices (though the hall was only 15 feet or so down) and nearly bumping into some people. Blurred glimpse of their faces told him to watch his step, but he couldn't care less. The stairwell door was inching closer; but even at the speed his legs were pushing him, his running was still branded with the most agonizing slowness imaginable. He knew nothing was chasing him, but he still thought he was being chased. By what, he didn't know. But he knew something was coming to get him.

"I NEVER WANT YOU BACK HERE AGAIN TENTACLES! IF I EVER CATCH YOU WITH MY EYES ANYWHERE NEAR MY BUILDING, I'LL STICK THE POLICE ON YOU!"

He scuttered down the spiral stairwell, his hand a pivot. His shallow breathing reverberated against the bare concrete walls, each clang of the stair's metal steps stinging his ears even harder than the last; it was his demise, he was bringing himself to his own end. He was sprinting down a path in which you can't turn back, heading straight for a dead end. No matter where he would go, his life would fall into a mare's nest.

He reached the front door and briefly looked back. A cold drought at the back of his head told him he would never see this building again . . . and he didn't give a shit, so he heaved the door open and gutsily ran out into the cold, swampy sidewalks of New Kelp City.

2

The downpour had waned into a light drizzle, and Squidward Tentacles trudged down the sidewalk of Golden-Trout Avenue feeling two inches tall. Over. It was over. His life would never be the same. Every time he cycled through his options, he would cut them short because they didn't make sense. There were no options. All the pathways Squidward had thought up were straight out of a world where lollipops sprout from grass like weeds and arching rainbows lead to life-changing fortunes of gold. He was tricking himself into having hope.

That needed to stop. Otherwise, he would end up dragging himself into things he couldn't do.

His mind drifted off to what he had done earlier. He had gotten out of bed at six o'clock in the morning, hair standing up on end, mouth fuzzy with the backwash of a seven hour sleep. He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and rinsed his mouth out with a spoonful's worth of tap water. He couldn't afford to use anymore water than that. Living in the city was too expensive. He was nearly falling short of his bills, and he could barely get food into his stomach. He had to put a limit on his electricity, watch his water usage, and call people sparingly. The city life sucked the soul out of him, working eight hour shifts just to go home and work your ass off some more. That wasn't life. That was prison.

Now his wallet wouldn't get replenished because he lost his only job.

His stomach reeled when that thought washed over him. He didn't want to sit out on a matted blanket like a bum, holding out a chipped mug and asking for spare change. He was raised into an independent young man — and a driven one at that. Whenever he passed by one of the homeless on the street, he tried to fork over a couple dollars, nothing more, because he was barely surviving himself. Guilt pricked him in the arm, but he had no choice.

He stopped at a crosswalk and waited his turn to get past the road. Cars howled by — SUVs, sedans, pickup trucks — all considered lower class but still a reminder of his sparsity of money, kicking up showers of mist and puddle-water that would spatter around his marshy tentacles. His heart began to thunder as he thought back to the office and Mr Seltzer, specifically his entrance, the whip a snake hissing out a warning, his mouth a ratty snarl. It really had rooted him to the spot.

SquarePants told me you screwed up my office . . . you jackass.

SquarePants. Stanley SquarePants.

A clawed fist of anger tore into his chest and seized his heart with paralyzing force. That guy; Stanley SquarePants, had always given him static. Whenever he had a question for him, he would beat around the bush; that same, stupid, shit-eating grin playing on his lips. Whenever he heard that toe-curling hoot of laughter, he had to fight the urge to grab him by his stupid face and slam him into the floor. Stanley was already getting his hackles up, but knowing he sent Mr Seltzer after him like he was a goddamn hitman made him simmer with rage. He was a sponge and soaked up all of Squidward's anger like it was nothing.

Squidward started across the street, the headlights of stalled cars spilling out in puddles of white light, engines droning on; some eager to get on their way again. His head started to throb dully. God, I need some water, he thought blankly. Truthfully, he didn't care about the pain. But he knew at one point, it would slow him down.

There was a convenience store just at the corner of the sidewalk. A board fixed up against the window pictured a water bottle, condensation rolling down its neck in fat, sparkling drops of water. FRESH 755mL of WATER - ONLY 1.99 FOR THIS WEEK ONLY. Just looking at it made his mouth salivate. He felt into his shirt pocket for change and traced the outline of a two dollar coin and two twenty-five cent coins. That was all of his pocket money.

He looked both ways, slightly troubled. A staring passerby faltered their step, now watching him with narrow-eyed suspicion, then wandered off. These two dollars meant nothing in the real world — it was merely a single grain of sand in a pit of gravel — but it meant a lot to him. This was the last of the last. His breath caught, as if on a thorn. Probably the last coins I will ever rightfully earn.

If someone were to ask him: Squidward, can't you just get another job?, he would just laugh. Well, no, hehe. It's not like there's going to be record of me KICKING my boss in the BALLS as a final farewell.

Pushing through the chime of the shopkeeper's bell, he hurtled forward at the chills wrenching down his spine. The air was parky. His arms broke out in gooseflesh. Somehow, it was colder in here than it was outside, probably because the shop owners were expecting a hot day for once. Sure, it was a good 20 degrees earlier, but the weather had a nasty habit of pulling mocking SWITCHEROOS! on everyone, so what did they expect? His eyes sourced a ceiling fan, endlessly wheeling its blades around in circles, barred off by steel droves of rectangle shapes.

The clerk behind the counter was serving a kid who wanted a fudge bar. She huddled into crossed arms, thickened with the cotton of a puffy zip-up jacket. When she saw Squidward, her eyes widened, and for a moment, Squidward thought he would get kicked out for looking 'suspicious.' Fortunately, she went right back to the little kid with the fudge bar.

This is 99 cents, you need another quarter.

Huh? Like the captain's quarters? I can't get one of those!

He laughed. Kids had to be the dumbest and it wasn't even close . . . maybe Stanley could be the runner-up . . . or maybe he could even steal their thunder.

Tentacles boggy and squelching against the tile floor, he stalked down an aisle of chips and kelp-jerky, arms folded across his chest. A gust from the fan brushed along his back and he shivered. A line up of glassed-in coolers fringed the back of the store, flashing bottles of soda, milk and water; a sea of sweating plastic that gleamed beneath a row of dying fluorescents. Squidward tugged the door open and immediately writhed when he reached in. At least he knew that that water would be cold; though a hot coffee would really hit the spot right about now.

He picked out a bottle of water and went to the clerk. The fudge bar kid was gone now.

"Good afternoon," he chirped, setting the bottle down on the counter. "How are—"

"Two dollars and sixty-five cents."

Squidward's throat hit a lump. "What?"

"The water costs two dollars and sixty-five cents."

"Isn't there a sale?"

"That only works if you have a water and a bag of chips."

A ripple of anxiety clawed at his stomach. He couldn't even afford a bottle of water. "I-I'm so sorry . . . I only have two dollars and fifty cents, can you let it slide? Just this once? I—"

"No," the clerk said.

"Huh?"

"Did I stutter?"

For a second Squidward stood there, his heart thudding so hard he couldn't hear anything other than its beat. Were people in the city really this shitty? Since when is fifteen cents too much for a free pass? His eyebrows knitted angrily and he snatched the water bottle off the table. If he had any pride, he would've thrown the thing across the room and stormed off. But instead, he put it right back where he found it and left, fighting the urge to slam that door so fucking hard that it'd fall off its damn hinges.

Things couldn't get any worse, surely.