One year had passed since the recording of his second symphony.
He turned on the TV to see if any live performances happened.
He checked the guide to find out just in case.
The squid even kept the surround-sound radio on 24/7, armed with his trusty tape recorder, due to him forgetting to ask for a copy from the studio.
But strangely enough, no mention of a Suction Cup Symphony.
Not even one royalty check arrived.
He checked his mail to make sure he didn't accidentally throw any out.
He then drove to the post office to see if the workers discarded any by mistake.
"Sorry, sir. No royalty payments to a 'Squidward Tentpoles' I've seen. And believe me, I have a razor-sharp memory."
What he did next was a very immature move.
"How much is he paying you?"
"Who?", the worker wondered.
The squid was about to assault the worker, but security kicked him out in a heartbeat.
Furious, he drove to the publishing company to sign out of his contract.
"Didn't you read the contract, Mr. Tentacles? It says the rights to any work is sent back to the creator(s) 35 years after a work is submitted."
Squidward was completely shocked.
"But... but nothing ever happened? It's been one whole year."
"Well, here's the thing. People these days only want to hear what's popular. Like I said, the best sellers have the most buyers, and right now your genre is plummeting in ratings."
Furious, he drove back to the record company to ask why he hadn't recieved any royalty payments or why his song wasn't even heard, or even why the studio didn't send him the only recorded copy so far.
"Mr. Tentacles. I'm not sure you know how this business works, kid.", the head replied.
"We own half the copyrights of your song, the composition is the other half which is now owned by your publisher. Come back in 35 years if you're still alive, then you can distribute it how you please."
The squid then expressed a defiant look on his face.
"Fine! I don't need you! I can just re-arrange my work from memory. People do it all the time! You know, a little in the instrumentation. That won't hurt anyone, right? Even if I don't recieve any payments from THIS song, I could still make more as well as distribute my last one."
The head snickered for a minute, then burst out into laughter.
"What- what are you? Some kind of anarchist?! Um, the 'beat the system' rally is that way", he struggled to speak due to his laughing fit.
"Isn't that right, Mr. Fancyson?"
Squidward's heart completely stopped, and his face turned completely white.
Like something out of a terrible nightmare, his arch-rival walked into the room.
Squilliam turned to meet him, then handed the head a suitcase full of cash.
"You mean?", Squidward exclaimed.
"That's right, Squiddy. I paid off the record company and publishing company to make them retain all rights to your song, as well as send your credibility down the toilet."
The less rich cephalopod was still confused.
"But how come I never got one... damn... SECOND of airplay?!"
"Simple, Squiddy. I knew that you'd try to record it, and keep it as a little trophy for yourself. You're not a child anymore. Re-recording your music is copyright infringement. Arranging your music is copyright infringement. Keeping undistributed copies of your stuff is copyright infringement."
Squidward was about to say something, but then Squilliam launched into an entirely unprompted rant.
"In fact, with all this 'preserve this, preserve that' mindset, I'm surprised you still think that fire and dementia exist!"
The bald squid looked over at the record company head to see if he would be sensible, but the smirk on his own face made the bald squid wonder if he really was going insane.
"Think about it, Squiddy. I wonder how I'm still able to be chatting with you right now. You know, being able to take the time to go inside our heads every once in a while, process sensory memories, articulate syllables."
"I'm surprised we're not all screaming 'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The squid heard a painful, demonic shriek.
One that no life form with human attributes could even attempt to make.
"...with absolutely no respite to even breathe, and process events, or remember anything else, or stricken with dementia, the lesser of two evils. We all think we're entitled to remember, and process our world like a mini-movie-theatre. If I doused you in gasoline and set you ablaze, what would you be able to think about? You guessed it! Absolutely NOTHING ELSE! Complete sensory RAPE! Why do you think fire was even created?"
Squidward was completely petrified as his rival stood triumphant.
"In fact, you seem to be restraining yourself with your trim figure."
The bald man did not expect a comeback like this, and the worst part was, it was absolutely true.
Squilliam continued, "Because if you know how the system and Neptune truly work, you'd be gorging yourself on hot dogs, calzones, triple chocolate death cakes, deep-fried butter dipped in steak fat and sea salt, extra-mozzarella stuffed-crust stroke-inducing pizza. You might as well, in an attempt to pass the time, waiting for the world and everyone you come in contact with to comply with your deranged requests. I bet you don't even know what DEATH is, do you, you entitled memory pervert!"
Suddenly, two policemen burst into the recording studio.
"That's him, officers.", Squilliam explained.
"Think you can beat the system, huh Mr. Tentacles? Well, we have a nice prison cell with a sonic hi-frequency speaker just for you. This'll teach you."
The squid tried to pinch himself, but to no avail.
He wasn't dreaming; in fact this was worse than any nightmare he had ever encountered.
He was going completely insane.
No; he was coming to his senses, and it would only be a matter of time before the citizens would miss him, then paid off by Squilliam's charisma to think the way him and the owners of thought would want them to.