Squidward rubbed at his eyes. His face felt bloated and hot, uncomfortably sticky after a long nine hour shift at the Krusty Krab. What an unsanitary hell hole, he thought bitterly, and his grip tightened on the grimy shopping cart before him. His bachelor's degree had so far done nothing for him but set him back a good fifty-thousand doubloons—money he had still not regained through the shit job he had somehow tolerated for the last five years.

He pushed his cart forward, scanning the aisle labels for the cleaning supplies he needed. For the third time this month some kids had egged his house, and it was about damned time he actually cleaned the mess off. His Easter Island head had once seemed to him a whimsical, fun place to live, but now it was just inconvenient. Kids always seemed to choose it as the target of pranks. Also, dried egg was hard to scape off the uneven surface. Grumbling to himself, he turned his cart down the most promising aisle, distractedly glancing at the products on the shelves on either side of him.

"Squidward?" came the high voice. Oh, tartar sauce.

"What is it, SpongeBob?" he asked, not bothering to turn around. The sponge had annoyed him all day long at work. Even while getting his groceries he couldn't seem to escape the little shit.

"Just saying hello," he said, and pulled up his cart beside Squidward. A thick scarf covered most of his square torso. His wide blue eyes narrowed. "What's got you out so late? You don't usually shop on weekdays," he observed. Oh, barnacles, thought Squidward.

"That's none of your business," he snapped. He doubted that SpongeBob had had time to go home yet to see the egg caked on his two windows. Or maybe he had, he thought. Maybe he was trying to rub it in, knowing exactly why Squidward was out so late at the grungiest store in Bikini Bottom. "I should ask you the same," he said, curling his lip.

"Oh," SpongeBob. "Well, I was actually picking up some more floor cleaner for work. It turns out Mr. Krabs would prefer us to use Lemon Bubbles! Who knew right? All this time I thought—"

"SpongeBob," said Squidward, "I really, really don't care what kind of brand Mr. Krabs wants us to use, okay?" He pushed his cart further down the aisle. SpongeBob followed.

"Well I do," he said. "And y'know, Squiddy, it would do you well to respect Mr. Krabs."

Squidward stopped and turned around. "To hell with Mr. Krabs! He's nothing but a washed out cheap sake."

SpongeBob gasped. "Squidward! You don't mean, that, do you?" Squidward paused. He did, in fact, believed what he said—he liked the old crab well enough, but there was no doubt his morals weren't exactly straight. Looking at SpongeBob's eager, loyal face, however, he felt the need to soften his words.

"Okay. Fine. Mr. Krabs is a generous—"

SpongeBob laughed. "Oh, Squidward, I know he's a washed out cheap sake. But he's our washed out cheap sake! That's why we love him, eh, buddy?"

Squidward huffed, and once again continued to scan for the cleaning supplies he needed. Some strong window cleaner and maybe some siding bleach would do the trick, he thought. From behind him he heard SpongeBob squeal.

"Oh, Squidward, they have Lemon Bubbles in a bulk pack! You gotta love the Bargain Mart!"

"Right," said Squidward, not turning around.

"And look! It's half off! This is my lucky day, isn't it?"

"Fascinating," he muttered, barely paying attention. Now where could it be? Ah. There it is, he thought, eyeing a large bottle of extra-strength soap. He reached to grab it.

"That's some awfully strong window cleaner you got there," SpongeBob commented. Squidward bristled, but grabbed the bottle anyway.

"What do you care?" He placed the cleaner into his cart.

"I was just saying that it's strong, that's all." SpongeBob shrugged.

Squidward curled his lip. "Sure. As if you don't know."

SpongeBob frowned. "Know what?" he asked.

"Oh, don't play stupid with me!" Squidward angrily pushed his cart forward; SpongeBob followed. "You knew my house was egged last night! There's no way you didn't notice."

"Oh, Squidward," he said softly, stopping in place. "I didn't." He placed a hand on Squidward's arm. "Tell you what. I'll help you clean it up, okay?"

"SpongeBob, it's fine; I can do it myself." He tried yanked his arm from SpongeBob's grip, but found himself unable to. The little guy was stronger than he looked.

"No, really, I'd love to help! I don't mind—"

"Would you quit touching me?" Squidward snapped. SpongeBob recoiled, looking slightly hurt. "I said I didn't want your help, alright? Now would you just leave me alone?"

SpongeBob looked at the ground. "It's never wrong to accept someone's help, Squidward," he said quietly, and turned away, his large bottle of Lemon Bubbles in hand. Squidward frowned. Once again, he looked like the asshole. But was it really his fault? SpongeBob just didn't know when to stop.

After piling his supplies into two cheap plastic bags at check-out, Squidward made for his old bicycle. Tying the bags to the handles, he hopped on, ignoring his sore back.

The cloudless night sky kept him company as he slowly peddled back to his house. SpongeBob was probably back at the Krusty Krab by now, scrubbing away with that damned lemon soap in unpaid overtime. Squidward suspected that some nights, SpongeBob never went home – a few early mornings he'd caught him fast asleep on the bun supply.

Squidward stared at the dark road before him. Every so often, he'd carefully check behind his shoulder. You could never be too careful, he reasoned, and the path to his house was awfully deserted.

Glancing up at the gloomy, lei-filled sky, Squidward sighed. He watched his slow breath swirl out before him, dancing before a star-filled backdrop. He smiled, and just for a moment, closed his eyes, appreciating the cool breeze on his bloated face. Unlike many residents of Bikini Bottom, he enjoyed the colder weather. It made it easier to think, clear his thoughts. The summers were too hot, muggy, and filled with loud outbursts from obnoxious children and neighbours who should know better. No, the winter was Squidward's favourite time of the year, and in the still of the night, alone on the road with his bicycle, he felt momentarily at peace.

From down the road he heard a strange moaning. Oh, no.

It was Patrick.

Squidward slowed down his pace to a crawl, cautiously watching the round rock beyond his own home before him. There did, in fact, appear to be a moving mound on top of said rock, and it was making horrible moaning noises that could only be interpreted as singing. Squidward sped up his pace.

Reaching the front lawn of his home, he felt a wave of relief. But he couldn't relax yet. Never taking his eyes of the rock, Squidward carefully dismantled from his bike—and froze. The mound on top of the rock had stopped singing and now appeared to be moving upwards. Squidward felt his heart speed up.

There was Patrick, completely naked and wearing a pair of round-framed sunglasses despite the dark sky overhead. The star smiled lazily. "Hiya, Squidward!" he called, his husky voice rougher than usual.

"Uh…h-hey, there, Patrick," Squidward called.

"A little late to be out alone," said Patrick.

"I-it is late, isn't it? I guess I lost track of the time." Squidward fumbled with the knots of his grocery bags. Patrick raised his eyebrows.

"Whatever you say," he said, and threw himself back down against his rock. Squidward was unable to take his eyes off the starfish, watching his enormous belly shake as his back hit the stone.

Finally able to get his bags free from his bike, Squidward unlocked his front door and pushed his way in. He'd put his bike away some other time—and for that matter, solve the egg problem later as well. It was far too late anyway, he reasoned. He winced as Patrick continued his horrible song, clear as a bell through his tightly sealed windows, and locked his door. After checking the lock twice, Squidward set the bags down by the entrance and made his way into the kitchen.

What he needed right now, more than anything, was some hot goo tea. That'll do the trick, he thought, trying to push the disturbing moans from his head. Though his house was fairly warm, he shivered.

Squidward put on the kettle and attempted to read the paper; however, between the hideous sounds coming from his neighbour and the wail of the kettle, he couldn't concentrate well.

He sighed and rubbed his tentacles against his forehead.

Once the tea was ready, he checked the front door lock again and made his way upstairs. Up there, his clarinet and his warm, soft bed was waiting for him. And anyway, he didn't feel comfortable spending time on the ground-level floor anymore. Nowadays he could never spend any period of time down there without glancing at the front door.

After taking a long, comforting sip of hot tea, Squidward put down his mug on the bedside table and carefully reached for his clarinet, resting on top of his purple duvet. He kissed its shiny black surface. From the small table he pulled out a fresh reed and wetted it against his tongue, now warm and moist. From outside his window he watched a tiny cloud pass by the moon.

He began to play.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, the music he made was beautiful. Flawless. Encouraged, Squidward began to play louder, shutting his eyes and losing himself in the sound. Pausing to take a breath, Squidward grinned. After a dull, monotonous day he finally felt alive. Lost in his music, a cup of hot tea nearby…this is what he Squidward lived for: music, and the mundane comforts of home. Picking up his instrument once more, he played a slow, sombre note, building his way up to a more complex melody.

And then he heard it.

The moans from outside, which had become background noise over the course of the evening, had gotten louder—except now they weren't intelligible noises.

Patrick was booing. Booing…him.

Squidward's mouth became dry.

He played another couple notes, this time quieter. And then another, and then—fuck. That wasn't right, thought Squidward. He tried again.

Another wrong note.

And again—

His clarinet squeaked; the booing became louder.

Suddenly, his tentacles felt stiff and awkward, his tongue heavy and dry. Squeezing his eyes shut, Squidward took a shallow breath and placed lips on his mouthpiece. I can do this, he thought.

He had barely begun to make a sound when he heard a loud thud. It had come from the window. Jumping off his bed, Squidward ran to the nearest porthole and peered out. There, on his front lawn, was Patrick, a sizeable stone in hand. Squidward felt his tentacles ball into fists. How dare him.

With shaking hands he opened his window.

"I'll call the cops on you if you don't quit this nonsense," he yelled, anger momentarily outweighing fear. He bit his lip as he heard Patrick laugh.

"Well la-di-da." Patrick's voice was barely audible.

"I-I'm serious, Patrick!" he screamed, and watched with little satisfaction as Patrick threw down the stone and made his way back to his rock. Feeling sick, he watched the starfish's bare pink ass jiggle in moonlight.

Sure he was gone, Squidward went to close his window, only to hear Patrick's low voice quietly drift by: "Squiddy?" Squidward shut his window before he could hear anymore. Little good did it do, though, as Patrick's voice could be clearly heard through the glass:

"Don't stop playing, by the way. You rock."

His blood ran cold. Enough playing for tonight, he thought.

Numb, Squidward changed into his night dress and got into bed.

As he lay there the booing echoed in his head until he couldn't tell whether it was real or not.