Chapter 4: The Krusty Gala

... Tick...

... Tick...

"Four… three…"

A pair of red-lidded eyestalks watched the overhead clock. The owner stood center of his dining room, his claw clutched tightly around the handle of the device hidden behind his back.

Tick. The crustacean slowly raised his arm, bringing it around front until his lips were inches from the megaphone's speaker. "… one…"

...

... Tick.

"ATTENTION ALL KRUSTY KLASS PATRONS!"

Magnified, Mr. Krabs' voice shook the entire foundation of the restaurant. Shrieks and cries rang out all over as their tables and chairs rattled, wine glasses tipping over. A customer near Eugene began choking as a whole piece of kelp ravioli slid down his throat. His frantic wife had enough sense to give him one good WHACK on the back, and the pasta came flying out like a bullet.

SMASH! It went straight through another patron's wine glass mid-anniversary toast, giving them both a hundred dollar champagne shower, and kept going.

"Here's your bill. Thank you for dining with— Gyrahh!" Squidward hastily dropped the paper slip and billfold when the rolfed ravioli hit him straight between the eyes.

The fish couple he'd been waiting on somewhat professionally up until this point dropped three twenties for the bill, and quickly hurried out of the door. No thought for a tip anymore.

By the time the unwilling waiter had scraped the puked projectile from his eyes, they were gone. He could only ball up his tentacles and seethe at the crab, still barking into the megaphone.

"The dining room is now closed ! As we've announced several times in the last hour, we will be shutting down at seven PM sharp! Everybody who's been paying attention has already vacated the premises! Everyone who hasn't…" Krabs lowered his tone to a rumble. "... I hope you've got good health insurance."

"MY ROTATOR CUP!"

Bodies, finely dressed aquatic folk in pearl necklaces and shiny shoes, began flying through the front doors. Stacking up sideways out on the walkway of the patio, like fresh catches from the net of a steel vessel. It might've been decades since Krabs had kept fit for service, but this old sailor had more than enough muscle left to hoist his own precious customers like overfilled trash bags, and dispose of them as such.

"But I paid fifty dollars for this steak!" the last man on the pile protested. "Can't I at least get a doggy bag?"

"Too late! Just take the plate!" Krabs tossed the steak, plate and all, out the double doors like a frisbee, before pushing them shut. "Slower than granny snails."

He then pinched his long dress shirt and pants, and ripped them off in one clean motion, revealing a black tie and ivory tuxedo underneath. "WHOOPEE! Let the money makin' party begin!"

"Tonight, on The Bikini Top! Bottom's Hottest celebrity news segment!…"

"... I am a realistic fish head wearing a tuxedo! And tonight, we're covering first access to the most hyped party of the year!"

The photo-real salmon ducked out of the way of live footage of the Krusty Klass: Flashing cameras dotted an aerial shot of the crowds trickling into the restaurant.

"All across the ocean, famous chefs of household fame have flocked to the Krusty Klass to honor navy veterans… and fru-fru foods! Hosted by Krusty Franchise owner Eugene H. Krabs, under the management of what appears to be a phone book with eyes—hey, remember those? Let's go down live to the restaurant, where our very own Perch Perkins is conducting interviews at the door! "

"Thank you, Johnny!" said Bikini Bottom's most beloved reporter. He, too, was decked out in a silver suit and black bow tie, along with his headphones. "As you can see, between the star studded crowds and the flashing cameras, this place is absolutely sparkling! Limousines bumper to bumper to bumper in the street, with more on the way. So many beloved television personalities have churned out at the gracious invitation to give back to our veterans! But it's not just celebrities, of course! What would a Navy party be without the Navy itself? Every fish currently enlisted in the regional naval academy, to our fathers and grandfathers who courageously fought and served for our freedom has received an invitation! With celebrities shaking hands with the local brave and bold, it's sure to be a night for the ages! And the donation pool is rocketing towards its goal—five million dollars! Here's one now!"

Perch turned his microphone to a fragile looking old couple in blue and white uniforms, approaching the door. "Sir, please tell the folks back home what it's like to see your men finally recognized for their service, and to such a degree of glamor?"

The tall male fish on the right chuckled awkwardly. "Well, it's a pretty nice thing, but I can't say I'm the one who should do the judging!"

"Oh?" Perch frowned. "What's that mean?"

"It means—" The fragile looking old woman narrowed her eyes, raised her cane, and gave the reporter's head a wallop of a CONK! "—they're my men, nitwit! Captain Marie Guaro, Second ship of the Shark-Nose Fleet, 1966!"

"Ow! Oh… sorry…"

"Punk Perkins, more like," she muttered before she and her husband shuffled her way inside.

Beyond the doors, there was hardly room to sit, let alone move. The dining room had all unreserved tables set in the back to make for larger passing space, and a tiny square of a dance floor later on. Half of the dining room was set aside for the current and retired navy, the other half for the biggest stars under the sea.

"Officer and Mister Guaro, pleasure to finally meet you." Eugene kissed the woman's fin and gestured to the left side of the restaurant. "Allow me to lead you to the Captain's table."

Krabs and the couple carefully moved through the central walkway. Just off to the left, returned with his bright white management tuxedo and tie, SpongeBob had his face stuck to the window, utterly starstruck. "It's more than I ever dreamed of! Strong, proud sailors and household celebrities a mile back, and they just keep coming! Look! There's 30 Minute FishMeal star Rachel ManRay—no relation to the supervillain. And over there! It's BAM! Emeril Lagooney! I feel like I'm in a dream, don't you, Squid?"

"Please." Squidward scoffed as he dropped a bucket of ice at an empty table. "These has-beens haven't seen the limelight since I still had hair! Why am I surprised to find out this town couldn't pull an A-List celebrity any easier than pulling my own wisdom teeth? Now, if the easily dazzled ManagerBox desires nothing else of me, then I. Am. Leaving. And I expect to be compensated for my three hours of back-breaking labor! My routing number should still be in Krabs' books—"

"SQUIDWARD!" Spongebob expanded, eyes and entire body, flattening himself against the glass until he looked like a poster. "Look!"

Squidward wasn't sure why he bothered to stop and turn around, but when he did, he did not regret it. The empty bucket he'd just replaced fell out of his tentacles, and he, too, flew to the window and flattened his body against the tinted glass. "Is that…?"

They let out a gasp at the same time.

Outside, a limousine door opened, and a tall shark wrapped in a form-fitting, short sleeved, white chef's coat climbed out of the back seat.

Sponge and Squidward uttered the name together: "Gordon RamShark!"

"The most incredible and subtly terrifying Michelin star chef in the world!" The pupils of SpongeBob's eyes filled with dancing stars. "A mere fry cook could only dream of being in his presence!"

"His prestige is untouchable!" Squidward pulled away from the window. His eyes sparkling, too. "He's posh! He's hip! He's stylish! He's British! And he's a marathon biker!"

Outside, Ramshark smiled a pleasant smile to the cameras, now flashing uncontrollably. Like the rest of him overall, it was a handsome, photogenic smile, but lined with hundreds of tiny, sharp, menacing teeth.
"I'm asking for seventeen autographs!—NO!" Squidward backed away from the window, pointing a tentacle in the air. "Eighteen!"

"I'm asking for a hundred!" SpongeBob tilted his head away from the glass, unstuck himself and, as if to show off, did an effortless backflip to stand before Squidward. "And a fin-shake!"

"Oh yeah, well I'm asking him to be my godfather!"

"I'm gonna ask him to be at my wedding and be the guest of honor!"

"I'M GONNA ASK HIM TO LEAVE HIS WIFE AND MARRY ME!"

"Hold yer seahorses!"

Mr. Krabs ran up to the window, putting himself between the boys. "No proposals! Not on my dime! Don't forget, yer sweat is far from over! We still haven't reached our donation goal!"

He pointed his claw to the gold ship-shaped meter on the wall. Next to the figure was a line which ended at the top of the crow's nest, the ship's highest point. "Five million clams! That's chump change for these big wigs we got dressin' up the place! But if we reach the goal, not only does Krusty Franchise get to keep ten percent for growth, but there will be extensive bonuses for Krusty Franchise managers—" his eyestalks pointed at Squidward. "—and maybe even a one time bonus for a certain one night only Squid."

Sponge and Squid looked at each other like Mr. Krabs had started speaking another language. "Are… you feeling alright Mr. Krabs?" asked the latter. "You did take your meds this morning, didn't you?"

"Whoo! A bonus!" SpongeBob pumped the air. "I've heard of those! What is it, a rubber chicken?"

"He means cash, moron! At least… I think he does." Squidward put his tentacles together in prayer. "Mr. Krabs?"

"It's even better than that! This is all on the down low… " Krabs whispered. "... but I do believe this party has the potential to thrust the three of us into stardom, and all the riches that come with it!"

"A star…" SpongeBob sighed dreamily. "Just like Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy! Wait a second." He looked left and right across the crowded restaurant. "Shouldn't they be here, too?"

"I sent the old boys a pair of invites, just like you begged me to. Figured they'd draw in even more publicity after the fact, but I never got the RSVP back. Maybe they're tied up elsewhere. Oh well." Krabs picked up a ready tray of sea-butter champagne before scurrying off to tables of waiting diners. "Can't have everything. Well, don't just stand there! Get the liquor flowin', lads! Our guests will be much more eager to donate with a little bubbly under their belts!"

SpongeBob went to pick up a second tray of champagne with a frown. "Gee, I hope they're alright. It's not like Bikini Bottom's greatest superheroes to miss a social call! They've shown up to every comic book convention from 1977 to 1995, even in The Kraken Attack of '87!"

Keeping one admiring eye on RamShark, Squidward went back to work, uncorking a champagne bottle, and filling a waiting platter of empty glasses from the same table. "Knowing those geezers, they probably tossed the invitation in the trash with their prescription bag."

"Squidward! Those pill-popping wizards were once our saviors! You wouldn't want somebody talking about you like that when you're they're age, would ya?"

"At that age," The octopus picked up the platter, and turned in the direction opposite the comic fanboy. "I hope I give nothing for people to comment on other than the rocketing value of my art, posthumously."

"Barnacle Boy, have you seen my debit card?"

The once young ward left the kitchen and stomped into their condo's living room, carrying a white bag. "I've told you once if I haven't told you a thousand times to stop throwing the card in with the bag when you leave the pharmacy! It winds up in the trash!"

He handed Mermaid Man the card, then gestured to what the old man was wearing. "Now, why aren't you dressed?"

"It can wait a minute! I'm watching the comedian who screams a lot!" Sitting in a bath towel, Mermaid Man put the card back in his wallet and pointed to the TV screen. "I don't understand a lot of what he's going on about, but he's a hoot!"

"Get this," said the hefty fish on TV. "You're sitting there in your home, you're watching the news, all nice and cozy, and then you turn to your wife. Only it's NOT your wife!" The hefty fish banged his fins on his cable news desk. "It's called an Alternate, and she's about to suck the life out of you! Leave you looking like an un-inflated aluminum balloon at the dollar store! Think of a succubus? Well, get that thought out of your head, cuz it's so much worse! They're these mysterious beings that come floating out of VHS tapes, living on the film! They can take the form of your spouse, your neighbor, your kids, your pet worm! And these old cassette tapes are how they recruit you! If you get one in the mail, save yourself the trouble, don't ask questions, just get a hammer and smash it! Matter of fact, do this for every VHS tape in your house, right now!" From behind the desk, he raised an example video cassette. "They feed on film, and they feed on your personal memories! None of it can be trusted! My wedding tape?" he showed the handwritten title of the tape, then laid it on top of the desk and raised a hammer—"SMASH it!" He raised another tape—"My kids first birthday? SMASH it!" Down came the hammer again. "That recording of Elvis' last concert?" He put this cassette off to the side. "Well, we set this one aside to transfer safely to a computer, and then we SMASH SMASH SMASH!"

CRACK! The desk splintered down the middle, thanks to the blows from the hammer, and fell apart, leaving a stunned reporter sitting there in his underwear without the cover of a desk.

Barnacle Boy turned away from the screen, brows knitted with concern. " Mermaid Man, I don't think that guy's meant to be a comedian."

"Nonsense, Barnacle Boy! Nobody in their right mind genuinely believes a certain strain of water turning the amphibians homosexual!"

"I knew I shouldn't have introduced you to the internet. Just-just get up and snap a bra on!" Barnacle Boy paused the video, turned off their flatscreen smart TV and slapped the remote back onto the coffee table. "My daughter will be here any second!"

Mermaid Man's eyes grew one half times their size, and he turned to look at him for the first time since the conversation started. "You have a daughter?"

Barnacle Boy spluttered. "Yes!-we-We've been over this a thousand times ! Remember the late seventies? Your edgy loner era? Where do you think I was?"

"Oh yeah, the Watch Fellas era… Well, congratulations, boy! I'm so proud of you!" His eyes glistened with tears. "My adoptive son has become a father!"

"She's thirty seven!"

"Ah, they sure do grow up fast, don't they? One minute you're barely potty trained, the next, you're helping your adoptive father foil baddies with complex backstories." He turned back to the TV, surprised to find the screen dark. "Say, where'd the funny lad go?"

Knock. Knock.

"Just don't embarrass me," Barnacle Boy said as he slumped back towards the kitchen. "If you can help it."

"Since when have I ever done that?"
Barnacle Boy opened their apartment's front door to a thin, pretty Merwoman in a green jacket and purple dress. She took mostly after her mother now, but in his youth, he had her unblemished olive skin, shiny black hair, and most importantly, an unforced smile.

"'Sup, Dad."

"Oh, Wendy! It's always good to see the twinkle of my eye, all grown up." He gave her a hug, and ushered her inside. "I've got orange chicken in the wok, and rice is keeping warm."

"I would've been fine going out so you wouldn't have to cook, but I'm glad you guys have the option." She hung her jacket on one of three empty hooks near the door, and took in the layout of her father's new home. "Was that the reason for the move?"

"Well, it was more about the fact that annoying kids kept coming around Shady Shoals and screaming a certain word that would set the old man off." Barnacle Boy finished stirring the wok and set the spoon down on the stove rest. "But having our own kitchen sweetened the deal."

"Barnacle Boy, is dinner ready yet? Oh!"

Behind his mortified 'young' ward appeared Mermaid Man. Still in his bath towel, starfish mask and gloves. He reached behind his back and scratched his backside.

Wendy found another smile, albeit this one came with a stifled giggle. "Hay-ho! Uh… Grandpa Mermaid Man!"

Barnacle Boy folded his arms across his chest. "Please, don't call him 'Grandpa.'"

"Is this one of those door to door moisturizer sales gals?" asked Mermaid Man, reaching for the towel's fold on his hip. "See, I've got this rash—"

"NOPE!" He rushed over and quickly tied Mermaid Man's towel back on. "Ugh. Forgive him, honey. He hasn't been in the right state of mind since we lost the Mermalair and all the secret gadgetry to that fire."

"Still kept the boatmobile!" chirped Mermaid Man. "Although I never did figure out how there could be a fire underwater… Bah! I'm only playing around! How could I forget about my little Trendy-Wendy!" He spread his arms with their trademark green gloves, despite the rest of the ensemble being missing, out wide. "Come here and give your grandpappy a big-ol hug!"

Barnacle boy's daughter rushed in for an unabashed sea-bear embrace, exactly as she would have if she were still five years old. "So glad you guys came out of that mess safe and happy."

"Well, safe, at least," Barnacle Boy muttered, laying out three bowls on the counter, left of the stove. "Make yourself at home. Water's out while they do maintenance downstairs, but that's no problem. You still drink the diet, right?"

"For whatever good it's worth," Wendy confirmed, turning with aversion at the sight of her own face in the framed brass looking glass across the room, to the table next to the door. "Hey, what's this?"
Her eye was caught by a stack of mail on the narrow table to her left, next to a candy dish, occupied by scratch off tickets and walnut shells.

She picked up the gold-colored envelope on the very top of the pile. "The Krusty Gala?"

"Junk mail I haven't gotten around to throwing away," her father explained. "Probably some trap to get us to buy a timeshare plan."

"I'm up to four!" said Mermaid Man, plopped down in the kitchen nook. "One more, and I think I get a free pizza! Barnacle Boy, tell me you put extra green peppers in that stir-fry!"

"Wait a minute. This is that charity thing going on in Bikini Bottom, isn't it?" Wendy hesitated by the wall-seat of the dining nook, setting the unopened envelope down only after giving in a long, thoughtful look, front and back. "I'm surprised you aren't there right now. People love getting to meet you too!"

"Ah, we're done with those appearances, and all that nonsense," said Barnacle Boy, setting a steaming bowl down in front of his old mentor. "We've been retired for over ten years now. We shouldn't even be expected to make guest appearances at this age! Besides, it's no good for Mermaid Man's heart when some idiot decides to go and shout the 'E' word, just to see what'll happen."
Mermaid Man raised a knife, studying it like he'd never seen one before. "Eggnog?"

Barnacle Boy plucked it from his grasp, and thrust a spoon into his hand instead. "Exactly."

"No, I mean, do we got any eggnog? I've got this craving—"

"It's… July."

"Aww."

Mermaid Man became quiet as he tucked into his dinner. Barnacle Boy gave Wendy her bowl, then slid into the booth across from her, with his own. "So, how's the teller's life?"

"It's… fine." Wendy put the envelope aside and slid into her seat, propping her chin up in her hand as the steam rose before her face.

"You never really appreciate how lucky you are until you meet at least ten people a day with less than a hundred dollars in their checking accounts."

"Why do you sound so down?" asked Mermaid Man. If he was aware enough in the moment to notice anything, it was a frown on the face of Barnacle Boy's child. "What's the matter, child?"

"Oh, I don't know." She folded her arms on the table. The smile she'd come in with was long gone. "Have you ever had the feeling like you're missing your calling in life?" She looked at her own hands. "When there's so many problems with the world, and all you can do is give people their own money, and tell them the bad news when it runs out?"

"Honey, we've been over this," said Barnacle Boy. "Many super powered kids had the same struggle, getting a hold of your powers, honing their skills. You just… well… never got over the hump!"

"Yeah," sighed Wendy. She spun her finger around the rim of her ice-filled drink glass, the can of diet Dr. Kelp sitting next to it. She removed her black driving glove, and began to wiggle her fingers over the glass, feeling a warmth like blood rush to the tips. With a crease in her brow, water droplets began forming from the tip of her fingers, dripping onto the ice. She imagined there'd be enough to make a full glass of drinkable water, but the more she concentrated, the more the tips of her fingers seemed to grow hotter, until there was a familiar, fiery pain, radiating up her hand. And like always, her hand dried up there and then.

The woman dropped her arm, and with the other hand, picked up her fork. "If I haven't got the hang of my powers by now, I guess I never will. Still, I just can't help but feel like I could've tried harder, done something differently… Ugh."

Wendy was playing with her food rather than eating it. She dropped the fork, picked up her can of soda, slid out of the booth from the left side, and wandered across the apartment to the living room.

Curiously, she picked up the remote and flipped the channel to local news, showcasing the Gala. "At least the real heroes of the sea are being recognized."

"Pha!" replied Barnacle Boy from the booth. "Recognized, maybe. Appreciated? I doubt it. Some corporate big wigs thinking they could piggy back off the blood and sweat of our mortal counterparts in the navy. Just a bunch of seahorse feathers, if you ask me."

"Smoke in the mirror… ?" asked Mermaid Man.

"Huh?" Wendy looked back over her shoulder.

"Not exactly the phrasing I'd use, but yes. Smoke and mirrors! Finally, you contribute something meaningful to the conversation—"

"No, I mean, smoke! IN the mirror !" Mermaid Man shot up out of his seat and pointed at the stove. "Look!"

Barnacle Boy's gaze jerked from the bronze-lined mirror above the TV in the living room, to the smoke reflected across the room in the kitchen to his left. just as a giant flame erupted from the burner. "Screa-ming sea turtles!" He leaped from the nook. "I forgot to turn the stove off!"

"EVE-ALLL!" Mermaid Man leapt up from the table, grabbing his fork and wielding it out in front of him. "The comedian was right! You won't threaten my family, you despicable duplicates!"

At the first sign of danger, the retired crusader leapt into action. But instead of going for the stove, he went for the mirror. His slippers skidded to a stop just before he hit the walk. "Blasted villains!" He shouted at his reflection. "Barnacle Boy, the alternates are using force field technology!"

Eeeeeeeeee ! He scraped at his face in the mirror with the prongs of his fork. "I can't reach them, but they're here!" He jabbed a finger at his own reflection. "Come out from behind your transparent wall, you wrinkly counterfeit!"

"Forget the mirror, you ol' coot!" Barnacle Boy shouted, plodding for the pantry as fast as his aching, atrophied legs would go. "We're about to have another Merma-Fire!"

Remote in hand, Wendy sprinted back over, skidding as she reached the divider between the kitchen area and the living room.

The remote tumbled from her hand, to the floor. While her father started digging in the pantry she sprinted for the sink and threw the tap on. Only to be horrified when nothing but a drop came out. "Ugh! That's right! No water…."

As the flames spread across the stove, licking flames caught the nearby curtains hanging before the window, above the sink. Wendy began tossing open a drawer, then another. "Lid, lid… come on… !" Pots galore, but nothing to cover them. "Where are all the lids?"

"I lost them in the last fire!" Her father had given up stacking cans on the floor. Now he was just tossing them over his shoulder to get to whatever he was looking for. "All I have are the pots!"

Adrenaline buzzed the tips of her fingers. Watching the two most dear men in her life flounder in danger in their own home, Wendy ripped off her gloves, pushing back her sleeves.

It's so simple. Waterball.

Waterball.

Waterball.

She wound back her arm. No reason to believe anything would be different. That after thirty some-odd years, that today would mark a new beginning. Yet, Something was happening. Something that lay dormant in her blood had just awoken.

Barnacle boy spun from the cabinet, a heavy unmarked bag weighing down his arms. He knew what she was going to do, and dropped the bag on his toes in horror. "No—YEOW! Wait, Wendy! STOP!"

But it was too late to stop it, even if she wanted to. Whatever was buzzing in her blood came launching out of its own volition. It started like the drips of water from her fingertips, but then came the bright, scalding sensation. It did not hurt at all.

Whatever it was shot towards the fire like a bullet, in a green iridescent glow. Or at least it looked like it. It was suddenly very hard to see—

Bam!

Instantly, she could see in perfect 20/20 vision again. And the woman was stunned to discover that whatever she'd done, whatever had come shooting out of her, was not a fireball. It had, quite literally, caused the fire to double in size.

"Heee-YAAAAAAAAA!"

With her eyes still entranced by the flames she'd helped make worse, a wave of white granules like sand came flying by her left arm. While her back was turned, Barnacle boy had ripped off the seal on a new ten pound bag of salt, and with a grunt, tossed the whole thing at the stove. The bag broke open, spilling out over the wok and the grease, and cutting the fire in half. In seconds, the flames that licked the curtains were cut from their energy supply, and began to fizzle out.

Danger eliminated, the room became very still. But for Barnacle Boy's labored breathing.

Wendy couldn't even look at him. Could look at nothing but the scorch marks bordering the mounds of salt that now covered the stove, counter, and floor. She was used to her father saving the day, big way, or small way. That was his job, or at least it had been, a long time ago. On another day, another time, this would bring about an unsurprised smile, and maybe a toast towards the enduring heroism of Bikini Bottom's superpowered protectors.

But Wendy couldn't appreciate the victory. She slowly lowered her arm, feeling as if she'd just touched back down on earth from somewhere else. "What… what was that?"

"I don't know." Barnacle Boy waddled through the salt carefully as he came up to his grown child and placed a hand on her back. But he hesitated before touching her, as if he was seeing a threatening force about her that he never knew existed before. "I'm just glad none of us are hurt."

"You've been thwarted, villains! "

The once young ward and his daughter turned around. In the living room, the towel-clad retiree was still berating the looking glass. "The flames of foul deeds have been extinguished! Come out, or get out!"

"Uh." Wendy turned to her father. "Are we going to do anything about that?"

Barnacle Boy was preoccupied. His eyes swept over the burnt curtains, his ruined wok, the salted stove, and the cans all over the floor, and at last, gave a tired wave of his arm. "Do me a favor," he sighed. "Take the mirror home with you tonight." He plodded back over the salted floor and slid back into the booth, intent on finishing his dinner before considering how to tackle it. "If it wasn't for the fact that it makes the room seem bigger, I'd have gotten rid of it the first time he accused his reflection of stealing his brand new mask."

"It's like I'm in a snow globe filled with glitter! Everywhere I look, my eyes can't stop sparking! Er… or is that my new contacts?"

Eyes red and itchy, SpongeBob set down a platter of dirty dishes on the nearest clear table edge and ' pluck'ed his left eyeball from the socket. He breathed and rubbed it on his shirt.

"Interesting contact cleaning method you've got there, Spongey. Might I recommend a home based saline solution made with boiled water and a teaspoon of salt?"

Recognizing the voice immediately, SpongeBob spun around and slammed his eyes back into their respective sockets. " Wow ! It's Martha Stewart, and her unlikely on-again-off-again associate… Snoop Dogfish! What are you two doing here?"

"Well, you're probably too young to remember," said the woman seated at the nearest table. "But I used to be a chef on TV."

"I do remember! I mostly remember you from the time you got arrested. Tee-hee..."

"Chill there, box man. We ain't ripplin' your waters. Now, you wouldn't happen to know where to score some grass in this town, would ya?"

"SpongeBAAAAAAAAWWWWB!"

An unmistakable, and very irate voice called him from across the room (this voice was normally irate when calling him, but that's besides the point). "Probably the home and garden store?" a distracted sponge answered. "Ah, s-sorry guys, I gotta go!"
And SpongeBob panted as he sprinted away, full jogger pose, with his arms pumping as he went.

Martha folded her arms and smirked at Snoop. "And you said this town would be boring."

"Ladies and gentle fish!"

On the far left of the restaurant, propped up hastily, was a stage, where Mr. Krabs stood before a microphone. "If I may please have everyone's attention! Welcome one and all to the very first Krusty Klass Charity Gala! We gather here today in celebration of almost ninety years of service by the United Navy of the Pacific and beyond! If the cameraman would kindly pan to the left—

Out of the spotlights on the stage, in the dark of the left of Mr. Krabs on the stage, a heavyset fish running the only inside televising camera panned slowly to the left.

"—are the greatest navy men, now and to be, the Pacific had to offer!"

Men and women with scars, patches, canes, crutches, beards of white and gray and wrinkles galore, clapped respectfully at the acknowledgement, while other guests all around them cheered vibrantly.

"To your right—"

The cameraman gasped and panted as he desperately swung the camera to the right, trying to keep up with Mr. Krabs' words.

"—are the stars that have graciously come down to meet their acquaintance—and supply financial support. Now you're probably all wondering how to get inside a mind like yours truly, what goes on in this shelled head o'mine—?"

Everything the camera captured was being shown not just on live TV, but on a two-sided projector screen that hung up in the middle of the dining room, so that even guests in the far back could see the stage. Unfortunately, the overworked, underpaid cameraman was running on even less sleep than its phonebook-with-eyes manager, and inadvertently forgot to extreme-zoom back out when swinging the camera back towards Mr. Krabs. The result was the projector displaying an enormous closeup of Mr. Krabs' nostrils, a countable set of nose hairs, and unfortunately, more.

"EUGENE!" shouted a familiar elderly woman's voice from near the stage. "For the love of sun and moon, blow yer nose!"

"What in the devilfish is that? Looks filthy as—SHIVER ME TIMBERS!" cried Mr. Krabs, realizing the image on the projector was an extreme closeup of his own left nostril, with a countable set of nose hairs, and, to his mother's upset, more. "Ah, erm…" Mr. Krabs saw the screen, and reached behind his back for a handkerchief. "Yes… mommy. AHEM!"

The cameraman looked up from his two-second nap in his own fist. "Huh? OH! Sorry-sorry!"

Mr. Krabs furiously blew his nose, tossed the cloth behind the stage's purple curtain, before returning to the microphone. "Now, if everyone will set down their glasses and stand for the Bikini Bottom National Anthem, sung by our very own Mr. Hoopla Fish!"

Mr. Krabs plucked the mic from the stand, then bent down and passed it to a tiny green fish with bulging yellow eyes, and a staunch white tuxedo.

The lights across the restaurant momentarily dimmed, and on a screen that came down behind him was the Bikini Bottom flag, hyper realistic, billowing in the sun-lit waves.

He took a deep breath, blinking one eye, and then another. "Hooooooooooooooooooo-pla hoo-pla, hoo-plaaa, hoopa…"

"Aye… You ought not to have a favorite rendition of the Anthem," whispered one teary-eyed sailor to another. "... but I think I just discovered mine!"

"Excuse me! Sorry! Pardon me! I'm so sorry! Can I get by? Thank you!"

SpongeBob panted as he squeezed between the chairs, brushing between sailor and celebrity like a clown fish through the tentacles of sea anemone. He definitely felt like a clown, albeit more flexible. It had quickly become yet another one of many times in his life he was grateful to be an invertebrate. He could make himself into the exact shape of the gap between the tightly packed bodies, and slide through, like play-dough through a mold. At one point, a couple was making out in the middle of the room. SpongeBob tapped them on the shoulder.

"Oh! Uh, I'm sorry to come between you two, but can I—oh… wow… you're really doing that right now? You do know we're… on TV right now, right?"

Finally, SpongeBob squeezed himself between the frenching fish, telling himself he wasn't jealous, and that that was just weird.
"The party's only started," SpongeBob muttered. "What could've gone wrong—HOLY FISH PASTE!"

SpongeBob's heels screeched as he encountered Squidward, his white working tuxedo and every inch of him drenched in a dark red liquid, like he just walked out of a certain 70's horror movie.

"Not even half hour into this fiasco, I've already been doused in wine, had two of my feet trampled by starlets in pasties and high heels—"

Squidward furiously pointed to the cantaloupe sized dent in the side of his head. Wine dripped from his shoulders, to the bandages on two of his feet.

"No amount of celebrity-brushing would make this socially-accepted torture worth it! So, now that I've successfully helped lube up your sparkly patron cash-tankers with enough liquor to kill a whale," Squidward removed his Krusty Krab hat and held it out before SpongeBob. "I'm ducking out of here before Squilliam shows up. If you require more you can find him in the back next to the ice machine, smacking his head in a wall until the part of my brain that can contemplate Squilliam's tweets in the next twelve hours is dead."

"But Squidward, you can't hide yet! The party's only beginning!"

"And I've suddenly decided that I am a wallflower. Specifically one that grows on the break room walls… or whatever Eugene calls that walk-in cooler."

"And besides," SpongeBob flicked his thumb upwards, "you'd make a great host!"

"Host?" Squidward had one foot in the air, and stooped like a dime. His head swiveled around like his neck was elastic. "You mean, like THE restaurant host? Get to chat one-on-one with the guests?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Ask them if they need a top off of champagne, or-or even ask them for pictures? Autographs? Offer to be their wingman for any young starlets the stars have their eyes on?"

Bob nodded vigorously. "Yeah!"

"Yeah… not interested."

"Wait! Don't go! I uh…" SpongeBob felt control slipping through his fingers. He couldn't lose control this early. There was such a long night ahead! SpongeBob's eyes swept the room. Think, think, think… And when he turned right, and his eyes fell on one guest in particular, his pupils became lightbulbs. "What about Chef RamShark?"

Squidward's narrowed eyes shot up like garage doors, his head suddenly un-denting itself with a loud 'pop'. "RamShark."

The world-renowned, Michelin star chef was, by and large, the most popular guest at the Gala. Squidward could barely see him as he turned his head to look across the darkened room, and that was only because he was flanked by a set of bodyguards. "You mean, I'd get to speak to him directly?"

"Well, of course! As a matter of fact," SpongeBob remembered quickly. "I've got a special twist on the patty Wellington that Angel's prepared just for him." He grinned a toothy grin. "And I can't think of a more handsome Head Waiter to deliver it to his table."

Squidward slowly turned back around, taking tentative steps back towards SpongeBob. "And you'd… make sure Squilliam saw everything? Maybe even aim the camera at his face the minute he sees me photographed with the most esteemed chef in the ocean?"

"Uh, sure. I don't see… any harm in—THAT! "

Squidward had grabbed and lifted him up from the floor by the shoulders. Gazing at him with the same gaze of adoration with which he would a mirror. "Sponge, if I didn't despise you three hundred and sixty four days out of the year on average, I'd kiss you on the lips, right here and now."

"Oh-oh!" SpongeBob blushed. "You flatter me, Squidward, but I'm afraid it's entirely possible that my first kiss is being saved for someone speci— OMPH!"

"I've gotta get ready!" Having dropped his boss for the night like a box of scorpions, a wine-dripping Squidward rushed off towards the staff doors. "Can't take my viral picture with RamShark looking like Carrie!"

"Wait, Squidward! That's not what I…" he looked back at the waiting tables, brow creased. "Oh, Barnacles! That's another pair of hands down." He looked down at his wrist. "And our big VIP party will be here any minute!"

The watch on his wrist was unique. Not quite like what he pictured having the position of power he now found himself in, but it was straight from the Krusty Krab kids' collection, circa 1996. The one with Man Ray's face and quote from the Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy episode 122. "Hehe… The witching hour is upon us," cackled the semi-crackling recording of Man Ray when SpongeBob pressed the button on the side. "The question is, what action will you take, young 'hero'?"

A/N: Really small note to start, but I know Ramsay is Scottish, but since Squidward's obsession with anything posh seems to imply he'd hyper focus on Ramsey being a Brit, I just went with that. Most of the dialog in this fic is first draft, just the first thing that comes to mind for the characters and how they might react to things. And because the dialog is the easiest thing to write for this story, it's largely what's carrying this fic. I'm doing my best to really match what the SpongeBob characters would do or say, the non-canon shipping for this fic aside.

IDK what I was going for mixing Alex Jones with Youtube Analog horror, the scene just wrote itself and I left it in there. I just get a giggle out of the thought of Mermaid Man being convinced someone that unhinged is doing a bit when they're not. I also get a giggle out of someone so unhinged thinking alternates are real and going on a tirade ala.

Wendy, Barnacle Boy's daughter, is named after one of Robin's kids in one of the DC canons. :D I didn't have any particular names in mind so I just went with that. I don't know anything about the DC Wendy, to be honest, and she's not meant to resemble the Wendy from DC. I hoped that would be acceptable since MM and BB aren't always the one-to-one universe equivalent of Batman and Robin in their collective appearances. Sometimes they're This character's got her own little story conflict, like a lot of characters, both OG and original, in the story. I wanted to have a young upcoming hero to throw in the mix, and have the sort of common-ish trope of a superpowered character who can't use their own powers because of X-reason. There's a good reason why Wendy never learned to throw water balls with ease, and it might be obvious why. Since it's a side plot I can spoil a bit, but let's say she takes more than looks after her mother. ;3

"Hey, if they're underwater, how can there be a—?" Well obv. Wendy should've just asked this question and the problem would've solved itself. Maybe Patrick has superpowers, lol. I'm using NaturePants cartoon logic for the kitchen fire. If this and the next chapter seem a bit short compared to the rest, I had to cut this chapter with the Gala in half. Between overtime at work and juggling another fanfic, It was talking wayyyy too long to finish, and the scene with MM and BB at their apartment ran longer than I meant for it to. Wendy wasn't going to be a major part of the story until I started writing the scene out and thought of a way they all could actually have an impact on the story much later on.

Typos possible, as I'm updating this and another fic today 'cuz I won't have access to my computer for the next two days, so I'm letting it rip here. Comment/crique always welcome. Those who are turning in for le Spandy get a major scene in the next chapter. Enjoy, guys!