Neptune's Arrival

The next day began as most days do in Bikini Bottom—unnaturally bright, a little damp, and completely on the verge of collapse.

Squidward adjusted his nametag with tired fingers, standing behind the register of the Krusty Krab. His soul was hollowed out from the previous night's events (mass murder will do that), but there was no time for brooding. Mr. Krabs had called in someone new.

His replacement for SpongeBob.

"Alright, Squidward!" Krabs barked, waddling out from his office. "Meet our newest crewmember! Ollie the Oarfish!"

The front doors swung open with a ding, and in walked what could only be described as a sea noodle in a paper hat. Ollie stood at least seven feet long, thin and ribbon-like, with gentle fins and an eager smile.

"Hi there!" Ollie beamed, extending a long, gloved fin. "It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Squidward! I've heard you're, like, super experienced!"

Squidward blinked at the kid's boundless positivity—SpongeBob-level energy, but somehow... less screechy. Less porous.

"Well, I suppose I am something of a seasoned professional," he said, shaking his fin delicately.

"I promise to work hard and learn everything I can from you," Ollie chirped. "I know I've got big shoes to fill. SpongeBob was legendary."

Squidward winced. "Yes, legendary. Like the plague."

Ollie didn't catch the sarcasm. He zipped to the back with wide eyes and started reading the fryer manual like it was The Iliad.

Krabs crept up beside Squidward. "Say, uh… you heard from SpongeBob lately?"

Squidward shook his head. "He doesn't leave his pineapple anymore."

Krabs sighed. "Poor kid. I always thought of him like a son. A weird, spongey, workaholic son. Who made me money."

There was a pause.

Then Krabs pulled a greasy laminated menu from his pocket. "Also, I'm raisin' prices."

Squidward squinted. "Why is there another zero on everything?"

"Supply and demand!" Krabs grinned. "The king's in town, with pockets full or royal treasury! If they want a Krabby Patty, they're gonna pay royal rates. $450 a patty!"

Squidward glared. "You already tried this once. Remember? You literally almost got executed for stealing Neptune's crown."

Krabs shrugged. "Ay, but that was Plankton's doing! This time, the King might be willing to actually eat here."

Squidward rolled his eyes and glanced out the window.

The streets were quiet—until a distant trumpet blast cut through the salty air. Citizens paused, then cleared the road. A grand seahorse-drawn carriage rolled through downtown Bikini Bottom, flanked by shimmering gold banners and fish trumpeters in seashell hats.

The door of the carriage opened with a flourish, and out stepped a familiar mountain of muscle and beard—

King Neptune, in all his regal, movie-canon glory.

"AH—KRABS!" he boomed, his voice echoing down the block. "It's been ages! Still running this grease trap, are we?"

Krabs chuckled nervously, wiping a tear of stress. "Aye, Your Majesty. Welcome back to the Krusty Krab."

"I still remember that unfortunate misunderstanding with my crown!" Neptune roared fondly.

Krabs coughed. "Water under the reef, sir."

Neptune glanced across the street. "Where's that little green one? Plankton? Still rotting away in prison for what he did?"

Krabs looked down. "He's… uh. He's dead."

Neptune paused. "Oh. Executed?"

"Not exactly, your highness…"

Squidward had already retreated to the kitchen, hiding behind the shelves. Ollie stood beside him, starstruck, whispering, "Is that really the King Neptune? He's huge! He looks like Poseidon if he bench pressed continents!"

Squidward nodded slowly. "Yes. And he's standing ten feet from the current location of the magic murder notebook I've been using."

Lurala appeared behind a stack of pickles, whispering, "Kill him. Take his job. Become god."

"NO," Squidward hissed.

Neptune ordered a Krabby Patty "to go," complimented Krabs on the ambiance, then climbed back into his gilded chariot.

A troop of royal guards remained behind, marching down the street in perfect formation—armor gleaming, pikes raised.

"They're not cops," Squidward whispered to himself. "They're just an occupation force. They're not here to investigate. They're here to intimidate. There's a difference."

He was starting to feel better.

Until the front doors slammed open.

"SQUIIIIIIDWAAAARD!"

It was Sandy Cheeks—disheveled, flushed, and wobbling slightly. Her suit helmet was crooked. Her voice echoed through the dining room like a karaoke machine on its last legs.

Krabs blinked. "What in Neptune's name is wrong with her?"

Sandy staggered to the counter. "I took... a couple'a shots o' high-proof nut juice, alright?! S'fer thinkin'. Helps me concentrate."

"You're sloshed," Squidward muttered, trying to slide back into the kitchen.

Sandy turned to Krabs. "I need to speak with Squidward. Privately. It's, like, important."

Krabs raised a claw. "I'd prefer if you didn't drag my cashier into any more squirrel nonsense—"

Too late.

Sandy grabbed Squidward by the wrist like a cop snatching a getaway driver and hauled him out the side door. He yelped.

"I'M ONTO SOMETHIN'!" she shouted, her tail puffing wildly. "I CAN SMELL THE TRUTH!"

The door slammed behind them.

Ollie peeked out from the kitchen.

"Is this normal?" he asked Krabs.

Krabs sighed. "You'll get used to it, kid."