Sandy's Descent

Back inside the Tree Dome, Squidward found himself once again at Sandy's mercy. The dome had a strange energy tonight—somewhere between manic obsession and the remnants of a drunken party. Sandy paced in her bikini, which was far too tight to handle the recent growth of her curvy, voluptuous body. Her hips swayed with every step, her top struggling to contain her generous bust as she shuffled wildly between the chalkboard and stacks of notes.

The investigation wall had grown even more complex since his last visit—now plastered with new photos, red string, pushpins, and news clippings. There, right at the center, was a new headline: "Fuel Truck Explosion Wipes Out Entire Bikini Bottom Police Force—32 Dead."

Sandy jabbed at it with a dry-erase marker. "See?! This wasn't random! You don't lose an entire police department to one fuel truck mishap. That was deliberate. Made to look like an accident."

Squidward tried to keep calm, nodding slowly. "Yes... yes, I can see that. So you think someone wanted to take out the cops?"

"Darn tootin'!" she cried, tapping a chart of dates and locations. "They've been workin' through a pattern. At first, it seemed random, but now I think it's all connected. Whoever did this is a genius-level serial killer. They're careful. Calculated. They make it all look like freak accidents. But these aren't coincidences. They're executions."

Squidward swallowed hard, his tentacles curling nervously. "So what do you want me to do?"

Sandy whipped around, face flushed from the residual nut juice buzz. "I need you to talk to SpongeBob. He's gone full recluse since he got fired, and I think he might be next."

"Why him?" Squidward asked, perhaps a little too quickly.

Sandy rubbed her forehead, stumbling slightly as she grabbed a dry-erase marker to steady herself. "He's not connected directly, no... but he lives nearby. The killer—whoever they are—they've moved from high-profile targets to infrastructure. SpongeBob's just... vulnerable. And I care about that little guy."

Squidward hesitated. "Well, what about Mr. Krabs? He had beef with both Plankton and Squilliam. And he's... well, morally flexible."

Sandy paused. "Maybe. I mean, he does have motive for two out of three. But Patrick? That one's a curveball. Why would Krabs target him?"

She stepped away from the board and suddenly plopped herself right onto Squidward's lap. He stiffened—literally and metaphorically—as her ample butt flattened his thighs beneath her.

"I just hate seein' Bikini Bottom like this," she sighed, head leaning back. Her breath smelled faintly of toasted acorns and something much stronger. "Everything's gone sideways. Spongebob's missing. The cops are toast. And all I got left is... you."

Squidward blinked, cheeks darkening. "Sandy, I really think you've had too much nut juice. Maybe focus on the science. Research. You know, things you're actually good at."

She rolled off him, but not before giving her hips a little wiggle that sent her bikini bottoms straining further against her rear.

"Figures," she muttered. "No one ever likes me. Maybe SpongeBob's old 'squirrel' jokes are still stickin' around in everyone's head."

Squidward stood up and dusted himself off. "Maybe you just need to sleep this one off, Sandy. You're clearly... passionate. But you're also clearly three shots past your limit."

He headed toward the exit as Sandy slumped onto a bean bag chair, pouting. "Tell SpongeBob I said hi..."

As he stepped out of the Tree Dome, Squidward muttered, "That was the weirdest night of my life."

Lurala appeared at his side, hovering, her tendrils weaving through the air like smoke. "Sandy wants a nut, alright. And it ain't from a tree."

"Gross," Squidward snapped. "Everyone in Bikini Bottom is losing their minds."

Just then, a shadow blocked his path. He looked up to see a tall, imposing royal guard standing in the moonlight. Clad in heavy bronze chestplate and an iron helmet that obscured most of his face, the guard's blue, glassy eyes reflected no light.

"You," the guard barked. "Where are you coming from?"

Squidward tensed. "Uh... a friend's place."

The guard stepped closer, gripping his tall pike. "Curfew is at 8:30 sharp. You should be home."

Squidward forced a nod, his voice cracking. "Right. Of course. I'll head straight home."

The guard stared a moment longer, then turned away. "Have a good night. Don't loiter."

As the sound of armored boots clanked down the street, Squidward let out a long breath.

"Well, maybe I did make things worse," he muttered.

Lurala hovered beside him, her glowing eyes half-lidded with amusement. "Maybe. But that just means you get to make them better. And I have ideas..."