The Death Note felt warm in Squidward's hands as he shuffled down Conch Street, the pages rustling softly with each idle flick of his fingers.
The first few pages were all instructions—dry, serious, ominous. Squidward snorted.
"The person whose name is written in this notebook shall die."
"Mmm, very subtle," he muttered, eyes half-lidded. "What's next? If I write my own name, do I die and get out of work forever? Might be worth it."
He flipped another page.
"If the cause of death is not specified, the victim will die of a heart attack."
"This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing their name."
"After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds."
"Wow," Squidward drawled. "A murder weapon and a homework assignment."
The absurdity of it all made it easier to believe it was a joke. A weird book someone dropped after a Halloween party. Probably Larry the Lobster. This smelled like his kind of idiocy.
Still, he didn't throw it away.
He reached his house and slipped inside, casting one last glance down the street before locking the door. The Death Note thunked down onto his kitchen counter as he hung up his Krusty Krab hat with a sigh like a dying balloon. The kettle hissed as he prepared himself a modest cup of kelproot tea—his usual nightcap.
Routine grounded him. Tea, clarinet, bitterness, bed. That was the way.
He carried his mug to the bedroom, steam curling around his face as he settled onto the edge of the mattress. The Death Note now rested on his nightstand beside the alarm clock and a dusty copy of Mediocre Clarinet Solos for the Aging Introvert, Volume 6.
For a brief moment, Squidward considered ignoring it. He reached to turn off the lamp.
Then—
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!"
He froze.
That laugh.
That shrill, giddy, brain-cell-melting laugh.
He shuffled to the window, tea sloshing. Peeking through the blinds, he saw a glowing orange campfire blazing in SpongeBob's backyard. SpongeBob sat beside it, laughing hysterically, cheeks puffed out and eyes sparkling like a six-year-old on sugar kelp. Patrick Star lay sprawled on the sand beside him, guffawing like a malfunctioning foghorn.
"Patrick, pass the marshmallows!"
"Oops, I sat on 'em!"
More laughter. Crackling. Smoke. SpongeBob pulled out a ukulele and began strumming something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme being strangled.
Squidward's eyelid twitched.
He turned from the window with a long sigh, set his tea down, and buried his face in a pillow. "Just ignore them. Be mature. Don't let their idiocy infect your peace."
He tried to meditate. Inhale. Exhale. Count backwards from twenty.
"OH MY BARNACLES, PATRICK, LOOK AT THAT ONE—IT'S SHAPED LIKE A BUTT!"
"HEH HEH! BUTTFIRE!"
Squidward bolted upright.
He stared at the nightstand.
At the Death Note.
No… it was ridiculous.
Still.
He picked it up.
He opened it to a blank page.
He found a pencil.
He grinned.
"Let's put this dumb sea-myth to the test."
He pressed the pencil to the paper and wrote slowly, dramatically, whispering to himself like an actor in a low-budget noir:
Patrick Star
He underlined it with flourish, then chuckled dryly. "There. Happy now, cursed murder journal? Let me guess—he'll be struck by lightning from a cloud shaped like his pointed head!"
Nothing happened.
Squidward rolled his eyes and set the notebook back down. "Figures. Should've tried it on Larry."
He lifted his tea again.
Then—
GASP!
It came from outside. Loud, sudden.
Then: "PATRICK?! PATRICK!!!"
Squidward stiffened.
The tea cup shook in his grip.
He stood up slowly, tiptoed to the window again, and pulled the blinds just enough to peek out.
SpongeBob was kneeling beside Patrick's limp form, hands on his friend's chest.
"PATRICK?! SAY SOMETHING! OH NO, OH NO, OH NO—!"
The ukulele was on fire.
The marshmallows had spilled everywhere.
The firelight flickered across Patrick's vacant eyes.
He wasn't moving.
Not breathing.
Just… gone.
Dead.
SpongeBob screamed. It was a high, shrill, soul-shattering thing that made Squidward's stomach drop like a stone through the sea.
Squidward backed away from the window.
His tea cup slipped from his tentacle and shattered across the floor.
He stared at the Death Note on his nightstand. Suddenly it looked heavier. Darker. Like it was watching him.
"Impossible," he whispered.
His breath caught.
His tentacles trembled.
"…It was just a joke."
But Patrick wasn't laughing anymore.