Squidward no Death Note (SpongeBob X Death Note)

A week passed.

The Krusty Krab buzzed with its usual lunchtime chaos — customers yelling, patties sizzling, fryer baskets clanging. But something was… off. The orders piled high in the kitchen window. And SpongeBob, usually a whirlwind of joyful energy, was moving at half speed.

Squidward watched from his register, elbow on the counter, chin resting in hand, bored and bothered all at once. His eyes flicked toward the kitchen. SpongeBob was clearly trying, but his smile was brittle. His movements were robotic. The spark was gone.

Ever since Patrick's death, he'd been like this. Listless. Hollow-eyed. Distracted. He'd burned three patties that morning alone.

Mr. Krabs stormed out of his office and bellowed, "SpongeBob! Speed it up, boyo! We're losin' customers!"

SpongeBob gave a weak thumbs up, eyes glistening. Squidward grimaced.

Krabs turned to Squidward. "I don't know what's gotten into that frycook, but I'm not runnin' a grief support group! He's costin' me money!"

Squidward frowned. "You do realize his best friend died like a week ago?"

Krabs waved a claw dismissively. "Aye, I gave him time. But the grill waits for no man. Or sponge."

Squidward rolled his eyes and turned back to the register. Still, deep down, the crab's callousness gnawed at him. It wasn't just Krabs being insensitive — it was Squidward's own guilt bubbling up. He'd written that name. He'd heard SpongeBob cry himself to sleep. He was complicit in this spiral.

A familiar voice purred in his ear.

"Write the crab's name next."

Lurala, invisible to all but him, floated lazily beside the register, upside down with her tail curled while she hovered weightlessly.

"I can't," Squidward muttered under his breath. "I need to get paid."

"But you don't like him," she sang.

"Yeah, well… I don't like mayonnaise either, but I don't nuke the condiment aisle."

Lurala gave a slow, sharp-toothed grin. "That's the thing with people. Always so moral until convenience is involved."

Just then, the doors to the Krusty Krab burst open with a crash of buzzing metal. A robotic fly zipped into the dining area, carrying none other than Plankton, who was waving a mechanical claw and yelling, "I finally cracked your security code, Krabs! The formula is mine!"

Before he could get another word out, Mr. Krabs slapped the robot out of the air with one meaty claw. It clattered to the ground, sparks flying, launching Plankton out the front door like a bullet. He landed face-first in the dirt across the street.

"CURSE YOU, KRABS!" Plankton screamed, dragging himself back toward the Chum Bucket. "I'll be back! You'll see!"

Squidward sighed. "Same time tomorrow, huh?"

Krabs grunted. "Every blasted day."

A thought wormed its way into Squidward's mind.

"Hey, Mr. Krabs?"

"Aye?"

"If I could make it so Plankton never tries to steal the formula again… would I get a raise?"

Krabs blinked, then chuckled. "Sure, sure. You do that, and I'll triple your pay!"

Lurala leaned over Squidward's shoulder, whispering like a devil on his shoulder. "Oh, that's tempting."

Squidward pulled the Death Note from beneath the counter, shielding it with a menu. He flipped to an empty page and wrote carefully:

Sheldon J. Plankton – death by gas explosion at the Chum Bucket

He closed the notebook, heartbeat steady, fingers tingling.

Lurala hovered beside him, eyes glowing faintly. "Nice touch with the cause. Very theatrical."

Squidward shrugged. "Seemed fitting."

Minutes passed.

Krabs leaned on the counter. "So? Is the little pest vaporized yet, or what?"

Squidward leaned back, arms crossed. "Patience."

And then—

BOOM.

A shockwave rattled the windows. Plates fell from tables. Customers screamed. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

Across the street, a massive plume of smoke and fire shot into the sky where the Chum Bucket had once stood.

Krabs' eyes went wide. "Mother of pearl!"

Lurala giggled, twirling midair. "Ooooh, I like you, Squiddy."

Squidward didn't smile. He stared at the burning ruins, a chill crawling down his spine.

Two names. Two deaths. And no turning back now.