AN: Hello there. You've reached the very first chapter of the very first fic written by the combined forces of Poisonetta, queen of all things rapish and disturbing, and Tampon Masturbation, queen of . . . um . . . masturbating with tampons, I suppose. For the record, I'm the latter. Ms. TM here. Put in charge of the first chapter. Intros are not my strong suit, but . . . eh . . . had to set the fic up for Poison's awesomeness, ya know?

Rated M for sexual content (including nonconsensual sex), violence, and language. Oh, and this is a slash fic. Just telling you know so we don't have to hear you bitching about it later on.

For the record, Squidward didn't completely loathe SpongeBob.

In fact, he found the sponge to be almost endearing, in an annoying younger brother kind of way.

He chuckled to himself, breaking the twelve hour silence without so much as a turn of the head, bloodshot eyes still in their sunken sockets, unblinking in their surveillance of the wall. Cold white plaster, chipped paint, self portraits shattered and crumpled in a corner on the ground, a corner Squidward had no need to see.

He knew himself now. Didn't need to look at a picture, a cheap knockoff. Didn't need to paint himself. He was his own self portrait, his own painting, Monet, Picasso, Gaugin.

Not an artist, but a work of art himself. In his own museum, surveyed by the audience of himself. Seeing himself through the reflection of the wall. The wall reflecting in his eyes. Reflection upon reflection upon reflection.

So many details, lost in translation.

Everyone, everything dulling, dividing, subtracting.

But no longer was Squidward a reflection, a portrait of a portrait. No longer was he the ideal of the ideal.

He was.

Simple as that.

Noun/verb.

No. Pronoun. Pronoun/verb.

Didn't even need a name. Just the he. Squidward was man. Was he. Was everyman and no-man and some man. Did it matter? In the end, every man was the same.

Cold, empty, in the ground.

They would all die the same. Rot the same. Return to dust the exact same.

And so different.

Squidward was different. He could see that now. He was different and the same, identical even in his idiosyncacies.

He could see all this, through the wall, could see it so well, but couldn't expect anyone to understand.

Knew no one would comprehend in the way he did. Knew if he verbalized such things, he would be mad, insane, crazy.

That had been the problem. Speaking his mind. Minds weren't meant to be spoken, no. They were meant to be locked away, private, intimate. Sex wasn't the most personal gift. The mind was. Intellectual intercourse.

How could he have offered something so profound and so deeply his to that therapist?

Therapist.

The rapist.

Raping his mind. Taking the innocence of thought and perverting, subjecting to unspeakable tortures.

How could Squidward have expected a reciprocation and acceptance of his thoughts from such a man? Rapist. Therapist. The rapist.

How had he believed that the the-rapist had been correct? All that man had done was dull Squidward, placate him with opiate dreams the average man believed to be reality.

It was Squidward's curse to see the truth. His curse to throw away the pills prescribed so painstakingly, his curse to cease contact with that the-rapist, his curse to see, truly see. See the world in one wall.

That was it.

The world.

So small.

And large.

Small in its meaninglessness.

But so large with its insignificance.

Doublesize, doublethink. Both at once because of one concept.

How was he mad for noticing such things? How would not seeing keep him sane? Sanity and insanity. There was only a two letter difference. In.

He was sane, in. He was in his own sanity. He was his mind, wrapped in his brain, snug, safe.

Everyone else was outsane. Outside themselves. Fools. That was the dangerous way to be.

He could see all this, bleed it inside his merrily little organs, each drop of his lifeforce precious in its redundancy. Would it truly matter to lose a drop?

Each drop meant nothing.

Together meaning everything.

To just slit his wrists now . . . it would be nothing.

Which drop counted? Any? None?

Such clarity without pills. Had taken long enough to detox. One week. No, two. Two weeks.

Hadn't sat here for two weeks. Only a day.

One day.

Enough to understand completely.

The first half had been a waste, of course. Too much movement to truly contemplate.

But twelve hours . . . yes, twelve hours. Nothing. He understood now. Knew what had to be done.

The world could never see, would never accept. Too complacent with their outsanity.

The world was too small.

And Squidward was too large. Too large for this earth.

He knew, though. Twelve hours was an eternity. Twelve hours consisted of nothing but seconds. He consisted of nothing but his blood, drop for drop, perfectly in tune.

And SpongeBob?

How did he factor into any of this?

SpongeBob . . .

SpongeBob would have to be the world.

Another laugh, as only the in-sane could know the punchline completely. He was in touch with his sanity, with his psyche.

Touch.

Sight.

Taste.

Sound.

Smell.

All. His mind. He knew every corner.

Knowledge. He knew the joke, the game, the pieces.

He knew the world. The world did not know him, but he knew the world. The world was the wall. The world was SpongeBob. Knew it all.

And that allowed movement finally, a twist of the neck, slight, minuscule, but enough. A movement. A dance move in its own right. Twist and shout.

No, no shout.

Silent. Ever silent. Silence was golden, silver, platinum.

Eyes rolling, dry, frantic as they searched up. Imploring maroon to the ceiling as the laughter rolled from his tongue, playing each tooth. Symphony orchestra, all in his room.

Then silence again. Bringing in the gold.

The world couldn't laugh, not like Squidward could. Nor could it be silent. Somewhere in between. Melancholic chaos of the mediocre, of the mentally weak. Of those outsane.

And what of SpongeBob again?

The world.

SpongeBob, the world, the stars, the planets. Condensed.

He couldn't show the world. The world was small.

But SpongeBob . . . SpongeBob was palpable, malleable.

Available.

Squidward would show SpongeBob. Teach him. Craft him.

For he knew that sponge, knew him as well as himself. SpongeBob was nothing more than a trick of the lighting, a shadow cast from Squidward's inner sanity.

Yes, SpongeBob was everything wrong with the world. And right with the world. Perfect and imperfect, two in one. All opposites were truly synonyms in the end.

And he'd be here soon. SpongeBob. Soft, angelic, perfectly imperfect SpongeBob. Always showing up unwanted (foolish medicated Squidward had had no use for the world. For the sponge. The world in the sponge. The sponge in the world). Now, wanted, delays were understandable. Detestable, but understandable.

But he would come. Come for Squidward, come for his lessons in reality. SpongeBob. The world. Learning. Awakening. Mentally awakening, seeing all that the mind had to offer.

Because as of now, in his outsanity,SpongeBob wasn't truly real. Squidward was the only real one in this world, and SpongeBob . . . SpongeBob was nothing. The world was nothing. Unawakened . . . no, worse than that. A corpse. A laughing, talking, eating, working corpse. The world's puppet. Or was the world SpongeBob's puppet? Could one puppet that which was himself?

Was SpongeBob to be Squidward's puppet?

And the world?

A string to play, to pluck, to hesitantly strum . . .

Puppet instrument slave . . . yes, yes, yes.

First, though. Had to awaken the world. Had to awaken SpongeBob. SpongeBob, the world, everything. SpongeBob was everything.

Fake now, but tonight . . . tonight, Squidward would make him real. Tonight he'd give him flaws, pain, something to ground himself in.

And then, after all that, after the world shut down and SpongeBob became real, became sane inside, like Squidward himself . . . then . . .

Then Squidward would turn SpongeBob, turn the world, into

Absolutely

Nothing.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"A date?" SpongeBob's eyes were wide as he watched his friend prepare himself.

"Yeah. Mindy and me are going dancing," Patrick couldn't hide the glee in his voice, couldn't deny the flush of joy on his rosy cheeks.

"Oh. S-sounds fun," SpongeBob looked down, kicking his feet slightly.

"Is something wrong?" The starfish asked, not truly caring one way or the other. Or . . . well, Patrick did care about the sponge. He just couldn't concentrate on caring right at this moment.

The yellow boy forced a smile. "Oh no! Nothing at all. I just thought I was staying the night tonight, that's all."

"Oh." Patrick paused in tying his tie (wearing a tie despite the fact that he still wasn't wearing a shirt), eyes growing large. "Oh crap! I'm sorry, Sponge, I totally forgot."

"It's okay," Another forced smile, with a bit of a giggle thrown in. "A date with Mindy is more important anyway."

"Yeah," Pat agreed.

SpongeBob fought the urge to tell his friend that the mermaid was only dating Patrick as a complicated means of defying her father. But of course SpongeBob couldn't say something like that. Not to his best friend. So instead, he continued to smile, face burning at the pain of holding that same position. "I hope you two have fun tonight."

"Oh, we will," Patrick chuckled. "I'm bringing plenty of rubbers."

"Huh?"

"Um, never mind. Hey, why don't you go hang out with Squidward or something. That outta keep you happy, right?" Gay guys tended to like Squidward, didn't they? Patrick sure didn't know. He wasn't gay.

Maybe a little bicurious . . . he shook his head, trying to rid his himself of such thoughts.

"Yeah . . . yeah, you're right! I should go see Squidward," SpongeBob smiled to himself. He hadn't seen the octopus in a few days. What was that friend of his up to?

"Great!" Patrick grinned, "Now I gotta put on some cologne. Chicks dig a guy that smells good, you know?" As if the sea star was any expert when it came to the ladies, being just as much a virgin as SpongeBob.

Except he was a heterosexual (with homosexual tendencies) virgin.

And SpongeBob was a fucking faggot.

But he was Patrick's fucking faggot. Best friends forever and all that.

And his best friend had a major crush on their bitter neighbor. So of course, Pat wanted to help the two out in whatever way he could.

What else were friends for?

"Alright," SpongeBob smiled. Always smiling, ever kind. "She'll love you."

"You really think?"

"I know!" SpongeBob hugged the starfish, snuggling against the soft chest of his friend. "How could someone not love you, Pat?"

"Uhhhhh . . . dunno. It would be impossible."

"Exactly, Pat, exactly! Now I'm gonna go hang out with Squidward. You and Mindy have fun tonight, kay?"

"You and Squidward have fun, too." Patrick's mind flooded with various images of SpongeBob and Squidward having various sorts of fun, in various positions, all night long (variously). He blushed, squirming in his fancy clothing. "Um . . . b-bye, okay?"

"Alright. Bye!" SpongeBob exited the rock, skipping over to the Easter Island head that was Squidward's home.

Oh, he and Squidward would be having fun, alright.

Lots and lots of fun.

More fun than SpongeBob would be able to handle.