CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Would you say you were her friend, prior to the incident?” asks the prosecutor, Mr. Hamlin.
Spongebob stirs in the witness stand, glazing his eyes over the empty jury box.
“Mr. Squarepants, I ask again: would you say you two were friends, prior to the incident?”
“Yes, I would, Your Honor.”
Judge Reinhold leans to his left and speaks with increased vexation.
“I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you, Mr. Squarepants, but only I’m ‘Your Honor.’”
Spongebob’s smiling facade breaks into a nervous sweat. He dry swallows.
The lights strain Spongebob’s eyes. Mr. Hamlin continues.
“And today, would you still say you're her friend?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Hm.” Hamlin looks at a paper he’s holding, briefly, before putting it behind his back, clasping his hands with ease and puffing out his chest. He paces the field. “Mr. Squarepants, you were quoted on September fourth, nineteen-ninety-nine—the day of incident—as saying ‘Going to the moon. Moon ride, moon ride. Moon ride, moon ride.’”
Hamlin steps in front of the witness stand. “Mr. Squarepants, do you own spacefaring technology?”
“No, sir.”
“Any kind of interplanetary vessel?”
“No, I do not, sir.”
“Then, Mr. Squarepants, how did you intend on getting to the moon that day, on September fourth of nineteen-ninety-nine?”
Spongebob looks to his defense attorney for an answer, but there is none to be found.
“It's a simple question, Mr. Squarepants,” Hamlin adds.
The judge lazily turns to face Spongebob, who looks at the floor.
Hamlin’s arms lurch upwards in exaggerated exasperation. “Mr. Squarepants, really now. We all know the answer.”
Spongebob’s defense attorney, Mr. McGill, finally stands up; he leans his weight into his fists, pressed against the defense table, and shouts to Judge Reinhold, “objection, Your Honor! Argumentative. He's bullying my client.”
Reinhold waves him off, “sustained. — Let's ask questions without being snide, Mr. Hamlin.”
Hamlin throws his hands up obediently, “alright, alright…”
McGill sits down. He winks at his client.
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“State your name for the court.”
“Sandra Cheeks.”
“Where are you from, Sandy?”
“Houston, Texas.”
“How’d you end up down here, Sandy?”
“I work for a company that needed somebody in Bikini Bottom to study the sea folk.”
“So you’re a scientist?”
“I’ve been pigeonholed into that label; I prefer broader terms. Like, I’m a pioneer.”
“But you practice engineering, correct?”
“Well, yeah. And karate, and anchor-tossing, and holding my breath, and-”
“Did you build your home in Bikini Bottom?”
“The Treedome? Heck yes, I did. Six and a half inches thick, polyurethane dome, cast from a fifty-foot-high mold buried fifteen feet in the ground and settled with a concrete foundation; dirt over gravel as an artificial ground filtration system, for a large oak tree planted in the center, providing me with oxygen and acorn nuts. Two steel vault doors bookend an airlock that flushes water out and keeps the good stuff in.”
“The ‘good stuff’ being air, I presume?”
“Yes, indeed. And I wear this special suit and helmet you see here,” as she motions to her ensemble, “which maintains and filters the air I need to survive underwater.”
“And you built this yourself?”
“Designed around existing blueprints, but yes, this exact suit I built myself.”
“And your rocket — same situation?”
“Yep — pre-existing blueprints, but redesigned and hand-built by myself for the purposes of an underwater launch. Everything was to my specifications.”
“You’re saying that this was undeniably your spaceship.”
“One hundred percent mine. This rocket was my child. It symbolized not only my aspirations for reaching and studying our planet’s sole orbiting lunar body, but it was the embodiment of two years’ work and nearly $460 million — most of which was supplied by my own pocketbook, though I was awarded a small government grant for the project.”
“You employer didn’t pay for the moon venture?”
“Nope. This was a passion project of mine. I used my own funds. All my savings, royalties, inheritance — that sort of thing. The way I see it, they paid me to study sea creatures, not to go to the moon and gather rocks. I wanted to keep work and play separate. To them, this was a hobby.”
“A rather expensive hobby, huh? And I thought country club fees were pricey,” Hamlin chuckles, as he looks to Judge Reinhold in hopes of a reflected reaction. Reinhold doesn’t let him down.
Sandy averts her eyes and massages her shoulder with a tight grip.
Hamlin paces for a moment, collecting his thoughts before he continues examining his client. “I’m having a hard time, then, with figuring out why you let someone notoriously destructive like Spongebob onto your rocketship.”
“Mr. Hamlin,” Judge Reinhold chides, “watch your implications.”
Hamlin bows in acquiescence, flourishing his hands. “Though I remain curious.”
Sandy inhales with updrawn eyes behind glazing lids. “Well,” she pauses, “I kept my rocket a secret for those two years because, as they say in Texas, ‘if you’re talking about it, then you ain’t doing it.’ I didn’t want to jaw about building it, I wanted to build it. So my grand unveiling was supposed to be a secret, but Spongebob came over for a visit. He was a good friend, and he was impressed when he first saw my rocket. So I gave him a tour — but all the while he was pestering me about going up to the moon with me, and I kept declining; I had plenty of reasons, but they weren’t enough to back him off. I eventually relented. Begrudgingly, I said he could come if he rode in the cargo hold. That succeeded like Chamberlain’s Appeasement strategy; I got the monkey off my back but in exchange I gave him a foot in the door.”
“What next?”
“Funny you say, because he saw my net-shootin’ pop-gun and asked if I was hunting aliens. I told him no, but he went on and on… His belief in there being moon aliens was so deeply ingrained that none of my scientific fact could shake his nonsense outta him. I tried, but he chose not to think rationally or sanely. I should’ve cut him loose then. But I didn’t.”
“You sound regretful.”
“Oh, well, shit yeah. He was paranoid. Nothing good comes from that, and I just invited him aboard my rocket. I conceded to his whim instead of abiding by my own. I was dumb — but not as dumb as that motherfucker who snuck aboard my rocket at night, without me, and brought along an oafish pink bitch.”
“Can you please be more specific?”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
The witness is clad in an orange jumpsuit and gnawing at the ziptie binding his wrists.
“Now, Patrick, you’ve already been convicted, correct?”
Patrick Star does not respond to Mr. McGill, so he continues.
“Okay, well, can you enlighten the court as to why your trial was expedited?”
Patrick looks up from his dampened stumpy hands. “It was not exciting.”
“I didn’t say exciting, I said expedited— fast-tracked, Patrick. Stay with me, okay?”
“Uhh… Okay.”
McGill pinches his brow and shuts his eyes, spent. “Let’s discuss how you ended up on that rocketship, okay? Whose idea was it to sneak aboard?”
“Mine.”
“Alright, and who was with you?”
“Patrick.”
“You are Patrick. Did anybody else go with you?”
“Spongebob.”
“The defendant?” McGill points to his client, “him?”
“Yeah, that’s Spongebob. — Hi, Spongebob.”
Spongebob sheepishly looks up. “Hi, Patrick.”
“And it was your idea to sneak aboard the rocket.”
“Yeah.”
Almost to himself, “wow, no wonder your trial was so quick,” and louder, “okay so you asked Spongebob to come with you onto Sandy’s rocket, right?”
“Yeah. The arcade.”
“The what now?”
“Sandy’s arcade. With all the games, and the lights. And then Spongebob pressed that button that made the heavy go away, and I squirted toothpaste into a jar of peanut butter. And then when we left the arcade, we were on the moon. And we haven’t been home since.”
McGill is at a loss for words, and then he finds some. “Patrick, let me respond to these in the order they were presented.” A breath. “Okay, so you’re saying the rocket is like an arcade, because of the lights and sounds and buttons?”
“And the fun house mirrors.”
“Right. And, you say, it was my client who pressed the big ‘GO’ button on the, the anti-heavy… event?”
“...Huh?”
“Spongebob, here, was the one who hit the button? Not you?”
“No, he did. He said it turned on the rocket so he pressed it.”
“Alright. And then ‘the heavy’ went away as the rocket went into space?”
“It’s called zero gravity.”
“...Okay, right, it is. So my client—”
“Who?”
“Spongebob, turned on the rocket, and you experienced zero-gravity, and—”
“What?”
“The heavy, and then, you say, you crashed on the moon.”
“Yeah.”
“And you say you’re still here?”
“You would know, moon man.”
Judge Reinhold rubs his forefinger on his forehead.
“So you’re on the moon, in a moon court, and I’m a moon lawyer?”
“You would know, moon ma—”
“Right, right, right. So you get out of the rocket, in your spacesuits, and then…”
“We went alien-hunting. The aliens were projecting our memories onto the environment, so it looked like home, when really, it wasn’t.”
“That sounds rehearsed. Are those your words?”
“I don’t know the science about it. That’s just what Spongebob told me. Ask him.”
“I’ll be sure to do that… And it was your idea to go see Squidward?”
“Yes.”
“Interes—”
“Wait, no. It was Spongebob’s idea.”
“Was it actually?”
“Yes,” piped up Spongebob.
McGill wipes the sweat from his brow. “Hey, Sponge, how about you let me do the talking?” He massages his temples with both hands. “Okay, Pat, so you go see Squidward. And?”
“We climb in an open window. He’s asleep upstairs. We creep into his bedroom. Spongebob sees the egg sack lying under the alien who looks like Squidward, so he takes it out. We examine the embryo: he’s expecting twins.”
“We wish him the best, really,” whispers Spongebob to Hamlin.
“Just then, the alien’s tentacles stick to my helmet. Spongebob and I have to fend off the alien Squidward as he tries to attack us!” Patrick rises in the witness stand and writhes around.
“Mr. Star, please take a seat when in my witness box.” Judge Reinhold doesn’t tolerate goofs.
Patrick sits. McGill takes a step closer.
“Now, we have a transcript of Squidward’s statement. We’ve read it. First off, it wasn’t an egg sack, it was a hot water bottle. It’s for relieving his back pain.”
“Squids don’t have backs. They’re invertebrates,” muses Patrick.
“Really? That’s what you’ll be knowledgeable about? Did you know neither you nor my client have spines, as well?”
Hamlin stands up. “Objection. He’s demeaning his own client, as well as the witness.”
“Overruled?” Judge Reinhold leans forward. “If I’m not mistaken, you mean they physically don’t have spines, right? It’s not a jab at their constitutional fortitude?”
“Correct. Spongebob, Patrick, and Squidward are all physically spineless beings.”
“Where’d my spine go?” asks Patrick.
McGill elaborates further, “you just never had one, Patrick.”
Patrick impulsively begins to sob.
Spongebob gets up and walks towards him, to console him. McGill shoves an arm in front of his client and pushes him back to the table. “You can’t approach the bench without asking.”
“Oh, sorry.” Spongebob faces the judge. “May I approach the bench?”
“No. Take your seat.” Reinhold turns to Patrick. “Enough with the crying.”
Everyone settles back into relative normalcy. McGill revives his train of thought.
“Anyway, uh, it’s not an egg sack. And Squidward wasn’t attacking you, he rolled over in his sleep. He does it frequently — re: back pain — but typically doesn’t have any big glass helmets nearby to get his suckers latched onto. Essentially, you started attacking him first.”
“Spongebob helped.”
“And I’m sure I would’ve gotten that information out of you very soon, but in a less straightforward manner, so thanks for being expedient and getting it out of the way now.” McGill is incredibly frustrated and tries rolling up the sleeves on his suit, but the fabric is so starched and thick that it won’t crease, bend, or scrunch.
“You’re welcome, moon man.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Some reports say that Squidward Tentacles wasn’t the first victim, but that it was actually you — is that correct?”
“Meow.”
“You were the roommate of the defendant, Spongebob Squarepants?”
“Meow.”
“Please describe what happened to you on the night of September fourth, nineteen-ninety-nine.”
“Meow.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Meow.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Meow.”
The court assembly gasps. Judge Reinhold takes off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. Hamlin turns away from the witness box to regain his composure.
McGill leans over to his client, scrunched brow, whispering “did you really?”
Spongebob gulps and averts eye contact with the witness.
In the witness box, Gary the Snail struggles not to cry.
Judge Reinhold puts his glasses back on. “Let’s, uh… let’s take a short recess.”
He bangs his gavel twice.
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“When I awoke, it was because those two buffoons were tugging on my limbs, throwing me around and twisting, constricting, distending me; trying to tear me in two. I was being drawn and quartered by two idiots dressed as spacemen.”
“That sounds torturous.”
“It was much like the rack, except I don’t think the medieval ages had hot water bottles.”
“Oh, that’s humor. Are you recovered or is that a coping method?”
“Do I look recovered?” Squidward points to his wrinkled, massive scowl.
Hamlin pauses. “No.”
The courtroom is still. Someone in the pews coughs and clears their throat. He blinks.
“May we continue,” Squidward drones.
“Yeah,” Hamlin piques. “So you’re being pulled apart, then what?”
“I could slip one limb free, and another, and soon I was wholly out of their grasp. So I ran for my door, but they pulled out these pop-guns, chased me down, and fired. The world around me went grey, and mesh, and I was all balled up like a fetus in their net.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Well, Mr. Doodles is rather skittish now. Agoraphobic, I believe is the term.”
“Otherwise, Mr. Krabs, your pet worm suffers no adverse side effects?”
“Anxiety’s higher, but that’s the same for all of us. Anyone who spent enough time around Spongebob has a naturally higher level of anxiety.”
“So why did you initially hire my client to work in your restaurant?”
“That’s a, uh, a hard question. Sure, right away, you could tell he had a tremendous amount of free energy about him — his aura, or what-have-you. And that could be dangerous, if you think rationally about it, but it was also magnetic. He was firing on all cylinders, and so generous with his energy. And he was persistent in obtaining the fry cook gig — and his proliferation in the kitchen is unmatched. He could do it all on his own.”
“So hiring him was unquestionable?”
“I don’t regret hiring the boy, even though introducing him into my life has caused me much additional stress.”
“But strictly in your establishment, he’s been a blessing?”
Mr. Krabs doesn't want to dance anymore.
He stirs in the witness stand. “Arg, no, he causes a ruckus every other day. Incurred lots of structural damage over these past few months, too. And disrupting patrons. They still come for the patties, but they're gambling with frights and fury whenever they do. That sponge is too excitable.”
McGill showcases that nervous smile of his. “But his burger turnout has its perks, right?”
“Of course, but again, I can't tell if he's scaring away more customers than he’s bringing in. In fact, the question of his continued employment had been on my mind for weeks now. I just haven't had the heart to pull the trigger…”
“Sure, alright. How about we address the rumors as to why you’re the only crab in town? How your burgers taste so famously good? Legend says that the secret ingredient in your burgers is crab meat. Isn’t that cannibalistic, Eugene?”
“Objection,” groans Hamlin.
“Mr. McGill,” gripes Judge Reinhold, “let’s be civilized and use appropriate court conduct. I’m not going to ask you again.”
Gritting teeth, he turns to the witness. “Let’s divulge for a moment and talk about the moment you walked up on the snatch-and-grab of Mr. Tentacles.”
“Okay, um, I was walking Mr. Doodles. You know already. And I saw Squidward, Spongebob, and Patrick up in Squidward’s house, running around and yelling and knocking things over. I thought they were playing. I called out to them, which was a mistake, in hindsight. They came down and pointed their guns at me.”
“Pop-guns,” McGill clarifies.
“What? Right, uh, pop-guns. Net guns. But I didn’t know that in the moment. I thought I was going to be mugged, so I pleaded with them not to take my money — I’d have rather been shot than let them take my money. Spongebob replied ‘We don’t want your money, moon man!’ and I was netted.” Mr. Krabs takes a deep breath. “They tossed me in the cold dark, which later I found out was the cargo hold of that crashed rocket. I couldn’t see well through the mesh netting, but I could feel beside me that Mr. Doodles was freaking out, as I said. Then I heard Spongebob say to Patrick ‘Well, there’s plenty more where those came from,’ and they left. I don’t know where to, but soon after, more people were thrown on top of us in that cargo hold.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“I was grading papers, in my classroom. I heard, footsteps, coming up the hall. Given the hour, I thought it odd. Boots squeaking, and then the door creaks open. I didn't recognize them at first because of their attire — this astronaut getup. Despite realizing it was Spongebob and his starfish friend, everything about them was uncomforting: their space suits, their still presence, their lack of words… I asked him ‘Spongebob, what are you doing here so late?’ and there was a raw, awkward silent beat before he raised this thick gun and captured me in this, heavy netting. My natural defenses was triggered, and I swelled up — very uncomfortable, and painful.”
Mrs. Puff wriggles in her seat, reliving the discomfort. She exhales slowly.
“They dragged my net casing; I was too heavy for them. I thudded down the stairs and scraped the sidewalk. They dragged me all the way to this—what turned out to be—rocket ship, and they rolled me up over the doorframe and dropped me into the cargo hold. I was in there with a few other people — even some I’d later realize I knew. It became too hard to cherry-pick any of the voices in that dark resonance chamber.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Dark, and stuffy. More and more people kept being thrown in on top of us. And I am shaped like a rhombus, so I was very abrasive against those next to me. It was crowded, muggy; the air was stifling to breathe. It felt like I was trapped in a cave-in, in a treacherous mine. There was space enough to breathe but not enough to fill your lungs. And those two boys kept coming back with more and more bodies, stuffing them in. There wasn’t room. We were rubbing up against each other. You couldn’t hear anything but groans and clothed limbs writhing against nets. I tried to break free—I’m sure many people tried—but we couldn’t. It was horrible… You know, as a flounder, I know the irony… that ‘to flounder’ means to be stuck in the dark, to struggle. Normally I would thrive in such environments — but not like this.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“My claws couldn’t even cut through it; I couldn’t tear the fabric apart. I’m a weightlifter, and I couldn’t tear this apart. I think it was a synthetic fiber, but I can’t remember exactly she said it was... Anyway, eventually the police came; they were able to cut open each net. They pulled each body out of the cargo hold and cut open the net. When I was let out, I saw the astronaut boys—Spongebob and Patrick—getting their helmets removed by the police. They were both already in handcuffs. Spongebob panicked and cried, afraid of suffocating in an environment he didn’t think was water. Patrick, however, got violent. That helmet came off him and he freaked out. He broke his restraints and started wailing on the cops; he was beating on two at once, while six others had to jump on his back. I think I saw ten cops get involved before they were able to restrain him again. He had to be, like, hard-arrested; double-handcuffed. He kept screaming about the alien fascists who were holding him prisoner. He truly believed he was on an alien planet, and I think he still thinks that.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“And you actually visited the moon, correct? In attempts to locate your missing rocket?”
“Yes. I heard the takeoff, and I was livid to be waking up to the sound of my rocket being stolen. I went by jetpack, to the moon, where I expected them to be. But they were not there; I should’ve expected they were too incompetent to be able to fly it, and would’ve crashed — but I wasn’t thinking in my fury, so I went to the moon first.”
“But they weren’t there; instead, the spaceship was crashed, right?”
“Right. So I returned to Bikini Bottom and located the crash site on my way down.”
“And how did you feel when you saw the crash site?”
“Initially, distraught and upset, because my rocket had been destroyed—that’s two years of work lost and $460 million wasted—but I immediately realized that the crash had occurred because of Spongebob and Patrick, and I became furious. I sought them out at the crash site. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it was something like ‘guys, what’re y’all doing? I can’t leave you alone for two seconds without you getting into trouble,’ and I noticed that they were bagging up our friends and neighbors into the cargo hold of my rocket.”
“How could you tell the bodies were friends?”
“Well, the nets were so tight on their bodies that you could make out the outlines of each person, along with hearing their voices and recognizing their screams.”
“What were the net guns originally meant for?”
“For harvesting moon rocks, but they were sorely misused, and I should’ve expected that inventing such a device would’ve led to it being misused if in the hands of others — particularly these two.”
“And they misused them by kidnapping, ‘netting,’ as you said, their friends and neighbors?”
“Correct. And then I referred to their writhing collection, and I condemned them for it, and that’s when they turned their guns on me and I was netted. They threw me into the cargo hold, too. I overheard Patrick say something about me being an alien.”
“And what was that?”
“He called me ‘Miss Alien Pants’ or something. I realized they thought they were on the moon, and that we were all aliens. I tried to tell them we were still in Bikini Bottom, on Earth, but they slammed the cargo hold door shut.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“State your name and credentials, please, for the court.”
He leans forward, into the mic. “Purple Doctorfish, M.D.”
“You performed the psychoanalytical exam on the defendant, did you not?”
“I did.”
“What were your findings?”
“Well.” He teases his glasses. “Spongebob would often ignore the question, or he’d knowingly give a joke answer, but most of the time he would give an answer thinking it was right when it wasn’t. I found his entire presence interesting; he was sometimes performing and other times reacting, but he always had this… energy around him. He was magnetic, and inviting, but also intimidating and dangerous. Or at least, that’s how I felt. And these notions led me towards checking for personality disorders. Now, this will sound like a contradiction, but hear me out: Spongebob is highly social, in an ecological sense. However, I am certain he has antisocial personality disorder; essentially, he’s a sociopath.”
“For those who are unaware, what’s that mean?”
“Well, a sociopath—in this case, Spongebob—exhibits a long-term pattern of violating, disregarding other people. His moral compass is almost nonexistent; he may recognize something is wrong or painful to others, but he will do it anyway. He has no conscience. He is impulsive and often aggressive in his actions. — To him, people are objects of entertainment or gain, to be exploited or collected, or stepped on.”
From across the court, the defendant glares into the eyes of the witness.
The witness glares in return. “A sociopath is irresponsible to their core. Part of why they’re parasitic to others is that they’re dependant on other people, but too uncompassionate to approach them genuinely. They’ll use charm to win friends and favor, only to betray them incrementally enough to benefit without turning them away. They’re often arrogant, and because of their impulsive, uncaring, aggressive nature, it is difficult for them to maintain employment. Frankly, I’m surprised he was still employed at the time of this incident; though he claimed to have had no prior fry cook experience, I believe this is false given his abilities. I think it was a ploy to win over the proprietor; he definitely has had prior experience in the field, and he simply shirked handing over a resume because any contact with his previous employers would’ve bore a negative mark on his well-crafted facade.”
“Hm. Conjecture, of course, but interesting to note,” Hamlin adds.
“Do you remember the Tattletale Strangler?” Dr. Doctorfish asks, “or the Hash Slinging Slasher?”
McGill rises from his desk, “objection. This is slanderous. He’s comparing my client to serial killers — one of which is legend.”
Reinhold turns to the doctor: “I hope there’s a larger point to your statement, but do proceed.”
Dr. Doctorfish worries about getting in trouble for continuing, but does so anyway. “Well, uh, both of those are psychopaths: reckless choices, jeopardizing others, hostile nature, high temper — but Spongebob, here, as a sociopath, is more methodical. He still has a temper, recklessness, and a hostile nature, but he’s able to control his urges and channel them.”
“So he’s in control, but he’s out of control?”
“Essentially, yes. It’s a bit more complex, but yes. His mind is wired for exploiting others, and the wiring is not as high caliber as yours or mine. His emotions run higher, and he has no moral compass, so when he’s upset or triggered or interested in something, all sense is overwritten by a new script, which reorganizes how he sees the world, and he follows it because he doesn’t understand how flawed the script is and how inhuman his choices are as a result.”
“So it’s not his decision to behave this way, and yet, it is?”
“It’s not his choice to be a sociopath — to see the world’s inhabitants as tools and toys. But he has a choice of blending in with the world, as if everything is normal, or of exploiting the world for his pleasure and profit. He chooses the latter. He knows what he’s doing. He’s corrupt.”
“Woof.”
“And then there’s the obvious: attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, or ADHD. Surely it factors in with his behavior, not often acting his age, excessive energy, unreliable focus… His issues at work alone are evident. Might I posit that Mr. Squarepants is also manic — an abnormally high level of activation, easily aroused. Sometimes he’s chipper and zany—euphoric—and other times he’s irritable—highly frustrated and prone to violence. Euphoria and irritability show equally in people who are diagnosed with mania, and I believe there’s much to prove that the defendant, Mr. Squarepants, is among them.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“State your name for the court.”
“Uh, Frank Fishbowl.”
“Care to elaborate why July seventeenth, nineteen-ninety-nine is so memorable for you?”
“Well, uh, my buddy was celebrating his birthday, with a party on the beach.”
“Which beach?”
“Goo Lagoon? We were all making s’mores— a bunch of friends and I. This spongy yellow fellow asked to borrow two marshmallows, and I said sure. We kinda kept our eyes on him after that, because he was just so odd and perplexing. We spent the latter half of our day watching this guy trounce around, manic and desperate for attention.”
“Is that spongy fellow you refer to in the courtroom today?”
“Yes.”
“Can you point to him for us?”
“That’s him,” Frank mumbles, as he points to Spongebob, whose legal representative grimaces.
“Let the record show that the witness is pointing to the defendant, Mr. Squarepants.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“You volunteered to give your perspective of the Goo Lagoon Incident, right, Don?”
Don the Whale leans into the microphone. His voice booms, “yes.” He inches back from the mic. “Um, Spongebob was trying super hard to look cool in front of all of us, trying to prove his worth to Sandy. He wanted to one-up Larry by appearing to be strong. I think he was jealous.”
“To clarify, that’s Spongebob Squarepants, the defendant; Sandy Cheeks, the primary victim; and Larry the Lobster, a victim of the September fourth mass-kidnapping, and friend of Ms. Cheeks?”
“Yeah, that’s them. Larry’s a good guy, too. He just likes to relax and work out. He’s not prideful or anything. He doesn’t compete for attention; he kinda just gets it.”
“Mhmm.”
“Spongebob seemed threatened by it—he wanted to compete for attention. Sandy’s attention. He accidentally ripped his pants during the process, and it got a few chuckles. But then he kept trying to impress her still by just… ripping his pants, over and over. Like, we get it, it was funny the first time, but it’s all situational — if you force it over and over, that loses the humor factor, right? Look at me, trying to explain a joke. But it wasn’t even that funny. The more he did it, the less laughter we gave. Soon there was silence, but he kept on. It all seemed very desperate, and clingy — almost creepy.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Oh, yes, ohmygod, I was there. Totally clingy. Spongebob was totally a try-hard to get her gaze. Oh, and that lifeguard at Goo Lagoon? Okay, so he made this lifeguard think that he totally died in the surf, washing up on shore. That guy thought he failed at his job and was holding a dying man in his arms—like, a man he could’ve saved. I can’t imagine the guilt running through his head. And then Spongebob just, like, awoke with energy, revealing he was duping this lifeguard. Ohmygod, the look on the lifeguard’s face when he realized he was being conned was mortifying. He looked ripshit. Ohmygod, can I say ‘ripshit’ in court?”
“Yes, Ms. Shubie, you can use whatever vocabulary helps you express yourself,” offered Judge Reinhold. “Just don’t be vulgar for the sake of vulgarity.”
“Wow, so cool. Court is cool.”
“Indeed,” Reinhold declares.
“Oh, okay, so after that lifeguard thing, Spongebob runs off and paces the sands. And we’re all like ‘good riddance,’ but I see him later playing with these three, uh, little kids. They’re smoothing out sand, like a little stage, and the kids stand on it. One has a wicked sunburn, and one is covered in sand up to his neck, and the other is carrying a sandwich that looks like he dunked it in seawater and dropped it on the beach. It was gross. Anyway, they’re all pretending to play instruments, and then Spongebob steps onto their platform with them—and they welcome him, and whatever—and he starts singing fiercely out-of-tune about how he ripped his pants earlier. And all these kids cheered, giggling—know your audience, right?—and they played a little bit longer until Spongebob just stood up, as if he suddenly didn’t know where he was or why, and he just walked off. And he didn’t return to the beach that day. I would know. I checked.”
“And you watched all of this happen?”
“I was still hanging out with my friends, but Sally and Debbie were droning on about their broken relationships, so I had my focus on what was happening a ways down the shore. Probably an hour went by, of me scoping this fantasy episode Spongebob was imagining with those kids. I think he had some sort of psychotic break. I heard about that kinda thing on TV. Court shows, actually. — I feel really meta right now.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Yeah, I was at Goo Lagoon during that display of his. He actually came up to me about it; he asked me if I knew what would go good with my burger, right? And then he got up close and whispered in my ear ‘ripped pants.’ Like, how the fuck is that funny? I just want to eat my burger.” Harold feels his old vexation as if it has just happened.
“What did you think of him?”
“He’s a one-bit hack trying to make a girl think he’s funny.”
“And what of his state at the time?”
“His state? Fucking insane, that’s his state. He’s on another planet.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“The defense calls Sheldon J. Plankton to the stand.”
The tiny, green copepod skitters across the floor, to the witness stand, whereupon he leaps up into the chair. Someone bends the mic down as far as it can go, and Plankton approaches it.
“Hello,” he swoons, with a baritone charm.
“Mr. Plankton, when you first met the defendant, Mr. Squarepants, you were inviting him to your birthday party—even though you didn’t know him—correct?”
“Correct.”
“And Spongebob declined?”
“He did.”
“So, that night, you crept into his home, entered his cranium through one of his porous vulnerabilities, and implanted a mind-control device directly into his brain. You then controlled his speech and movements, forcing him to awake and stride out of his own home—only wearing underwear—after crashing through a metal refrigerator and various walls. You steered Spongebob towards Mr. Tentacles’ house, busting through his wall, and startling him awake. As the defendant said in an earlier testimony, you ‘made him say mean things to Squidward,’ until he turned ghost-white and fainted. Then you manipulated Spongebob into entering the Krusty Krab after its nightly closure, crafted and pilfered a burger, and carted it back to your laboratory, beneath your own failing restaurant, the Chum Bucket. Throughout all of it, Spongebob had no control of himself—because you were in control. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“So, as it stands, my client easily could’ve been controlled by someone dastardly, such as Plankton here — no offense.”
“None taken.”
“As it has clearly happened before, without reprove, it’s possible for many occasions that Mr. Squarepants has simply been in control of others. We believe someone was in possession of the defendant’s mind and body during the night of September fourth, nineteen-ninety-nine. I can’t speak for his accomplice, Mr. Star, but my client feasibly could’ve been invaded and manipulated by someone with nefarious intentions involving Ms. Cheeks’ rocketship. It’s highly plausible and I suggest that the state look into it before we continue. It could be a matter of national security, would it not?”
“...Is that a question for me?” Plankton is lost.
McGill waits for Reinhold’s response, but he gives none. Reinhold simply stares, bemused.
McGill pats his pockets, impatiently. “Okay,” he turns to Hamlin, “your witness.”
Hamlin stands up as McGill takes his seat. Hamlin approaches the witness stand.
Hamlin stands in silence for some good amount of time. He finally speaks…
“Sheldon, did you invade the defendant’s mind a second time, in attempts to steal a rocketship, as my opponent suggests?”
“No.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Hamlin walks back to his table.
“Excuse me,” Plankton pipes up, “might I speak while on the record?”
Hamlin stands behind his chair, eager to sit. “If it’s case-relevant, I suppose so.”
“It is,” Plankton assures. “First, I must add that I went to college, so when I say that the Chum Bucket is better than the Krusty Krab, I think I know what I’m talking abou-”
“The prosecution calls Mrs. Karen Plankton to the stand,” Hamlin interrupts.
Plankton groans and hops down from the stand, scampering on tiptoes to the door at the back of the courtroom. As it opens to let him in, a computer monitor atop a pole with wheels rolls out and into the legal arena.
“Karen, as Sheldon’s wife, you know him best, wouldn’t you say?”
“Most definitely.”
“Briefly, for the court, describe his character.”
“He’s driven by his ambitions, and often driven mad by them. His plans never really work out, but he never gives up. I admire that. He desires much, but he’s not a bad guy. Only one percent evil — the other ninety-nine percent is hot gas.”
To the court, Hamlin states “I assert that Plankton’s control of the defendant was a one-time deal; a ploy to get a Krabby Patty for analyzation, and yet another scheme that blew up in his face. He isn’t in the game of manipulating one excitable sponge — he’s in the game of one-upping his competitor. Capitalism, not sociopathy, led Plankton to do as he did, and he hasn’t done it since. He never repeats a plan; he’s too clever for that.”
Hamlin pauses, as he turns to look at McGill.
He faces the gallery, again. “But I doubt that this is sufficient proof against the mind-control theory, so I will bury it once and for all.” Another pause. “Karen — where were you and your husband the night of September fourth, nineteen-ninety-nine?”
“The Bikini Bottom Community College Arts Fair. Plankton was curating his exhibit on the various shades of grey.”
“McGill — your witness.”
Hamlin strides over to his seat, sitting down with a military stiffness.
McGill slovenly rises from his own chair, sickened by his crippled pride. He shuffles over to the witness stand, whereupon he leans up against the banister. His eyes search around his headspace for something to say. Finally, he looks to Karen…
“So, how was the fair?”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
Nat Peterson, a tanned-yellow fish with lavender lips and a violent dorsal ridge, sits in the witness box. As he speaks, he looks upon the gallery with a confident, glazed-over gaze.
“I’ve been around Bikini Bottom; I have a lot of professions. I’ve eaten at the Krusty Krab at least once a week for the past few years. I remember when Mr. Krabs, the owner, first hired Spongebob as a fry cook. Burger quality increased, but I think it cost him in atmosphere; it went from being a cozy ‘underwater-themed’ eatery to being an eccentric time-bomb; you never knew if it would be a normal day or if Spongebob would get into some batshit antics that caused all the patrons to run fleeing from the establishment. Like, one time, he had this weird showdown with a customer: the guy ordered a fancy burger, and Spongebob presented it like a sheriff at high noon; the guy bit in, and there were no pickles—and Spongebob just freaked the fuck out. He was out of work for a couple of days, and then—when he came back—he acted as if it had never happened.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“I once had an order he couldn’t fulfill, and when he did ultimately fail, he had a nervous breakdown.” The witness spits when he talks.
Hamlin takes a step back. “What was the order?”
“A Double Triple Bossy Deluxe on a raft, four by four, animal-style, extra shingles with a shimmy and a squeeze, light axle grease, make it cry, burn it, and let it swim.”
“This doesn’t excuse his response, but for the sake of openness with the court—Mr. Bass—the defendant was duped into this mental state.”
Bubble Bass sighs. “The sanity schism was his own doing, but truthfully, I suppose, I did hide the pickles under my tongue, and that’s what sent him into this tizzy.”
“So, you’re saying he broke down when he forgot to add pickles to the burger?”
“Yes. He thought he forgot to add pickles, and he couldn’t take the pressure of it—so he became a hermit in his pineapple home and he nailed bread to his kitchen table. All because of some misplaced pickles.” He audibly scratches his belly.
“That will be all, thank you.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“I know we’ve spoken once before-”
“Aye — you said I feed my cousins to my patrons. But continue.”
“Ahem, yeah, well, do you recall that time Spongebob forgot to put pickles on-”
Mr. Krabs groans. “Yeah, yeah — the boy’s pride was shattered. He felt worthless, and broken.”
“Did you visit him during that period of his mental schism?”
“Visit him? Heck, I snapped him out of it. When I first arrived, he was talking nonsensically and boiling a bicycle on the stove. But I irked him enough to flip the switch in his head and restart his sanity; on the spot, he went from talking like a wanted poster to reciting the construction of a Krabby Patty and assembling it with his eyes closed. He was back to normal in no time. Well, as ‘back to normal’ as he could be… You shoulda seen him when we started selling pizzas.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
Tom sits anxiously; olive-green with gold trim and a fuchsia shirt he keeps smoothing out.
“They were running a new promotion, so I ordered a pizza from the Krusty Krab, and Spongebob delivered it. It took him a whole night cycle to find my house, which is just down the road, but he finally arrived — and, despite all the time he had, he somehow forgot to bring my drink: my Diet Dr. Kelp. How was I supposed to eat my pizza without a drink? Well, I told him I was upset, and he cried. I don’t know what he then said to his squid friend, but he was able to convince the guy to throw the pizza in my face. Needless to say, it was a while before I returned to that particular establishment… and by then, they had stopped serving pizzas.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“He tested the limits of my frustrations every day we held class. I don’t think he was doing it on purpose, but then again, I don’t know for sure…” Mrs. Puff squirms in her seat. “You know, he has memorized the oral part of the driving test, and yet, he has failed the driving portion thirty-nine times, each with spectacular fashion. He’s caused devastating structural damage to our educational facilities, and he’s injured me in a series of car crashes, which-” She chokes on a bad memory. She composes herself. “I now have irreversible nerve damage; my general anxiety runs much higher; and behind the wheel, I succumb to post-traumatic stress disorder, which I had always reserved as a disease for soldiers. — The worst part is that, as a teacher, I was accepting these risks on my own accord, and thus I couldn’t sue him for damages. And because of my mounting medical bills, I’ve had to stay at work, in the same role—even though it is agonizing for me to be in the same room as him.” She stares across the floor at the defendant. “Sitting across from him right now is even too much.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Mrs. Puff is a great teacher. I feel bad for what she’s been through. My own acquisition of a license was delayed by that yellow prick, er, the defendant. His recklessness behind the wheel kept the driving course in a constant state of repair, and I was infrequently able to prove myself behind the wheel. My four-month course took a year and a half to accomplish.” Fred Rechid nearly laughs at his recollection. “The guy is a maniac behind the wheel — and frankly, even when he’s not driving, he seems to conjure catastrophe with the slightest of ease.”
“That’s interesting, Mr. Rechid. How particularly has he impacted your life negatively?”
“He’s injured me on countless occasions!”
“Where specifically?”
“My leg!”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
Cocksure of himself, Nathiel Waters sits upright in the witness stand. He is blue, with two vertical purple stripes and an underbite.
“There was one day when Mrs. Puff let him be the Hall Monitor—just for the day—and he took his duties outside of the classroom, expanding them into a pseudo-policeman role. He invented his own code of Right, Wrong, and Justice. And the dumb shit he got himself into had put Bikini Bottom on high-alert. There was a city-wide broadcast announcing a shutdown of all city operations until ‘the Open-Window Maniac’ was captured. Everyone thought there was a serial killer on the loose. The newspapers later said that Spongebob was running around as a rogue cop, trying to track down this villain — but, as the cops later found out, the Open-Window Maniac was Spongebob. So, he was trying to track himself down. Ha!”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“They say it was a moment of ‘dissociative identity’ — that he committed these crimes and then forgot he had done them. The cops surrounded him as he realized that he had been the perpetrator all along. The news cameras descended on the scene during the standoff. I was at home, watching it live, because I knew Spongebob from class. He confessed, on-air, in real time — until Mrs. Puff ran through the police circle. She admitted that she was the one who bequeathed this mentally-unstable boy with corrupting-levels of authority. She said it was her own fault that he was set upon the city, looking for trouble. Inadvertently, she took the responsibility for his rampage, with the court citing that she ‘allowed it all to happen.’ So she ended up doing the jail time, which is really unjust. I protested her jailing, and during that period, I got really invested in this story.” Tina Fran props a hardcover book up on the banister in front of her. Her painted lips smack as her voice excites. “You can read all about this twisting tale of crime, fear, and psychology in my new narrative nonfiction book called ‘Open-Window.’ It’s being adapted into a film, starring Jack Kahuna Laguna as a more handsome version of my split-personality anti-protagonist. You can buy it on Kelp.com.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“You know, throughout this trial, I’ve heard a lot of hearsay, and a lot of conjecture, and a lot of rumor — and I’m tired of it. I want to put it all behind us. I want just facts; eyewitnesses; people really involved.” McGill turns to the witness stand, “I want you, Squidward. I want you to tell us the real events around that Bubblestand. The prosecutors are trying to use it to paint yet another bad image of my client, using reports from cleanup specialists and files from the insurance company — but they don’t know the truth like we do; like you and I do.” McGill leans forward on the banister, face-to-face with Squidward. The latter gulps. “Tell me, Squidward. What happened out at that Bubblestand?”
“Uh, well… Spongebob convinced me to pay for bubble-blowing lessons-”
“Watch your tone, Mr. Tentacles. You’re making it sound like extortion. Remember, we’re painting a picture of the truth today.”
“Okay. Um… I was challenged. Not outright, but, personally. I was motivated. He had this certain technique he was using, and he was crafting these mighty fine bubbles. Really—and it pains me to admit—artful bubbles. Now, you know me, I’m a Renaissance Man. I know all the trades: sculpture, painting, music… but I had no idea that bubbles were a means of expression. I felt an urge to outshine him in this medium. I’m the artist, I have the talent. So I drop a quarter, and I try the bubble. Nothing unique. I blow… shit. Dreadful, shit. So I drop another quarter, and another bubble falls. I drop another quarter, and another. They’re telling me I need to use the technique, but I have the technique. I am the technique. I drop a quarter. I fail. I drop a quarter, I’m not doing the technique. There’s all this shouting. I’m frustrated, pissed off at myself. I blow a bubble, it bursts, I put up another quarter. My pockets are near-empty, my hand is sticky with bubble residue, I’ve got neighbors on both sides yelling at me to try their damn technique, and I’m fucking angry at myself for being unable to conjure a damn artful bubble from a tiny plastic wand! I drop another quarter and I find myself, without activation, doing their technique. I realize halfway through that I relented, but I don’t stop. I do the damn spiel. I blow the bubble; I scream the bubble into existence; I become the bubble… I blew one larger than my estate. I made… art, out of a bubble. And I was accomplished, so I went inside… And before I knew it, that bubble had engulfed my house, and we were lifted a few dozens meters off the ground — and almost as soon as I noticed, it popped… This bubble, too, had fallen. And I was inside of it. I was the bubble. I was Spongebob’s bubble. I belonged to the technique.”
“Do you remember telling your insurance company that it was your neighbor, Mr. Squarepants, who blew the bubble?”
“Well, I actually, uh, provided wording that suggested it was a result of his technique, implying it was him who did it, but without outright saying he blew it. I was able to exonerate myself from the damages, but without pinning him to it. An interpretive grey area.”
“A grey area called… fraud?”
“Any mistake in bestowing blame or awarding reparations is solely that of my insurance provider. I merely supplied the information- vague information, sure, but enough to get my house back in order, without my having to sell a kidney or an amplifier.”
“But you implicated my client in a property crime. If he were to have been brought to trial for it, it would have damaged his image and hurt him financially for years.”
“Clearly it was bound to happen sooner or later…”
“But that’s not the point, now, is it, Mr. Tentacles? You committed fraud, pinned your neighbor for it, and returned to your bargain-bin modernist lifestyle in your Levittown-leftover home. Where’s the guilt; the justice? You blew your own housing bubble. Own up to it.”
Squidward bridles with contempt. “I used the technique to blow that bubble, and I was the vessel for the technique — but the bubble was the result of his technique. Spongebob’s technique.”
“I have it on good authority that you said the ability to blow such a magnificent bubble came from your own genes.”
“My efforts were unsuccessful until I tried the technique that Spongebob and Pat-”
As McGill’s fist slams upon the banister, “goddamn it, Squidward!”
“What? What?? I don’t know what more you could want!”
“Explicitly state it was your own fault; exonerate my client — your neighbor, your coworker, your friend. Okay, you might not get along, but you can’t throw mud on his image with this Bubblestand story and sleep soundly at night, knowing your corroboration with the Department of Injustice has assured the sentencing of a merely misunderstood-”
“Okay! Okay, okay. Fine! … I accept all blame. I lied to my insurer and the police. I blew the stupid bubble… Now can I please go home?”
“No,” McGill smiles. “Hamlin, your witness.”
Hamlin saunters up to the witness stand, where Squidward is sweating like he’s post-exercise and has drawn his mouth in a heavy crescent pointed south.
“Okay, so the Bubblestand wasn’t a great example. What about the time they took you jellyfishing?”
“Oh, geez, that escapade… I end up in a body cast after an unfortunate bicycling accident, and when I finally get home, these two buffoons ambush me.”
“Spongebob, and…”
“Patrick. Both waiting inside my house. I don’t know how they got in… but they did. Spongebob poured hot soup on my face and Patrick speared my hand with a pole, clean-through. They dragged my wheelchair to Jellyfish Fields. One of those queen jellyfish that they goaded then electrocuted me—twice—and I had second-degree burns on top of having broken bones. It was memorable, to say the least.”
“Why have you never filed police reports for these incidents?”
“An insurance claim is one thing: you tell them what happened, they investigate it, rate it, and come up with a decision. But police reports? And with the frequency of these two idiots? I would’ve been buried in paperwork; constantly taking time off from work to give statements and testimonies; I would’ve had no time for tanning or composing. I would’ve essentially been living at the police station.”
“How come you never just… relocated? Moved to a different street, or town?”
“My house was there first. It was the first one on the block, and it was impressively built to my own specifications… Well, it was a variant on a planned community home, but I chose the variant, and I asked the property owner to let mine be the only tiki head on the block. For posterity. It took some negotiating, but I won out. I have poured too much time and effort and money into planting myself in that singular spot — and uprooting would be so very, very costly. If righteousness guides the fates, then I was above-all allowed to stay. Call it pride, or stubbornness, but I claimed it first.” He leans back in his chair, only to quickly lean back into the microphone again. “This one time, Spongebob’s pineapple home was eaten by nematodes. He was nearly about to move-in with his parents, and it was shaping up to be the happiest day of my life… until his house regenerated from a seed. And he, until recently, has still been living next door to me. It’s been great…”
“Squidward, there must’ve been something you could’ve done… It’s almost masochistic that you’ve stuck around to be emotionally and physically abused over the years…”
“I know, I know… It’s either grit my teeth or concede, and I don’t like to concede. — Everybody knows I am not nice to Spongebob, or Patrick, but I try to forgive their antics. I tried to be zen, but they always went and did something else annoying, dumb, destructive… And each dumb, bothersome thing made me evermore frustrated, and exasperated… I didn’t want to be bogged down by legal battles—that’s what I was trying to avoid—but you just reach a certain point in your Sisyphean climb when you have to stop putting up with the pain and instead try to end the pain once and for all; cut off the head of the snake that binds you. — Spongebob is a menace. He’s my personal menace, and I don’t want to suffer anymore.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
“Describe, for us, how you first met the defendant.”
“I saved him from a giant clam. He came over to my house for tea sometime later. He brought me flowers… He sounded odd, and he held his upright pinky aloft the whole time… It turned out he was drying up in my underwater dome, but he was too afraid of looking weak in front of me by asking for water.”
“How did that turn out?”
“Well, he was drying out for maybe half an hour before he panicked and chugged the flower vase empty of its water. Patrick—Patrick Star, obviously—burst in, and the two of them dried up beside the door. I fixed them up with helmets that keep them watered, the same way my helmet keeps me alive with air.”
“So, you’re saying you saved their lives?”
“Yeah. I met ‘em and saved ‘em, in the same day.”
“And they repaid you by crashing your spaceship into the ground and abducting you?”
“Yeah… I suppose they did…”
CHUNG-CHUNG.
Judge Reinhold exits his chambers, ascends to his podium, and sits. The gallery, the prosecution team, and the defense remain standing. Reinhold adjusts his glasses.
“The defendant’s legal counsel waived a jury trial likely because they knew we couldn’t find a single juror within the Pacific Ocean who wasn’t stifling a disdain for, or grievance with, Mr. Squarepants. While it was a keen tactic, the proof against the defendant is still overwhelming. In fact, I’m surprised he had not already been tried and imprisoned for many of his prior crimes.
“Mr. Squarepants, it’s evident that you have had a carelessness streak as long as your residence in Bikini Bottom, marked by sociopathic trends and violent episodes. You have once before been in the control of others, but in the vast majority of examples, you have been in complete control of your actions. In fact, it appeared your entire defense strategy was not to deny that Mr. Squarepants committed these acts, but rather to declare that he was a mere vessel powered by the malicious will of someone else — or, brazenly, to downplay his involvement with the prosecution’s evidential findings.
“When romping with your accomplice—the already-convicted Mr. Star—your capacity for destruction had been magnified tenfold. You are a menace to our society, and it is for the best of the rest of us that your immoral and volatile daily exhibitions of Freud’s conceptual id be put to an end. — Mr. Squarepants, are you ready to hear the verdict?”
Spongebob gulps, shivering with anxiety. “I’m ready…”
“You’re damn right you’re ready.” Judge Reinhold inhales deeply. “In the case of The People v. Spongebob Squarepants, the Court of Bikini Atoll finds the defendant guilty of all charges, withholding leniency for compounded felonies.
“For one count of impersonating a police officer, five years in a minimum security prison. For fourteen counts of mayhem, 72 years in a minimum security prison. For thirty-nine counts of reckless driving, 192 months in a minimum security prison, and a $25,000 fine. For sixty-three counts of battery, 378 months in a minimum security prison. For five cases of burglary, forty months in a minimum security prison. For one case of third degree home invasion, five years in a minimum security prison. For two cases of second degree home invasion, thirty years in a minimum security prison. For two cases of lewd conduct, 2 months in a minimum security prison, and one hundred hours of community service. For one count of wildlife smuggling, four months in a minimum security prison and a $50,000 fine. For fifty-two counts of kidnapping, 315 years in a maximum security prison. For fifty-one counts of false imprisonment, 204 years in a maximum security prison. And for Poseidon knows what else, you have my curiosity, my concern, and my mercy.
“In my eleven years as a judge in this court, I have never seen such a prolific offender. You should consider yourself lucky that nobody was killed in your path, despite leaving so many casualties in your wake. The sum total of your crimes has earned you six-hundred-and-eighty-two and a half years in prison, one hundred hours of community service, and $75,000 in reparations to your victims. — As a member of the phylum Porifera, there’s the chance that you could live for over two hundred years. This equates your impending imprisonment to three life sentences, and frankly, I don’t believe that is enough.
“Court is dismissed. Bring in the dancing lobsters.”
CHUNG-CHUNG.