Chapter Text
It was a cold morning in Bikini Bottom. Frost pressed against the van’s windows, the vehicle's gentle rumble carrying them through the sleeping city.
Harvey steered through the mist, turning left and right through the empty streets. They passed an open diner and Harvey said, ‘aren’t you hungry? We can stop for a quick bite.’
Perch smiled. ‘No, Harv, you’re just hungry. I can practically hear your stomach growl. It’s like a sea Lion let loose.’
‘That’s just the van-‘
‘It’s your stomach,’ Perch corrected. ‘Trust me, after all these years, I know what that monster sounds like. Believe me.’
Harvey wanted to rebuttal but he couldn’t find it in himself to argue against a fact. So, he kept on driving, until he asked, ‘what’s this trip about anyway? What’s the place called again?’
The news reporter looked out the window, at the frost and mist blinding his view, and said, ‘it’s called Crystal Gulch.’
Harvey turned the wheel left and they passed a closed theatre. ‘And? What’s it about? You still haven’t told me, you know.’
Perch looked out the window, past the frost and mist, and saw a lonesome fish standing at a bus stop.
The fish was reading a newspaper, a thoughtful look on his scaly face.
‘It’s about exposing evil,’ Perch suddenly answered, watching the fish disappear as they drove past.
‘That’s vague,’ the other noted, making a right turn. ‘Then why’re you going to Squilliam’s? You chums now?’
Perch shrugged. In the rear-view mirror, he noticed a boat tailing them. Mist veiled it so he couldn’t see the driver or make of the vehicle.
He remembered what Squilliam told him the last time they’d met up: “tell no one. No one can know.”
The conversation rang in his head, the scene replaying like an unfolding picture book.
It wasn’t long ago, only a week. It was just the two of them, him and Squilliam. They were sitting in an empty diner. The eatery was a boat turned into a shop.
Perch gazed out big square windows at a dark ocean. Neon flower clouds hung in the sky like chandeliers, shining light on the shady city.
‘So,’ Squilliam said, dapping his mouth with a lavender handkerchief after finishing the last of his latte, ‘are you in or are you out?’
The diner was completely empty. Even the waitress had taken her shaggy blonde hair out back for a well-deserved break.
Perch, sitting opposite Squilliam, noticed the octopus glancing nervously around. What’s he looking for? he thought. Or… who?
Squilliam appeared nervous overall. He incessantly tapped two of his four feet, fidgeting with his handkerchief. All in all, he was quite anxious - and Perch, after interviewing countless fish, was highly credible in diagnosing anxiety.
Perch, in the present, being tailed by that ominous boat, felt the same anxiety he diagnosed Squilliam with.
Knowing what he knew now… who could blame him? A secret cult operating in the shadow of a countryside mountain range, aiming to harvest the power of the gods for immortality?
‘It’s crazy,’ Perch surmised, ‘but I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. I wish I could but I can’t. You know me, Harv.’
Harvey didn’t like it but what could he do? If his best friend and co-worker was set on it, who was he to deter him?
Pulling up to a gilded gateway, he sighed. ‘Before you do this,’ he said, looking into Perch’s eyes, ‘just know that I’m behind you on it. Whatever it is, whatever happens, I’m right here for you.’
After a brief argument, they settled on an agreement: Harvey would assist him in bringing his equipment and van to Crystal Gulch.
Thereafter, the cameraman would return to Bikini Bottom to keep their news station in check.
‘Thanks, Harv,’ Perch said gratefully, swinging the van’s door open and stepping outside.
Before he shut the door to meet the white face of the van, Harvey said, ‘good luck, Perch.’
The van backed up, operated a three point turn, and drove away back into the sleepy city.
Well, here I am, Perch thought, turning around to face an estate so wealthy he couldn’t begin to imagine the upkeep costs. Let alone the time it would take to find a bathroom.
Within a gilded fence was a maoi identical to Squidward’s home. Though, unlike the cashier’s abode, it rose and rose into the sky like a tower to Heaven.
At the very top, piercing the holy realm’s clouds, was a flag with Squilliam’s smug face on it, his unibrow swooshing arrogantly.
Tacky, egocentric, and annoying, Perch commented inwardly, deadpanning. Of course you’d fall for him.
He then turned his attention to a red button beside the ornate gateway. He approached the intercom system, and before he could press the button to speak into the microphone-
Buzz!
The gate slowly drifted open; this was Squilliam’s way of saying “come on in, the water’s fine.”
Perch obliged and walked through the estate to the maoi, knocking on its wooden door.
Footsteps, slippers clacking on a polished floor, approached the door on the other side. It opened, revealing that tacky, egocentric, and annoying face that waved on the flag.
But something was different…
All of a sudden, Squilliam collapsed forwards.
Perch knelt, catching him. ‘Squilliam!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘What’s wrong?’
The octopus mumbled something into the padded blue shoulder of his professional work jacket.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, not quite catching it.
‘I’m a little tipsy,’ the octopus repeated grumpily. Having to repeat himself wasn’t something he did often, unless he was talking to his parents.
Perch couldn’t hold in an exasperated chuckle. Helping the cephalopod to his feet, he said, ‘and why are they always drunk?’
Perch supported Squilliam through the manor, the octopus pointing this and that way as they slowly progressed to his bedroom, where he was set on taking a “power nap” as he kept on mumbling.
Perch swung the door open. With Squilliam clinging to his arm, he made his way to the bed.
The bed was king-sized and poofed as he lay the entrepreneur down on it.
Once he was down, the news reporter took a moment to survey the room…
It was fancy compared to the rest of his manor - and every room was beyond fancy. Perch wasn’t poor, far from it, but he’d never tasted wealth like this before, as much as others believed he had.
Beside the bed, on which Squilliam continued to mumble about a “power nap,” Perch saw an empty tissue box - the used napkins, black with wet mascara, littering the carpeted floor.
Beside the box was a bottle of wine. It was nearly empty, about half a cup remaining in its dark green glass.
One thing was clear, obvious and plain to assume: Squilliam Fancyson the Third had a drinking problem. An alcoholic one, to be precise.
Perch asked, ‘so, what’d you want to tell me?’ but heard a snore and turned to see that the cephalopod had fallen asleep.
He sighed and resigned himself from the bedroom to leave Squilliam alone to his power nap. Perch, later than sooner, would find out that it wasn’t a “power nap” at all but a deep sleep, from which recovery would take almost five hours.
In the meantime, Perch found himself a couch on a solar somewhere close to the bedroom and turned to his shellphone. He’d received a message from Harvey, which read: “I’m cancelling the five o’clock interview with the mayoral candidates tomorrow. Gale Doppler already scooped them up.”
Perch sighed and switched his shellphone off. ‘Why am I even helping this… this clown,’ he said, leaning back on the sofa.
Two hours later…
‘Wake up, Perch!’ someone shouted at him as they shook his shoulders.
Perch woke with a fright but quickly realised it was Squilliam.
‘Wha - what is it?’ the news reporter asked, still jumpy.
Squilliam ran back to the wall of the solar and pointed at it. ‘Him!’ the octopus declared at a picture of a male fish pinned into the wall.
Perch stood up and shook his head to rid it of any remaining sleepiness. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, but when all the sleep-dust left his eyes, he perked.
The whole wall was covered with papers: pictures, documents and maps. Not a single inch of the wine red peeked through.
‘What is all this?’ Perch rephrased his question. ‘and when’d you have the time to do all this? This must've taken forever!’
As Squilliam explained what he'd set up on the wall, Perch was reminded of the first time they'd met up.
It was a warm night nearly a year ago. Perch had received an anonymous phone call on his new show, “The Bikini Bottom Inquirer,” where citizens could ring Perch and ask him queries.
It was positively received by the general public and made a good escape from the rampage of the local politics.
However, Perch put a grinding halt to it after he received a special anonymous phone call.
He’d later find out that the phone call was from none other than Squilliam Fancyson himself, the “Prince of Bikini Bottom.”
And now, as Squilliam rambled on about the “Pipeline of Doom” and a “Moon of Neptune,” Perch Perkins saw the same Squilliam he did on that fateful day. That warm night…
Hysterical, crazy, totally smashed, egotistical, and borderline insane were the only words that formed in his head as he listened to Squilliam drunkenly ramble about “the end of the world.”
But five words, out of the drunken ramble, rang clear and as grinding as chalk on a blackboard. The words were: “And it’s all my fault!”
‘How's it your fault?’ Perch asked, dazed at the notion.
Squilliam stared at him as though he'd watched his bank account's balance drop to zero and below.
‘You're gonna want a drink,’ the entrepreneur said without blinking, pulling a bottle of red wine out of thin air.
The magic trick dazzled Perch, who asked, ‘what? Where'd that bottle come from?’
In response, Squilliam - eyes glued open - pulled a wine glass out of thin air.
Perch stood up, his posture as stiff and mean as the look of disapproval plastering his television face.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I will not have a single drink. Certainly not with you! I have a reputation to uphold. Respect! If people know I take a drink, they'll think I sway the news in the favour of my own selfish agenda!’
Squillim smirked, pouring the wine into the glass. ‘Guess I'll just have it by myself, then.’
Perch bit his lip and thought, he has to know about my past drinking problems…
Tipping the glass in the news reporter's direction, Squilliam mused, ‘wanna have a sip?’
With an expression so unnatural on his face - one of doleful bliss and innocence - Squilliam whispered, ‘of the wine, of course.’
Perch gulped, and in his mind thought, Perch Perkins, don't you dare take a sip of his wine. Perch Perkins, I forbid you to take a sip of his wine! Perch Perkins…
You took a sip of his wine.
‘So, then I was saying,’ Perch regaled, ‘that he's a big, fat, bean-headed loser! And don't even get me started on his crooked smile and crossed eyes. I mean, he's the goofiest reporter this side of the sea! Gale Doppler my-’
Squilliam chuckled. ‘You are a shark behind closed doors, you know that?’
‘Just behind your doors,’ Perch corrected, matching the other's devilish mirth.
Though they were both drunk to Shell City and back, they talked the whole night. At one point, Perch even brought out a pen and notepad, interviewing Squilliam about Crystal Gulch and the Sons of Neptune - amongst other important things like his latest fashion statements and InstaClam posts.
By the crack of dawn, the two were fast asleep, spread-eagled across the couch. At this point in their knowing each other, they were only friends. Perhaps, not even that close.
Even so, the way they lay against one another would lead an unfamiliar eye to suspect the polar opposite.
An empty bottle of wine lay at the bottom of the couch, leaking its last few drops onto the white carpet.
In Perch Perkin's last moment awake - drunk out of his mind - he cursed inwardly, there's an evil cult trying to rule the sea through immortality? Why wasn't I invited…?
They went to sleep with their clothes on, not quite comfortable enough to take them off in front of each other just yet, despite the wine soaking them from their socks to their hair - or unibrow, in Squilliam's case.
The night was the same as the first morning they'd met. Let me regale that story, for fond and sweet, it is…
It was the morning after the warm night Squilliam had anonymously called the Bikini Bottom Inquirer.
Perch Perkins had driven to Squilliam’s estate. Why, you ask? How could he have known it was Squilliam Fancyson the Third?
Well, it was glaringly obvious, the reason was. Though Squilliam had used a voice modifier to make the anonymous call, and unrecognisable as him as it was, Perch knew him as a fellow celebrity and icon of Bikini Bottom.
And Squilliam made one flaw. Glaring, obvious, clear as daylight. He had rambled about Squidward Quincy Tentacles, the cashier down at the Krusty Krab.
And Perch knew that only one entrepreneur would even provide such a nameless cashier with so much as a passing glance.
Perch drove his boat to the Fancyson estate and pressed the intercom button at the gate.
Nobody responded.
Perch cleared his throat and spoke into it, hoping a nearby ear would notice.
‘Hello?’ the news reporter had said. ‘Is anybody home? This is Perch Perkins here, reporting live from your front gate.’
It was a short while before-
Beeeeep.
‘Helloooo, there,’ an arrogant nasally voice drawled. ‘I've been expecting you,’ they whispered ominously.
Perch furrowed his brows. Waiting for me? Is he really a lunatic? But he's so rich…
He chuckled to himself and mused inwardly, the richer they are, the crazier. Unlike me, of course!
‘What's so funny?’ the voice - Squilliam - asked over the intercom.
‘Nothing,’ Perch had assured into the intercom.
Then the gates swung open. Slowly, rather than quickly.
Once they were fully open, Perch put his personal driving boat into drive and cruised into the estate's open and luxurious garden.
What he saw had made his jaw drop to the floor and crack the very pavement itself.
Sunshine flowed over fields of the greenest grass he'd ever seen; over the clearest ponds; through the most vibrant branches of coral trees and Kelp plants alike.
While Perch Perkins was wealthy, by no means a member of the middle class, he'd still never bore witness to such resplendent wealth; such wasteful wealth.
But it was beautiful, Perch had to admit as he eyed a specifically pretty wall of lavender-coloured roses.
Turning back to the road he was cruising on, his blood jumped like sand on a drum as he let out a scream.
Stomping the brakes through the floor, the boat screeched to a halt at the front door of the Fancyson manor.
It was a maoi, one no different to his rival's: Squidward Q. Tentacles.
Though, unlike Squidward's, Squilliam's was a tower and while Perch had seen it from afar, he'd never stood at the foot of it.
Its shadow ate him whole and spanned the ocean landscape. It was…
‘It's… giant ,’ he whispered to himself.
‘And beautiful,’ a voice - Squilliam - said from the doorway.
Perch jumped but was held down by his seatbelt. ‘Ah! When'd you show up, Squilliam?’
‘I opened the door,’ he answered with a blank stare.
But his tentacles weren't empty.
‘Is that a…’ Perch asked while pointing at the empty glass of wine in his hand.
Squilliam, after a second of realising what he held, tossed it over his shoulder and whistled innocently; the glass smashed on the pristine floor and echoed throughout the house like it was a never ending cavern.
But his robe wasn't clean.
‘And are those…’ Perch asked while pointing at the many small wine stains spotting the expensive robe.
Squilliam immediately grabbed his robe and, too, tossed it carelessly over his shoulder without realising the fact that he was now nude.
Without consideration, Squilliam slammed the door on Perch's blushing face.
‘What in Neptune's name just happened…’ Perch murmured, blushing so fiercely he might’ve lit the door on fire.
When it next creaked open, a short moment later, Squilliam was in a new robe; the discarded, wine-stained one was nowhere to be seen over his shoulder.
Bowing deeply, the entrepreneur greeted Perch with the sloppy etiquette of an inebriated showmaster.
‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ the octopus said, bowing so deeply that he-
‘Watch out!’ Perch yelled, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaping forwards out of his boat to dive and catch Squilliam, who'd bowed too deeply and tipped over forwards - now falling face first into the ground.
Perch slid along the floor, grazing his knees and elbows, and caught him.
Squilliam's eyes were closed, and for a moment Perch thought he had fainted.
But the entrepreneur slowly peeled his eyes open to say, ‘grandpa, is that you?’
It was only then that Perch Perkins put it all together; the puzzle was complete.
Odd, careless behaviour. An empty wine glass. Wine stains. Fainting. Incoherent hallucinations.
As Squilliam's eyes closed and he fell into a deep sleep, and as Perch held him off the floor, the news reporter figured out one thing…
‘Squilliam Fancyson the Third is a drunk…’ he whispered the secret to nobody but himself.
His voice echoed in the empty solar. The sun shed light on them through the open door.
The light was hot, striking the side of Perch's face, rousing a wince from him.
Months later, after dozens of secretive meetings between the two, Perch woke with a groan.
Sunshine invaded him, stinging his eyes and his purple scales.
‘What… happened?’ he asked, trying to sit up.
Though, try as he might, he couldn't sit up. Something was on top of him… but what?
Perch was squinting, the sunlight blinding him and his blistering headache stopping him from thinking.
Whatever it was that lay on top of him was a pale turquoise and the shape of a football.
Then it moved slightly.
‘What… is that?’ Perch asked, attempting to blink away the sleep dust.
Then it moved again, this time lifting to reveal a beautiful face despite the washy foundation and running mascara smeared all over it.
Black mascara bled down violet cheeks. Lips trembled, the sign of the yawn that came mere seconds later. Eyes fluttered open; scarlet pupils staring back at him…
‘S-Squilliam?’ his mouth blurted without approval from his brain.
Squilliam lifted his head. ‘P-Perch?’
In unison, they withdrew from each other and scrambled to opposite ends of the couch, backing up against the armrests like cornered animals.
‘W-What are you doing here?’ Squilliam stuttered.
‘What am I doing here?’ Perch interrogated himself. ‘Where even am I?’
Squilliam grabbed a cushion and hurled it at the confused news reporter, striking him in the face with it.
‘Ouch!’ Perch exclaimed, rubbing his sore face. ‘What did I do to deserve that? Neptune, tell me why!’
Then he noticed it: the empty bottle of wine by the base of the couch.
Then the migraines hit them; headaches as tumultuous as lightning in a bottle raged within their skulls.
In unison, they gripped their heads and groaned till the aching subsided and allowed thoughts to roam free.
Before Squilliam could throw the cushion he'd picked up, Perch held out his palms and exclaimed, ‘wait, Squilliam!’
The entrepreneur cocked the pillow, prepared to fire it at any second.
‘That bottle!’ Perch yelped, pointing at the wine bottle on the floor. ‘Remember last night, Squilliam? We got drunk…’
‘...and you stayed the night,’ Squilliam said, finishing his sentence.
Looking at the wall - his conspiracy map covering every inch of it - and the bottles of wine and whiskey on the tray under it, he sighed and rubbed his head.
‘Not again…’ he muttered with disappointment.
Perch drew his knees to his chest and watched as Squilliam began cursing himself.
‘You idiot! You stupid, pathetic idiot! How are you supposed to save the world from the Merman when you can't even save your sorry excuse for an organ liver!’
Perch could only stare at him as he spiraled and continued to self-hate.
‘you can't even keep the bottles on the shelf! I bet Squidward could do that much! In fact, if you were good enough for him then he'd still be here with you!’
Perch gulped and bit back tears. Am I not good enough for you?
Squilliam curled up into a ball on the couch and began to sob into his knees.
‘S-Squilliam? Are you okay?’ Perch asked, concerned as he leaned over him.
The manor was completely empty - quiet as Squilliam muttered, ‘please go away,’ into his knees.
Perch, who'd been gradually sidling a fin up to Squilliam in an attempt to comfort him, withdrew it immediately and stood up.
‘Fine,’ he said, distant and cold. ‘Whatever. Come find me when you've woken up. I'll be in the kitchen.’
Squilliam peeked out the corner of his eye to catch the news reporter leave the room and shut the door behind him.
Burying his face back into his knee as a loud sob choked him, he whimpered, ‘I'll never be good enough… I've given him the key to destroying the sea and I'm still not good enough for you, Grandpa.’
Barely a whisper, almost a thought, Squilliam whispered, ‘I'm sorry, Perch. I'm sorry for dragging you into this, too.’
As he sobbed, Perch waited outside the door. After he'd left, he hadn't moved a muscle; he only listened to his friend sob.
‘You jerk,’ he said to himself. ‘Other than Harvey, he's your only friend and you keep pushing him away when he needs you.’
Biting his lip, the news reporter whispered, ‘when you need him.’
The kitchen was spotless, just as it always was. Maids and servants that worked through the manor kept it so.
But it was empty, thankfully. The kettle roared, echoing through empty solar ans hallways as Perch waited for his water to boil.
‘You need some coffee,’ he ordered his reflection on the polished countertop.
His reflection looked tired. Old. Like a life wasted in gossip and weather news.
As the kettle reached its boiling point, screeching like a thousand angry bats, Perch squinted at his reflection with raging disappointment that equalled the bats.
‘BBI is your greatest show and it's just gossip. Why, with your influence and charm, you could dominate the world! Perch Perkins, you pathetic, sad fool.’
The kettle popped, finishing its heating cycle. Perch sighed as steam left it, both their anger diminished to a burning vapour.
‘The only news you've done your whole life is weather and gossip,’ he whimpered. ‘Weather and gossip… is that all you're good for?’
‘Your kettle is finished, sir,’ someone with a deep voice said from the kitchen doorway.
Perch spun on his heel. ‘Who's there?’ he asked, not quite alone as he thought he was.
In the doorway was a tall octopus with a bristle brush of a moustache and a grey head of long hair.
‘The name is Bumbly,’ he said with an English accent. ‘Mr, that is. Mr Bumbly. And I'm Mr Fancyson's head servant.’
‘Head servant?’ Perch murmured in shock. ‘Wait a second! I've been coming here for months. How come I haven't seen you before?’
Perch, as a news reporter and local celebrity, knew almost everyone in the business and had seen his fair share of strange fellows.
But this one was stranger than the reat. Nothing about the lanky octopus seems to rhyme; no logic displayed in his wonky but elegant gait as he slipped across the kitchen.
‘You're Mr Perkins, is that correct?’ he asked once towering over the news reporter.
‘Master talks a lot about you. Cries a lot about you. You haven't hurt him again, have you?’
Hurt Squilliam? Perch thought. Why would I…
‘I'll take that as a no, then.’
Circling Perch, Mr Bumbly sidled along the counter to the kettle. ‘Fancy some tea?’
Too shocked - downright nervous - to correct the octopus into making coffee, Perch accepted a cup of tea with a simple nod of his head.
‘Assume a seat. It'll be ready in a moment.’
Perch sat on a stall on the opposite side of the counter and watched the tea's swift and elegant preparation.
Mr Bumbly swayed his purple tentacles around in a seemingly reckless manner; swishing them from cupboard to cupboard to whisk whatever he needed.
Within moments, a cup of tea slid along the counter towards Perch.
‘Your tea,’ the butler said with a dignified bow. ‘Would you care for a biscuit to pair?’
Perch shook his head, as tea was more than enough.
When the butler turned to take his leave, the news reporter held out a fin and said, ‘wait, please!’
‘Yes, what is it, Mr Perkins? Is the tea not to your liking?’
‘No,’ he said, looking down, ‘it smells marvelous. But… could you just sit with me for a moment?’
The butler gave him a stern look - not quite a stare yet not quite a glare.
‘Very well,’ he obliged. ‘Mind if I make myself tea?’
‘Not at all. As you please.’
Once Mr Bumble had made his own cup of tea - caramel mint leaves and shredded ginger - they sat in silence.
Perch watched the leaf flakes float around in his cup of tea. He hadn't bothered asking what flavour it was but it smelt fancy. And bitter.
I drink seven cups of coffee a day. Long black. I doubt it'll be bitter at all… he challenged the tea inwardly.
Lifting it and taking a sip, he immediately regretted that challenge.
Perch spat it out and couched till his throat was cleared.
‘What's the matter, Mr Perkins? Tea too bitter?’
Leaning over the table, Perch grabbed the octopus’ bow tie but let go due to another cough surging up his throat.
‘Relax, Mr Perkins,’ Mr Bumbly suggested smugly. ‘Just take a minute and breathe.’
After a minute of breathing, Perch demanded, ‘what exactly was in that tea? Were you trying to poison me, butler?’
‘Just an ancient brew Squilliam the First taught me.’
Squilliam the First? Perch frowned, then opened his mouth in surprise. ‘You mean Squilliam's grandfather?’ he asked, leaning over the table in curiosity.
Mr Bumbly nodded. ‘That would be correct, Mr Perkins.’
‘So, why'd you poison me?’ Perch asked, leaning back and crossing his arms.
‘I didn't poison you,’ the other explained, ‘I merely warned you.’
Warned me? Perch thought, gritting his teeth in an anxious smile.
Mr Bumbly squinted and sensed Perch's tenseness.
‘Lighten up, Mr Perkins,’ the octopus chuckled. ‘I wouldn't dare put you to permanent rest. No, most definitely not.’
Perch swallowed his pride. As a news reporter, one that often presented live on the scene of the crime, he'd learnt how to adapt and stay calm. And he needed to do that now.
As though talking into a camera, he stared into the butler's maroon pupils and asked, ‘warn me about-’
But the octopus opened his mouth and interrupted him. ‘To keep Mr Fancyson out of harm's way. If anything should befall upon him… trust that it shall falll upon you too.’
Yeah, right, Perch mocked, as if bumbly over here could even get a hold of me. He'd probably slip on the floor and knock himself out.
Even so, Perch couldn't find it in himself to not fear the old butler whose moustache bristles were as thick as lines of iron.
‘What kind of danger?’ he found himself asking.
‘All of it,’ Mr Bumbly said before rising to his four tentacles and slipping across the kitchen and out into the outer solar.
Before Perch could say “goodbye,” he was gone. Left alone again, the news reporter turned to his thoughts.
Danger like the Pipeline of Doom? Or danger like… crying? Alcohol abuse?
Scrutinising the steaming tea that set his throat and lungs ablaze, he wondered, could I even do such a thing? I can hardly stop myself from danger.
Setting aside the tea, Perch hummed. He hummed until he heard Squilliam's sobbing in the distance all the way from the bedroom.
‘I'm sorry,’ Perch muttered, shutting his eyes. ‘I should've stayed with you… Why did I leave?’
Opening his pearly white eyes and meeting his dour reflection in the surface of the drugged tea, he asked, ‘and what's your deal, butler? Don't you know who I am?’
Raising his eyes, he declared, ‘I'm Perch ******* Perk-’
His mouth snapped shut as he noticed a face peering into the kitchen with the curiosity of a visitor from another realm.
It belonged to another servant, this one a female fish with grey-blue scales and mop of straight, silky white hair. ‘Hi,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Are you Master Fancyson's guest?’
Perch felt a blush burn in his cheeks. Not another one, he thought, bitterly. What's she got for me? Poisoned coffee? You know what, I might actually drink that.
‘I've got a gift for you,’ the new servant said, holding the aforementioned gift in her fin.
Perch's stomach grumbled as she revealed the gift to be what looked lkke a boiled egg. ‘That's kind of you,’ he said, suspicious of it.
Must be poisoned or something, the news reporter told himself as he crossed the room and accepted the egg.
Holding it in his purple fin, he examined it. Though the egg was completely cold, it seemed to heat up in his fins.
‘It's a Bon Bon!’ the servant then announced, startling him.
Perch's eyebrows shot up. ‘But it looks like an egg! Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't Bon Bons usually brown?’
The servant nodded, a mirthful smirk squishing her face. ‘I painted it white like an egg. Just for you!’
There was nothing to say to that - something which the fry cook of the Krusty Krab, SpongeBob SquarePants, would do, so Perch just asked for her name.
‘It's Nancy! Ms Nancy Suzy Fisch! And its a pleasure to meet you formally, Mr Perkins!’
Perch smiled awkwardly. Formally? She must be a fan or something. I do have a lot of those… some of which are creepy. Freaky, even.
‘Well,’ he said, turning on his heel to strut back to the counter, ‘its a pleasure to meet you too, Ms Nancy!’
‘Wait!’ the servant exclaimed, holding up a fin. ‘You're not going to eat that, are you?’
Perch froze with his foot mid-air. ‘I am. Why? Don't tell me, it's drugged and or poisoned?’
Ms Nancy nodded, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can't say,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn't eat it. Just give it to the Master and tell him it's from the Boss. He'll know.’
‘Okay…’
Ms Nancy disappeared as swiftly as she'd appeared. And just like that, Perch Perkins was left by his lonesome once again
He planted his foot back on the ground and stared at the Bon Bon. She… doesn't know? Jeez, I really am hungry! Is there any food in this place that is edible?
With a sigh, turned into a choked by the interruption of a gulp, he headed back to Squilliam's private solar.
The sobbing had since stopped but there was a sadness lingering in the water that got heavier with each step towards the source: the Master of the manor.
Perch cradled the blue raspberry muffin to his heart as he came upon the door. Closing his eyes, he bit his lip and raised a fin… and knocked on the dreaded door.
Months ago, when Perch has first visited the Fancyson estate, Squilliam had fainted right in front of him. Much to his own surprise, Perch Perkins had leapt forward and caught him. Kneeling, he lifted the octopus off the cold, hard floor.
‘Squilliam Fancyson the Third is a drunk…’ Perch whispered in disbelief, and the world never seemed emptier.
There wasn't a single soul to hear such a secret. None other than Mr Brumble, who hid out of sight past a doorway. But he wouldn't yet reveal himself to Mr Fancyson's esteemed celebrity guest, nor whom he worked for.
When Squilliam woke up, Perch was already gone. The entrepreneur found himself in his bed, an octopus towering over him.
‘Mr Bumbly?’ Squilliam groaned. ‘Where… where's Perch? He was just here…’
Mr Bumbly leaned down and smiled. ‘He's gone. Left after setting you up on the couch by the front door.’
The head servant stood up and cleared his throat elegantly. ‘I took it upon myself to bring you here. You're welcome, Master Fancyson.’
‘Thank you, Mr Brumble,’ Squilliam said. ‘Oh, do you know where my phone is?’
With a smile, Mr Brumble answered, ‘under your pillow,’ and took his leave, slipping across the room to the exit.
Squilliam then retrieved the shellphone from under his pillow, switched it on and opened his messenger app.
A message from Perch Perkins read, “hope you're feeling better when you're reading this. I'll come back next week and we'll pick up where we left off. Get well, Mr Fancyson.”
Clutching his shellphone to his hearts, Squilliam Fancyson the Third fell back on his pillow and sighed dreamily. ‘He really is a dreamboat,’ he whispered, already half-asleep again.