Chapter Text
Another day of this is Eugene’s custom hell. With each patty, each bun, the ketchup, the blood, it peels at his sanity. The money comes in, but life after life after life is taken, thrown away, tossed like rotten eggs. Men with children, poor college students, hell, his own son, perhaps? Maybe he didn’t run away, maybe that kid is just another stain on the stand, killed, cooked, eaten. Like every other one. The cannibal tendencies he was sure he’d grow fond of haunt him. If it was worth it, Neptune, give him a sign. Neptune, save this man.
The knife cracks against the shell, onto the board, and the meat is extracted, tossed into a bucket that smells of broken souls. Eugene sighs, replacing sweat with blue torture on his head. He takes the bucket and waddles his way to the grill, turning it on slowly for the morning batch of maniacs who pay him money.
Water evaporates against the grill with a soft sizzle, drop, sizzle, drip, sizzle, plop, sizzle, no evidence of his agony left. He rolls a ball of sin, and it falls to the pan gently, pressed against the grill with hopeless, burning screams.
He can already see people gathering at the beach, a party, maybe, but whatever gets business going. He puts on his best smile and cleans himself of blood, as if they know what his blood looks like. He grills, feeds, and brings in money, customer after customer, ‘til the day is done.
Night hits after hours of pain, of suffering, and he can rest.
He begins lowering his door, but he’s stopped by a small hand, connected to an equally small body. He looks down, one man, five dollars, a proud smile, but an even more shameful missed spot of blue.
Eugene lifts his door again and, with his best smile, carried helplessly by tired, pleading eyes, begins to speak in his deep, sailor’s tone, “Listen, boy, I’m closin’ for the night, so unless your orders are short, I ain’t servin’ ‘til tomorrow.” Eugene looks at the little man in his eye, who responds with a humble hand on his chest. His slightly scratchy, but confident voice scratches against the walls of the stand, “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding, Eugene! Serving me burgers this late at night? You’ve gotta be mad!” The small man hops down and stands on the counter that Eugene uses to make his burgers. Eugene responds with a few stutters of “You can’t be in here”, but the smaller man cuts him off with a toothpick hand, “Listen, you might be thinking that nobody sees what you’re doin’, all alone, keeping yourself hidden, but I see what you do, Eugene. Your grill is hot, but you couldn’t be any colder.”
Met with confrontation, Eugene struggles to cough up an answer, “No, no, you don’t understand, lad! I need this, you can’t do this to–” Again, he’s cut off, but with a warm chuckle.
“Eugene, Eugene! Calm down, would ya? I’m not a cop, and even if I were, your burgers are too good to get ya in trouble for. I’m simply proposing a… Deal, of sorts.” The small man steps closer, blocked by Eugene’s hand.
“Grill’s still hot, kid.” He grumbles, and the smaller man takes a few steps back.
“Ah! Whoops! But my offer. All I want is 40% of the pay, and I’ll be your cashier. You serve up burgers, I serve up the smiles! And hey, what’s funnier than a little man holding up a… ahh…” He spins his hand in the direction of a small burger diagram.
“Krabby Patty.”
“Yes, a little man holding up a Krabby Patty for a customer, and I only ask for 40% of what you’d normally earn! What do ya say, Eugene?” The little man holds out a hand for Eugene to somehow shake. Eugene holds his claw out for the man to grab onto.
“Deal, but I’ll need to know your name if I’m lettin’ ya work for me.”
“Sheldon. Sheldon J. Plankton.”