Mr. ManagerPants (Unfinished Teaser)

Untitled Part 1

Sure, there were a lot of changes, but not all them were scary. Just foreign. Among them, the employee uniform was vastly different from his mere name tag and trademark cap. Not unlike other fancy restaurants this one was now competing with, wait staff were expected to wear jet black pants and crisp, white long sleeve shirts and blouses. The waiting and cooking staff would also have aprons which would have to be bleached bright white.

Being in charge of a place with that kind of formality meant that SpongeBob would have to level up his own wardrobe to match. Sadly, this meant retiring his favorite white polos and brown shorts.

He looked himself over carefully now, checking and double checking for wrinkles on his new powder blue dress shirt. But there was nothing but a crisp fold line down the side of his new navy pants. The clothes fit him fine (which was nice-shopping for new clothes with his body shape was its own private nightmare), but they didn't feel right. In the next coming months, he'd try to look for brown pants. For now, this was the best he could do.

But in the meantime, he took his favorite red neck tie, stuck it under the lip of water helmet, and fixed it around his neck. "You're still SpongeBob" he said, pointing to his own reflection, before turning to the door. "No matter what else changes."

Mr. Spastic Fantastic skipped, hopped, and back-flipped down the winding stairs of the tree trunk, two at a time. A man of 30 going on 8. Or at least he was, until he stumbled on the last for steps and tumbled his way to the bottom, spinning on the crest of his water helmet like a top. It definitely wasn't age. It was the fabric. "Stupid pants," he muttered, still upside down. It was part of why he preferred shorts. Though if he were being completely honest with himself, he joints might feel more limber if he were still underwater, too.

Some minor sacrifices were worth it. At the doorway to the kitchen, the aroma of hazelnut coffee greeted him, along with something sweet he couldn't quite identify yet. He rarely drank coffee back in his fry cooking days because he rarely needed to. It was bitter and gross, and even now, he had to dump in a heap of sugar just to get a mugful down. There was a time where neither of them drank anything stronger than tea, and they went through a ton of it. But with increasing demand from both of their jobs, starting the day with a little bit of that horrible bean water was becoming necessary.

A brand new mug sat ready and clean on the countertop before the coffee maker. "Hm, what's this? 'World's #1 Boss' ay? I don't know about that." He smirked and reached for the handle of the steaming carafe. He'd gotten one of these for Mr. Krabs at some point. It felt alien to have one in his own hand. Surreal. But it wasn't wrong: After today, he would become somebody's boss, and not just temporarily. This was the real deal.

As he poured his cup, he got the strange sensation that the calm, early morning atmosphere was a rouse. He froze, righted the carafe in his hand, and all of his senses were suddenly on high alert. He shifted his weight onto his other foot as he took a swinging look around the kitchen, refusing to even creak the floorboards. He sniffed the air, his nose twitching up and down. Hm.

And then, he heard it. On the far side of the room. The side of his head took on the shape of an ear as he picked up the teeny, tiny creak of an upper cabinet hinge. The growing sound of a battle cry.

He turned on his toes and leaped from the coffee maker, launching himself directly at the sound, arm extended. "AYE-YAWWWWWWWWWW!"

Unfortunately for the sponge, his fighting skills were worse in open air than water. Whereas he would fly towards the would-be attacker with ease, he leaped into the air, and was promptly dropped back onto his bottom by his meager two ounces. "Ow..."