Then SpongeBob had an epiphany. He looked down at his own hands—hands that had flipped a billion patties, washed a billion dishes, and never once held a real weapon.
SpongeBob SquarePants stood over the empty recipe book, his spongy body trembling. “Mr. Krabs,” he whispered, “the… the words are gone. It’s just blank paper and a single tear stain that looks suspiciously like Plankton’s.”
The gang was hopeless. Sandy’s lasso snapped. Squidward’s clarinet solo was so bad it actually healed the seagull’s jetpack. Patrick tried to distract Burger Beard by showing him his belly button.
The battle was absurd. The Invincibubble bounced a cannonball back into the grease-ship’s engine. Mr. Super Awesomeness sat on the jetpack seagull. Sour Note played a tuba solo that turned Burger Beard’s candy-cane peg leg into a weeping licorice whip.
The usual suspect, Sheldon J. Plankton, stood chained to a cannonball in the middle of the restaurant, looking genuinely baffled. “For once, it wasn’t me! I tried to steal it this morning, but the page was already as empty as my heart. And my customer database.”
He looked at Patrick. Patrick, even as a pickle, gave him a goofy, confused thumbs-up.
SpongeBob felt his arms shrivel. “No! He’s rewriting us!”
“SpongeBob,” Patrick mumbled, pointing at his own head. “My brain feels… dry.”
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