A brief introduction… Today on Twitter, I shared a notion that my 8-year-old daughter shared with me while watching SpongeBob SquarePants this morning.
And I quote…
“She thinks Sandy is running from something in Texas…she did something terrible.”
A friend (Christina Cola) mentioned the idea of a Sandy Origins-type story. I was immediately inspired.
Below is my (concerningly dark) imagined story of Sandy Cheeks’ final hours in Texas before heading to Bikini Bottom to begin a new life. Enjoy.
She had simply had enough. The goods outweighed the bads from day one, but she loved him.
Sandy always saw the best in Sammy. At one point, years before where they stand today, Sammy had a lot going for himself.
Before sliding down the slippery slope of life and it’s constant, sobering, reminders that none of us are immune to, Sammy figured the only way to combat those tough truths was to stay unsober.
Defense, he thought, wins championships. What better way to defend against the pains of everyday life once one’s ship has sailed than locking those feelings away and drowning them in a wicked combination of booze, strange women, and everything that comes along with that type of lifestyle.
Sandy knew very early on that this would likely not end well but, again, saw the best in her man and, in the Texas way, stood by him.
Unfortunately, her willingness to stick around was misunderstood as a green light to continue down his self-destructive path.
After almost a decade of this, Sandy finally stood up for herself, only to be cut down in her attempt to show Sammy the dangers of his philandering ways; not just to their relationship, but to his remaining days on this Earth.
Sammy had never put his paws on Sandy before, but after a three-day bender, the last six hours of which came in the hot Corpus Christi sun, Sammy was in no mood for Sandy’s inspirational, you-can-get-outta-this-rut talk.
“Not today, Sandy,” he said.
“Well, when, then, Sammy?” she replied.
“Im-a go and sleep this off and then maybe we can discuss it when I wake up. Why don’t you make up some of that acorn and squash soup you know I like,” Sammy said, condescendingly.
Sandy quipped back, “I figured Helen down at Nutty’s had given you your fill over the last few days.”
Sammy snapped her a furious look, then snapped his paw directly across Sandy’s furry cheek. But Sandy is a tough cookie, and she doesn’t go down so easily.
This infuriates Sammy even further and, sure enough, Sandy hits the ground after the next one.
Sandy consolidates the pool of blood that’s gathered in her right cheek and spits it onto the carpet, drawing a look of pure astonishment from Sammy, wondering just how this feisty and clearly at wits end squirrel could still be in control of her senses.
Sandy would leave no doubt in his mind as to just how tough of a squirrel she was.
In a scene straight out of a Jet Li film, Sandy snapped to her feet. The smirk that graced her lips before uttering her next words could only be described as amused.
It almost seemed as if she had been anxiously awaiting this moment for years, and now that it’s finally upon her, she’s bewildered to the point of entertainment as to why she didn’t just cut this turd loose at the onset of their issues so many years ago.
“Are you ready?”, asked Sandy.
Sammy replied, with a facade of confidence on his face but a hint of fear in his voice, “for what, exactly, sweetheart?”
“For this, you son of a bitch”
Sandy torqued her hips and exploded off of her right foot, soaring towards Sammy with her right paw extended. She made contact at the base of his pronounced chin, putting his lights out immediately.
Sandy could have pounced at that very moment, but where’s the fun in beating an unconscious victim?
Sammy awoke from his drunken, concussed slumber just after 7 pm. All he knew was that it was dark out.
As he reached for his watch on the night table, he felt the impact and force of Sandy’s knife piercing his wrist and effectively nailing it to his oak bedside drawer, but didn’t put two-and-two together until moments later, when the pain finally washed over him.
As he screamed, Sandy stood above the bed, her smile noticeably larger than her Mona Lisa-like smirk from earlier, and uttered the words she’d been longing to say for far too long.
“I’m a big enough woman to admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong about you. Goodbye, Sammy.”
Sandy withdrew her Bowie knife from Sammy’s wrist, freeing his left arm, which had been stretched over his own body to reach for his watch.
As he turned over, onto his back, clutching his profusely bleeding paw, Sandy drove the razor-sharp tip of her trusty blade into Sammy’s esophagus, out the back of his neck, and into the headboard behind him.
Obviously dying and the realization of that fact slowly creeping into his head, Sammy finally saw the error of his ways and, for a brief second, understood why this was happening.
He looked up since he couldn’t quite move his head much, being pinned to the headboard like a picture in a cubicle, and said the words that, had they been spoken just days or even hours before, could have changed his fate considerably.
“I’m sorry, Sandy. For everything.”
Sandy, as even-keeled as ever, politely nodded and clearly said, “Thank you, Sammy.”
She said a little prayer, made a fist and held it against her chest, knowing that she did what she had to do, but that she had to move on now, and then pulled the knife from Sammy’s throat.
Sammy slipped down onto the mattress, coughed his last dying breaths and last few drops of blood out, and died.
Sandy finished off Sammy’s hours-old bottle of bourbon, cleaned off her knife and put in her bag, put on the underwater spacesuit she’d been designing and finally finished (just in time, apparently), took one last look around their apartment overlooking the beach, and jumped into the Gulf of Mexico, never to return to Texas.
