Headfirst For Sponges pt2

Headfirst For Sponges pt2

A Story by The Dark Passenger

The extremely un-anticipated second installation of the Squishy Trilogies... more to come soon.


                “W...what’s going on...” Patrick muttered as he blinked his eyes open slowly. A bright light shone above him, making him flinch with a distraught groan. Realising quickly that he had absolutely no recollection of how he had ended up here, on this hard wooden desk in a dark room, Patrick bit his lip nervously and peered out into the darkness.

                “Patrick... nice of you to regain consciousness...” A voice sliced through the silence in the room, startling Patrick who turned around wildly.

                “Where- what?” The lead singer of Fall Out Boy looked up to see a shadow watching him from a darkened corner of the room. A chill ran down Patrick’s spine and he felt his heart begin to thump faster with every movement the shadow made. Whoever it was began to circle the little pool of light that encased poor Patrick, blinding him from being able to see who it was that held him there in this godforsaken room that smelt like fondue... of all things. Patrick squirmed and hugged himself pathetically as the shadow took a small step forwards.

                “Looking for something perhaps?” It said, standing on the edge of the circle of light. “Something you stole?” The shadow flung a bucket of chicken at Patrick who let out a horrified shriek as fried chicken rained down on him. “I saw you do it Patrick... and you’re going to pay...” the shadow taunted with a smirk. “Oh you’re going to pay alright...”

                Patrick shuddered and curled into a foetal position on the desk, whimpering because he was too afraid to speak.



                Peter Wentz had never felt more guilty and afraid in all his life... well perhaps besides that time he stole a pair of pants from the lead singer of The Academy Is. But still, all he could think about was poor Patrick, and what he might be going through right at this moment. Pete wondered if he was still lying out there in the grass, gasping for air with his arm around the bucket of chicken. Then Pete started to think about the bucket of chicken and felt his tummy rumble. This was no good, thought Pete... this was no good at all.

                “Hey, anyone home?” A voice called out from the front door as it swung open with a loud bang. “Hell-ooo?”

                Peter peeked out through the crack of his room door and saw a pair of skinny jeans clad legs walk in slowly, pausing at the kitchen counter to put down a black satchel. The bassist began to tremble, his eyes widening when he caught a glimpse of the person’s black shirt and red tie hanging loosely around his collar. “Oh God,” he muttered to himself before shrinking into the corner behind his door. “They’ve found me... they’re here... My Chemical Romance...” he gulped and looked down at his shaking hands that still clutched a familiar foam octopus. “You told them didn’t you?” He accused in a slightly louder voice, staring down at Squishy who didn’t respond. “I shouldn’t have taken you... but I did... I just... I just wanted to be your friend and you betrayed me,” Peter babbled, shaking Squishy and squeezing him so his googly eyes nearly popped out of their sponge sockets.

                Squishy didn’t quite know what to make of all this. He had never felt so mal-treated in all his life. Even being used as a cleaning product to bathe Tre Cool was considered a luxury compared to the way Peter was squeezing him now. Squishy didn’t like it at all... some mad man holding him like this and accusing him of betrayal. It was more than a poor little sponge octopus like him could take.

                “Hello?” The voice outside called out again, making Peter squirm. He forced himself closer to the wall, hushing Squishy who still refrained from making a response. “Someone in here?” The door pushed open slowly and Peter let out a deafening scream.


                “Noooooooo!” Paul Douchette shrieked, his hands holding either side of his head as he sat on the bathroom floor in dismay.

                “W-what’s happening?” Rob Thomas yelled out, stumbling in before stopping abruptly when he saw the sight before him. Every cabinet and drawer lay open and every bottle of shampoo, soap and toothbrush lay strewn across the floor. “What the hell happened here?” Rob blurted in shock before crouching down to pick up his rubber duck. “Why is Mr. Squeaks on the floor?” He questioned Paul angrily, pointing a finger at the guitarist who just kept his sad gaze on the floor. “Dude,” Rob began, putting Mr Squeaks on the bathroom counter before turning around to look at Paul. “You okay? You don’t usually cry in the bathroom...”

                “Yeah you usually cry in the kitchen,” Kyle put in, poking his head in through the door that was left ajar. “What’s happening?” he asked Rob who shrugged in response. “Are you crying in here because me and Brian are baking cup cakes and taking up the kitchen?” He asked, and Paul shook his head silently.

                “Are you crying in here because of something we said?” Rob asked, and once again Paul shook his head.

                “Is it cuz Brian said you looked dumb in those full suits you wear on stage?” Kyle questioned. The reply was still no, and Kyle pondered a moment before asking, “Is it cuz I said you looked dumb in those full suits you wear on stage?”

                “Is it cuz I said smurfs are better than snorks?”

                “Is it cuz I borrowed your copy of Love Actually without asking?”

                “Is it cuz I told your mum that you’re gay?”

                “Is it cuz I told that really hot girl you like that you had a naughty dream about her?”

                “Is it cuz I interrupted your conversation with Gerard Way by telling him that you found him really attractive- and not in a heterosexual, appreciative of the way another guy looks way... but in a romantic way?”

                “Is it cuz I started dating that hot girl you really liked?”

                “Is it cuz I used your towel even though I have athletes foot?”

                “Is it cuz I didn’t vote for your story on that ‘based on a lyric 10’ competition?” Kyle asked, and still, the reply was the same...

                “What’s wrong?” Brian asked as he poked his head in the door as well, cup cake icing around his lips.

                “He’s angry because you told him he looked dumb in those full suits,” Kyle explained.

                “No!” Paul replied suddenly, looking up at them. “I’m not angry because you don’t like my dress sense or that you’ve questioned my sexuality countless times... or that you’ve given me athletes foot, Rob...” he sighed, exasperated. “I just... I can’t find... sarquest,” he choked, and began to sob into his hands.

                “Sarquest?” Rob asked. “You mean that squishy sponge octopus thing?” Paul nodded at his words. “Oh...”

                There was brief silence as the rest of the band members contemplated a possible solution. “I still think it’s about the suit thing,” Kyle whispered to Rob.



                Frank sat on the steps of the My Chemical Romance tour bus, wondering to himself about life’s complexities... and also about where on earth Pete could have done to his poor little sponge octopus. “Poor Doctor Octo,” Frank sighed and watched The Killers play ultimate Frisbee just outside their bright blue and purple tour bus. But not even the sight of Brendon Flowers catching a red Frisbee in his teeth could bring a smile to his face.

                Frank Iero had lost many things in his life. A gold fish at the age of four due to a misunderstanding about the fact that gold fish don’t need bubble baths... a hamster at the age of six for the same reason... Dr. Octo was important to him, and he had promised to keep it safe from harm’s way. Unfortunately for Frank, he had failed miserably.

                “Hey Frankie, have you seen Gerard?” Mikey asked, walking up behind him.

                Frank turned to look at him and sighed, “Yeah, he’s gone to go get my sponge octopus back,” he said.

                “What?” Mikey said, looking at him quizzically.

                “Dr. Octo... that sponge that Ray hates,” Frank explained and the bassist laughed, nodding back.

                “Oh that thing, what happened to it?”

                “Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy stole it off me when I was asleep,” Frank replied.

                “Right...” Mikey said, “That’s... normal...”

                “Really?” Frank asked, “I thought it was a tad weird...”

                “No- I was being sarcas-”

                “Hey! It’s Gerard!” Frank jumped up suddenly, the grin he usually wears appearing on his face immediately. The pallid lead singer loomed in the distance, squinting his eyes in the sun as he approached, his black hair hanging over his face.

                “Hey guys,” he greeted, holding up a bag of chips that he ate from hungrily. “How’s it hanging?” He said before stuffing more sour cream and chive flavoured potato crisps into his mouth and chewing loudly.

                “Did you get my octopus?” Frank asked excitedly.

                “Your what?” Gerard asked, still chewing as he stepped around Frank and entered the bus.

                “My octopus- that sponge octopus that Pete Wentz stole,” Frank said, exasperated as he followed his friend into the bus.

                “Oh...” Gerard said, pausing before he slumped onto the couch, Mikey following suit. “Yeah... I started walking towards their bus and then...” he looked down at the bag of chips in his hands, “I got hungry,”

                Frank pouted, folded his arms and fell onto the beanbag like a very angry 5 year old. “You always do this!”

                “No I don’t,” Gerard retorted.

                “Yeah you do,” Mikey put in, “Remember that time Bob slammed his head on the bunk and was out cold... and we asked you to go get the paramedics,” he said, looking at his brother. “And you came back with a kebab?” Gerard rolled his eyes and shovelled more chips into his mouth. “Gee, he’s still having trouble remembering his last name is Bryar because he lost so much oxygen to the brain,”

                “Look, I do a lot for this band okay? Why can’t I just go out and get a bite to eat without you guys jumping all over me like a bunch of needy little Chihuahuas?”

                “Gee-” Mikey began but was cut off by his brother immediately.

                “No!” Gerard shouted, getting up off the couch angrily. “Just shut up okay? Just shut up! Or I’ll kick you in the-”

                “Sausage? Sausage anyone?” An English vendor suddenly appeared inside the bus holding a festive looking tray of sausages and a spatula in one hand.

                “No!” Gerard screamed. “F***! I told you yesterday, I don’t want any of your f***ing sausages!” The poor man grimaced, dropped his glance to the floor and shuffled out of the bus looking quite depressed and forlorn. “Yeah, that’s right! Get your English sausage a*s out of here you f***ing b*****d!” Gerard screamed, watching as the vendor walked away slowly with his head hung in defeat, before storming out of the room and out the bus.

                Mikey arched an eyebrow and turned to see Frank sitting in his bean bag with a horrified expression on his face. “Oh my God,” Frank muttered, his mouth hanging open and eyes wide, “He said a bad word!”



                “God, why are you screaming?” Billie-Joe Armstrong shouted, slapping Pete a couple of times across the face before finally acquiring silence from the near-insane bassist.

                “S-sorry I... I thought you were- from My Chemical Romance...” Pete replied, trembling as he stayed huddled in the corner behind the door. “You guys have... similar outfits,”

                “What?” Billie-Joe said, making a face. “No we don’t. Man, Pete you must be really out of it,” he assessed, looking down at the small, sweaty, teeth-chattering mess on the floor in front of him. “What’s wrong with you?”

                “I took this from them,” Pete explained, showing Billie-Joe Squishy whose beady eyes pleaded for escape.

                “Oh hey! It’s Sponge Vicious!” The lead singer of Green Day exclaimed, swiping Squishy from Pete’s hands and staring down at it excitedly. “We lost him in the... um... black out incident,” he said. “You mean My Chemical Romance has had him all this time?” Peter nodded in reply. “Man, we haven’t been able to give Tre a bath since...”

                “Patrick’s dead,” Pete said suddenly, stopping Billie-Joe mid babble.


                “Patrick... I left him out there in the grass... choking... on a chicken wing. Or drumstick...” Pete’s eyes welled up in tears as he hugged his knees closer to him and shuddered. “He’s dead and it’s all my fault!” Peter wailed, bawling his eyes out.

                “Hey-hey... it’s not... hey,” Billie-Joe attempted to get the bassist to stop crying and placed his hands on his shoulders, shaking him a little. “Okay, that’s enough!” Billie-Joe slapped him hard on the cheek once more, making Pete stop immediately, reducing himself to a few pitiful sobs as he held his red cheek. “Show me where you left him,”


                Mike Dirnt waited around outside the Foo Fighters’ tent area, whistling to himself as he paced, ‘air-bassing’ to pass the time. “Oh, hey Mike,” A voice greeted him as a trailer door behind him swung open. “Are you alright?”

                Mike turned around to see Dave Ghrol staring back at him with a warm, moustache framed smile. “Oh hey,” Mike said with a weak smile. “Yeah, I was just wondering if I could stay with you guys for awhile cuz Tre and Billie blew up our last tent,”

                “Oh wow- again?” Dave asked, squinting his eyes in the sun and scratching his chest. “Didn’t that happen with your trailer-”


                “And your bus-”


                “Wow,” Dave scoffed. “Wow... that’s some kind of luck,”

                “Yeah, ever since we started this damn tour,” Mike said angrily. “It’s been one long road to ruin,”

                “Oh... hey, I could use that,” Dave whispered to himself before un-pocketing a small note-pad and jotting down the words Mike had just said.

                “So do you think I could crash here?” Mike asked.

                “Um yeah, sure...” Dave said, looking up. Dave Ghrol was always the humanitarian of the bunch, and he had taken in musician after musician since the Warped Tour started. Mike would be no different, he would take him in like the prodigal punk son he had always wanted. “Where’s the other guys?”

                “We had a disagreement,” Mike said, kicking a stone with his bright red chuck taylors. “Billie’s gone to live with Fall Out Boy or something... and Tre... he’s just taken off somewhere,”

                “Oh, do you wanna talk about it?” Dave asked genuinely, placing a hand on Mike’s shoulder. Dave Ghrol also fancied himself some kind of counsellor or life coach, taking it upon himself to change people for the better. Though his endeavours worked from time to time, Dave was also met with a number of restraining orders over the years for the same reasons.

                “No,” Mike said, looking at Dave irritably and shaking his hand off his shoulder.

                “Alright, alright, let’s just go in and I’ll make you a cup of coffee and we’ll see if you feel like talking,” Dave chuckled, wrapping an arm around Mike and leading him into the trailer. “You see the thing about friendship and bands is that-”

                Dave stopped mid-life-changing-sentence when his eyes fell upon a door left ajar and a snoozing Taylor Hawkins on a chair beside it. “Is that fondue I smell?” Mike muttered, poking his nose up in the air.

                “Taylor!” Dave shouted, placing his hands on the drummer’s shoulders and shaking him out of his slumber. “What the hell? I told you to watch the door!”

                “What- oh, sorry man... I had a wonderful dream,” Taylor replied sleepily, his blonde hair hanging over his face. “I had a dream I drummed and sang for my own band...”

                “That’s ridiculous!” Dave shouted angrily before storming into the room beside Taylor. “Oh my God! He’s gone!” Dave called out from the room before storming out again.

                “Whoa, that’s kinda bad,” Taylor said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You should never leave me in charge of stuff,” he said, getting up to walk towards the fridge. “I mean, remember that time you asked me to watch Jared Leto... you were like... don’t let him build a giant paper machete ice berg... and moments later...”

                “Gigantic paper machete ice berg,”

                “Exactly,” Taylor replied before drinking from the carton of milk in the fridge.

                “My God... there was paper and glue everywhere,” Dave said, his eyes glazing over as if he could see the massacre now. “And you saw what happened to those people... and MCR’s bus...”

                “I know,” Taylor said, taking another swig of milk. “There was blood on the streets,” he added thoughtfully. “Well in hindsight it could have just been red paint... you know I told him Ice Bergs weren’t red...”

                “What’s going on?” Mike interrupted.

                “He’s gone Mike! He’s unprepared for release and he’s gone!” Dave said, exasperated. “We have to go look for him! Come on, Taylor!” and with that, they disappeared out the door.


                Somewhere on the other end of the Warped Tour set up, Patrick was running like his life depended on it. Whimpering and breathing coarsely as he took a sharp turn around Muse’s tent; it dawned on Patrick that he really had nowhere to run to. There was one thing for certain though, he wasn’t going to go back to the Fall Out Boy tour bus. No way... not where that backstabbing bassist of his was, probably celebrating his good fortune...

                Patrick was used to being treated like a second-rate band member, but this was a new low. Even Hemmingway was treated better than he was. With an angry little groan, he picked up the pace and continued to run as fast as he could, away from Pete Wentz and away from Dave Ghrol. Why the lead singer of Foo Fighters had take it upon himself to house and torment him like that... and why he had left some blonde woman to guard the door was beyond Patrick, but he knew he had to get out of there.

                Just as he rounded another corner, Patrick smacked straight into someone who was running in the opposite direction. Before he knew it he was face flat on the ground below him, inches away from the furious man he had collided with. All he managed to make out before everything went dark was a black shirt and a red tie. “Not again,” Patrick muttered to himself, and hoped whoever he had bumped into wouldn’t abduct him and force feed him fondue. One abduction a tour was more than enough to cope with.

© 2008 The Dark Passenger

Author's Note

The Dark Passenger
not as good as the first, but it's a lot of filler and build up to the third and final part of headfirst for sponges :) Hope I get to finish off the series asap! Let me know what you think!

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Ahhhhhh! I love this! I was dying laughing through the whole thing. You manage to make it so real...and so amazingly entertaining! God... you need to make this into a movie XD

Posted 14 Years Ago

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Added on October 20, 2008