The Tanning Woman.
He popped up on a crowded beach near Bikini Atoll (the human world’s closest neighbor to Bikini Bottom). The sand was hot. The seagulls were loud. And there, staked out like a territorial flag, was her .
SpongeBob’s brain short-circuited. All his life, he’d been movement. Krabby Patties. Jellyfishing. Screaming. But this woman? She was a statue of pure, greased-up will. the spongebob movie sponge out of water tanning woman
Her radio blared: “I’m on the edge of glory…”
He waddled over, his little square feet sinking in the sand. “Hi there! Scuse me! Hi!” The Tanning Woman
“The hell are you?” she rasped. Her voice sounded like gravel being stirred with a cigarette.
She was a leathery legend. Her skin was the color and texture of a well-used catcher’s mitt. She wore neon pink sunglasses, a visor that said “WERK,” and a bikini so small it was essentially a geometry problem. She lay on a silver blanket, a greased-up, sizzling monument to UV rays. In one hand, a can of Diet Cola; in the other, a handheld mirror she checked every eleven seconds. The seagulls were loud
She snorted. “Let him. I’d absorb his laser beams into my SPF 4 and reflect them back. I’m a weapon, honey. I’m a human mirror. I’m a consequence .”
“Kid,” she said, finally. “You think this is about the tan?”
A corner of her cracked, lip-balm-free mouth twitched. She sat up, sand cascading off her oiled stomach. She pointed the cola can at him like a weapon.