Work Text:
Living in a dumpster wasn’t exactly ideal. Spamton knew that better than anyone else. But the lid offered shelter from water-cooled rain, and the humid warmth of steaming garbage got him through the cold City nights. The view wasn’t all that bad, either. Cut out clippings of discarded calendars and advertisements adorned the walls around him: cars, beautiful mansions with a CPU-side view—Spamton had it all.
... At least, he used to.
The last time he had it all was a long time ago. But the luxurious sights surrounding him made it easier to imagine he still did. Spamton was a businessman at heart: he was a rational, down-to-earth guy that had no time for fantasy—in his head, at least. In reality, he fantasized more than he wanted to admit. Spamton dreamed big, but his dreams never went far beyond just that: big. It was a blurry fog of abstract bigness that he couldn’t really fathom. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he wanted it, and when he got it, he didn’t know what to do with it. But he couldn’t live without it, either.
His only company came in the form of an old, lumpy pillow, which was all he managed to take with him after his eviction. The mere idea that someone like him, someone as universally adored and acclaimed as the Spamton G. Spamton was reduced to dumpster diving and spending his nights alone with the City’s worthless trash, was unfathomable. It was disgusting. It was demeaning.
Most of all, though, Spamton was sick of all the screaming.
Every single day, cyber-citizens would flip the lid of the dumpster, catch the glint of his glasses alongside the darkness within, and run away screaming. Spamton didn’t understand why—it was their fault for intruding on a humble salesman’s place of business! What did they expect to see when they opened a garbage can? Not a washed up 90s celebrity, devouring a half-moldy CD Bagel in the pitch dark? It was getting ridiculous, and Spamton hadn’t been getting any sleep because of it.
He tossed and turned atop the newspapers that lined the floor. It was another sleepless night, though it could have been a sleepless day. Daytime in the city was generally indistinguishable from night, and the batteries of Spamton’s internal clock had run dry a long time ago. Lots of things kept Spamton up at night, but the anticipation in particular was killing him. He hadn’t been disturbed all day, so it had to be any moment now.
Finally, Spamton heard the familiar sound of footsteps along asphalt. Each step filtered through the metal walls and reverberated around him. It would be any moment that he’d be stirred from slumber by a shriek and a subsequent slam. The footsteps were getting louder—closer. This time around, however, Spamton decided he’d give them a piece of his mind.
The lid creaked open, and Spamton shot up with an ear splitting error sound.
“[Get 100% Off] OF MY [[Real Estate]]!!!”
The lid slammed shut on his nose. Spamton didn’t know what he expected to happen, really. As he bleeped in pain, the shadowy figure ran off screaming, dropping the bags of trash they were about to throw out. Once he recovered, Spamton peered through the crack in the lid.
“WELL , WELL WELL !! WOULDJA LO0K AT WHAT THE TASQUE [Dragged ‘n’ Dropped] IN.”
There was a fresh, ripe pile of garbage for the picking-through, formed from split open trash bags. The putrid stench may have been off-putting to others, but Spamton loved the smell of money, and he knew there were riches to be found. He hoisted himself out of the dumpster and onto the gravelly floor below, dashing towards the vast troves of trash. No true salesman would turn up their nose at this kind of opportunity—except Spamton, because he literally turned his nose up and took a deep breath of garbage air. He exhaled, and exclaimed, “AHH, [Free Refreshments!]”
His tiny hands got to digging. Spamton was skilled not only in the art of dealmaking, but dumpster diving, too. Both tended to involve insufferable garbage in one way or another. Spamton tossed aside the typical, comical amount of apple cores, tin cans, banana peels, and fish skeletons first, and proceeded to push through mounds of generic, greenish lumps. Nothing of value—yet. Spamton kept digging, grin turning to grimace. If all else failed, he could always try selling more Spamton-branded Luxury Lumps™ (Generic Green edition), despite the surplus he already had in stock.
The mound of spilled garbage was far bigger than he was, and he was getting tired. He let out an exasperated sigh, before collapsing atop the pile. “OUT OF [[Stock]]...” he sighed.
Just then, Spamton silenced himself with a [GASP.wav]. Something caught his eye. It was the corner of something thin and glossy: paper? Spamton reached over to it, and his fingers caught on the folds of its pages—a magazine!
Magazines weren’t a scarcity in the land of dumpster diving, mostly because their contents tended to be just as trashy as their surroundings (Spamton would know; he’d been in quite a few). Still, he was always excited to scour the pages of out-of-date gossip. It reminded Spamton of his old days, and all the hot, scandalous drama he bought his way into. Not to mention the great deals always advertised within.
“JACK POT! !! [[Congratulations! You ve Won!]]” Spamton shouted, quickly unearthing the artifact from its unholy burial grounds. He scanned over the back of the magazine with eyes like barcode readers. “[Holy] CUNGADERO $0.99% OFF [[ProductName]] @ ALL PARTICIPATING ??!? HOT [Dog] IS THAT A STEAL OF a [Meal]!”
The back cover was covered in clusters of coupons, to Spamton’s rapturous delight. He could save at least a dozen cents on a box of cyber-cereal! Spamton was a dealer and a dealmaker, and coupons were the cards he dealt in. Sure, they all apparently expired in 1997—but that wasn’t that long ago, right? No one would notice the one or two or four digit difference, he figured. They wouldn’t deny giving a guy like him the great deals he deserved. And if all else failed, Spamton could always bribe the cashier to accept his coupons with all the sweet cash he’d save from using them.
Ecstatic, Spamton scurried back into his dumpster. He left the lid ajar as he excitedly settled into the corner. City lights filtered through the gap, just enough to illuminate the magazine as he held it in his sweaty hands. Spamton realized—he had been so fixated on the possibility of sweet savings that he’d neglected to even steal a glance at the cover. He wasn’t sure what publication it was, nor what juicy clickbait its headlines offered. Quickly, Spamton flipped the magazine to the front.
There was a man on the cover. A handsome, well-groomed man, donning a snazzy red suit, and smiling a perfect, plasticine smile. Spamton’s jaw clattered down, and he belted out an autotuned “[Awooga!]”.
He grabbed his chin and clacked his mouth back up in place, now a bit crooked.
“NOW WHOSE [[This]] $PICY SON OF A [Sauce Plz]?” Spamton flashed a sideways smile before finally correcting his jaw, then he beamed down at the magazine in his hands.
Behind the man on the magazine was a car. The car was just as red as the suit the man wore and equally stylish; it was a Classic Cungadero C4 Convertible—Spamton would’ve recognized that model anywhere (especially after it was recalled due to incidents of spontaneous explosion.) In stark contrast to shiny white silicone skin, the magazine man’s hair was jet black, slicked back, and shining with gel. It was perfectly styled, aside from a single spiral, fallen flawlessly out of place.
Spamton brushed away a bead of sweat—and a stray strand of hair that stuck to his forehead. He’d hardly registered it at first, maybe out of shock, or maybe because he didn’t believe what he was seeing, because what Spamton was seeing was himself. He fell into hysterics.
“JUST KIDD,iNG!!” Between bursts of glitchy laughter, Spamton shouted, “HOW COULD I [[Ever]] FORGET A [[#1 STAR]] [Sales maN] LIKE YOU??” He wiped a tear from his eye, still crackling out distorted cackles. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN FOR ALL THESE [Nearly A Quarter Of A Century]??”
It was Spamton’s lucky day. He wasn’t sure why someone would throw out something like this: this mint condition, limited edition print featuring the Spamton G. Spamton—but who was he to complain? He flipped it over, checking for potential damages to the paper. Spamton squinted. Maybe it wasn’t mint condition. He swiped at a dark, unidentifiable stain on the cover. He’d just have to settle for near mint.
Spamton refocused his gaze onto the other Spamton. It had been a long while since he’d seen himself in anything other than the reflection of store windows, and though he loathed to admit it, it’d been even longer since he’d seen himself looking so young. Which was a strange thought to think, Spamton thought, because 1997 really couldn’t have been that long ago. He figured it was just the lighting. Good lighting did wonders for age.
Spamton gave a mechanical wolf whistle, and steam poured from the gaps in his teeth. With one hand, he tugged at his collar; with the other, he fanned himself off. “WOW! [Hot] A [What] !” He grinned, flirtatiously twisting a strand of thinning hair on his finger. “SO. TELL ME. WHATS A [GoodLookin] GUY LIKE YOU DOING IN A PLACE LIKE ?THIS?? [[Trash Zone]]? EAHAHEAHAHEA!”
The photo of himself had nothing to say in response, except “How did he get here? Find his secret to success on page 17!”
“WELL , IF YOU [Sonic Sez] So.”
Spamton leafed through the magazine, stopping to unstick a few particularly sticky pages. Page seventeen: an interview with the big shot himself. He skipped over it. Spamton already knew his secret to success, and it certainly wasn’t in whatever script he’d recited that time. As soon as he flipped past it and onto the next page, Spamton froze in place. His teeth tilted into a slack-jawed smile.
“WOULD YOU [Take A Look] AT THAT,” he breathed.
Spread out before him was a full page photograph, unmarred by ads or title text. It was a picture of a real Cyber City star, burning bright enough to blind him. Spamton saw himself sitting at his old desk, with his chair swiveled to the side. His legs didn’t reach the ground, of course, so he held them crossed, suspended mid-air. In one hand he held the receiver of his rotary phone, with its cord coiled limply around his arm. His other hand was held up to the air, palm flat, fingers splayed, in the middle of an intangible conversation. The gesture was insincerely candid and cloying—even through the blur of memory, Spamton could distinctly recall an indistinguishable slurry of assistants and agents surrounding him, posing each articulated arm in its place.
Spamton whispered, “GOD. LOOK AT YOU.” The photograph—his reflection—sported the same red suit he wore on the cover. Spamton’s small frame had always been hard to fit, but he had his suits tailored to size back in the day. His jacket lay flat against his broad shoulders; it cascaded down to his tiny waist and hugged around it tight—but not too tight. His hair was styled to perfection, sleek and shiny as ever.
“GOD JUST [Look] AT YOU, MISTER BIG SHOT.”
And then there was his smile. His perfect, plastic smile. A gross facsimile of that very smile slipped into a frown, then a grimace. Back in the day, Spamton would have dreaded the thought of being seen wearing such an unfashionable expression. Luckily, there was no one around to see. The photograph’s eyes were stuck smiling: squeezed shut, and averted ever-so-slightly to the side.
“LOOK AT [Me],” Spamton suddenly demanded. He didn’t know why. As he stared himself down, he didn’t know why his jaw tensed; why his face flushed—was it anger? Something was burning inside him. It might have been hatred. “WHY WON’T YOU...” Spamton snatched his pink-and-yellow shades and set them to the side. “... LOOK INTO MY [Eyes]?”
His one-sided staring contest ended shortly. It was hard to win against an abyss that refused to stare back.
“WHAT, YOU DON’T W4NT TO??” Spamton reached over, groping aimlessly to grab his glasses. He set the shades back atop his nose, then whipped his head around to face the photo, smiling furiously. “THE [[Future]] ISNT PRETTY WHEN it’s [Facing] YOU IN TH3 [Eyes] HUH!?, BUDDY?”
Huffing, Spamton laid his palm on the page. He ran circles across the photo with his finger, then he whispered, “BUT YOU ARE.” With his other hand, Spamton grasped the side of the magazine. “YOU ARE,” he repeated, breathlessly.
By all means, there was nothing special about the photograph. There were no ostentatious displays of wealth, no luxury cars—nothing. It certainly wasn’t as salacious as some of the other photoshoots Spamton had in his heyday. It was the opposite, in fact. It was nothing more than a picture-perfect portrait of himself in his prime. It was so sanitized; so sterile, so stilted. So stiff. Spamton squeezed his legs together.
Caught as his own captive audience, Spamton’s fingers idly flicked the corners of the paper. His head pounded, and his vision swirled. He folded, unfolded, and refolded the edges, creasing the otherwise pristine page with unsightly wrinkles. Realizing this, Spamton snapped out of his trance. He froze. His hand trembled. Grimacing, he roughly ironed the creases with his thumb, desperate to smooth down the damage.
“COME 0N,” Spamton hissed under his breath, “[@*%] ON.”
The creased, wrinkled corners refused to stay down—all the while, that ugly, artificial sneer remained, mocking him relentlessly. But the more Spamton stared, the more he saw the strain in his former self’s smile. It was more than feigned: it was forced. Spamton frowned.
“WHAT? YOU THINK THATS’ S BAD??” Gritting his teeth, he gripped the page. “YOURE [[Pathetic]],” he spat. Spamton was red with rage—he leered down at his old suit like an angry bull. “You have NO IDEA,” he breathed, “DO YOU, [Diamond Doll]? N0OoOo0o [CLuE]!!! EAHEAHAH4HA!!!”
There was no one in the world that Spamton could trust but himself—he’d learned that a long time ago. But this wasn’t himself. The man on this magazine was nothing more than an emissary for advertisers: a sell-out that sold its lack of a soul to the highest bidder. He was straight out of the box, gently-used and unabused. The image before him was passive. It was unmarred and innocent; a shining star of a salesman.
What Spamton saw was a pure, holy idol. What he saw was an angel.
“JUST YOU WAIT,” Spamton grunted. “JUST YOU—GHH— JUST YOU [Wait] AND [See For Your Self].”
The object of his idolization was hardly divine—Spamton knew this, because he knew what it would inevitably become. His own ruination thrilled him. He, the self of his past, had no idea what was coming for him. But Spamton knew. And he despised himself for being so blind. Spamton had since seen the light—he had sought Heaven, and what he saw seared his eyes. But it was so beautiful. So bright and so brilliant, he couldn’t look away. As it stripped him of sight, all he could do was stare. Heavy breathing filled the otherwise empty alley. The swelling tension left him at a standstill, and in strangling anticipation, Spamton’s breath grew even heavier.
“ITS YOUR [Falled] THAT I’M. THAT I’M . IT’S ALL [[Your]] FAULT!!”
Spamton saw himself through half-rose-tinted glasses: he idolized his former image as much as he despised it. Whatever Spamton worshipped, he yearned to inhabit, and whatever Spamton inhabited, he would inevitably destroy. He would tarnish it, inside and out.
Spamton lifted his hand, and delicately stroked a finger across his replica’s red suit.
“IT’ S ALL [You]. IT’S ALL...”
He clenched his teeth, balling a ball-jointed fist around the page.
“[[You]].”
Spamton ripped the page from the magazine and crashed his mouth against it—it could have been a kiss, if he had lips. He groaned, mouthing curses and moans into the paper. Everything was murky—murky, and muggy. Spamton’s humid breath softened the paper in his hands. His warm, heavy sighs joined the condensation that hung above and around him, and clung to the walls of the dumpster. It was a bleary haze. Finally, Spamton broke away from the photograph, parting his teeth to let out a stream of shaky, steamy breath.
The city lights shone CMYK streaks in his eyes, and as Spamton lifted the magazine page to the sky, he saw a neon halo illuminated around the edges of his photo. He breathed in the stagnant, sour air—and smiled.
“OH [Angel],” he whispered. “OH, IT’S [[You]]”
Through the haze, through half-lidded eyes, Spamton locked his gaze on the picture of himself. Even between the blur of printed ink and glossy paper, the image itself was vivid in his mind, and reignited in memory. He could hardly contain his excitement. Spamton’s pupils went wide, and he tossed his head back, cross-eyed.
“JU5T LIKE I [Memory Overflow]! !! Y OU STILL GOT IT [[HotShot]]. THE LOOK'S... THE STYLE... THE [[Body]].”
With the back of his hand, Spamton wiped away beads of sweat from the bridge of his nose. His body tingled with heat, and he felt an all-too-familiar warmth pounding in his lap. His cheeks flared a rosy red, matching the hue of his painted-on blush.
“I [[MissingNumber]], 1 [[Missed messages]] Y0U,” Spamton shouted, failing to stifle his elation. “IT’S BEEN SO LONG [It Hurts!]”
His hand hovered down, stopping right above the bulge straining against his pants. “[Didja] M1SS ME T0o? HEHA3AHAEHaEA!!” Spamton’s voice wavered as he pressed his fingers across the outline of his cock. He whispered, “I KNOW YOU HAVEN’T.”
Spamton slouched, stretching his legs out in front of him. He sighed through his teeth, shakily touching himself through his pants. His synthetic skin burned with sweat, and shame. And Spamton didn’t usually feel shame—but this felt so, so wrong. As he grazed his fingertips across his hips, his breath grew heavier, and his exhales sharpened into hisses. Spamton shuddered. This was an affront to the brand he had built. He hastily unbuttoned his jacket and pulled up his stained undershirt. This was an affront to himself. Spamton grinned and threw a hand down his pants, locking eyes with his former self as he stroked himself through his boxers.
“YE@H? YOU [Liked] WHEN I TOUCH YOU LIKE THAT?” Spamton grunted. “I KN0W YOU DO.”
His jaw gaped ajar, and breathy laughter rushed through parted teeth. His audience, his agents, his adoring fans—what would they think if they saw him now? If the world saw him tarnishing his reputation like this, surely a scandal would erupt. A bright-eyed businessman letting himself be degraded by a disgraced, downtrodden dumpster-diver—Spamton could already see the headlines! He could see them on every magazine, lining every store shelf, grasped in the hands of his former fans, all while he continued to defile his own image.
“I ‘M JUST [[Aching and sore]] FORe MORE,” moaned Spamton, with a sultriness that was spoiled only by an embarrassing voicebox crack. “C’MON [[Big Shot]], SPREAD THOSE LEGS A1READY [&] SHOW ME 7HAT [[Hot]], THROBBING [Package delivery]”
In the photo, Spamton’s legs were crossed—it was a strangely reserved, almost coy gesture for a big shot like him. It left a lot to the imagination, enough that Spamton wouldn’t know what to fantasize about if it wasn’t already between his own legs. He cupped his bulging erection with his palm, softly squeezing and stroking. His cock throbbed at the touch, and a small, wet stain grew at the tip of the tenting fabric. Spamton gave a ragged moan, and his eyes fluttered shut automatically, lost in fantasy. But he fought to keep them open—he had to keep an eye on himself.
“[%$!@], TH-THATS IT,” Spamton breathed. “SPREAD THOSE [%$!@]iNG LEGS [for Me]. NO NEED FOR SPECIL [Pills] OR [↑ Pipis] We ALL KNOW YOURE ALL READY N1CE AND BIG [Down Their]!” His grip on the page faltered as he struggled against the straining cloth. With a dull groan, Spamton relented; he unbuttoned his pants, pushed his boxers aside, and heaved a sigh as his cock sprung free.
His silicone skin glistened under the faint neon light. Spamton was sweating bullets. His cock stiffened in his hand as he slid his palm against the head, slicking his hand with the generous amount of precum gathered at his tip. Slowly, tantalizingly, Spamton stroked up and down his shaft. His jaw hinged down, and his moans melted into open-mouthed drooling.
“[[You]], YOU’RE ALREADY, [Clean-Up At Aisle 97!]” His thighs trembled, and the page quivered in his unsteady hand. “WH4T ARE YOU?? [Nervouse]?, OR SOME THINg? [First-time caller?] EHEAHAHAHEA D0N ‘T WORRY , I’LL TELL YOU WHAT TO DO!”
Spamton leaned forward, squeezing his hand around his cock.
“I’LL TELL YOU TO GET [on your knees],” he panted, pumping his fist up and down, “AND I’LL GIVE THAT [[StupidSexy]] SMILE SOMETHING BETT3R [To-Do List].”
The air was thick, and sticky. Spamton’s shirt clung to his body. His underarms were soaked with sweat, enough to seep through his ragged, threadbare jacket. The sound of his fist smacking into his lap echoed dully off the dumpster walls as he fucked his hand, accompanied by a stream of harsh whispers.
“TH4T’S RIGHT, YEA4H BABY [Right] THERE,” he mumbled. “YOU D L0OK SO [Fulfilling] LIKE THAT.“ Spamton set the page against his stomach, and swept his hand through his hair. “YOU’D LOOK [So Good] SUCkING OFF MY [[BIG]] HARD [$%@!]iNG [Junk Mail].”
Spamton bit back a bitcrushed moan, letting his thumb roll circles against the top of his dick. He shivered at the touch.
“YOUd [Look] sSO GOOD...” He curled his fingers into his greasy scalp, gently touching and tousling his own hair. “... WHEN I’M. ST ROKING YOUR [Hottest Hairstyles]. AND. TELLING YOU HOW [[Good]] YOU aRE.”
He started to lose himself in the foggy darkness of fantasy. Spamton was sitting at his old desk chair—the one in the photograph. As he usurped his former throne, he saw a pair of beady eyes staring up at him from between his legs—pleading for him—before he shoved his other self down on his cock. He put himself in his place, thighs flanking him, keeping his head where it belonged as he bobbed it up and down, fist nestled in his hair.
“YOU WANT IT. YOU W4NT [The Taste You Know And] ALL OVER THAT PR3TTY FACE, DONT YOU?” Spamton laughed brokenly. “OR... MAYBE [Viewers Like You],” he said, “WANT THAT [[Smooth Taste]] STRAIGHT DOWN y OUR $LUTTY [Throat].” Spamton gripped the base of his cock and hissed, “sS$UCH A [[Sell Out]].”
Spamton knew his tongue was skilled—after all, he had a long history as nothing but a corporate mouthpiece. The adspace he sold in his throat meant he never needed to speak for himself. Between corporate lingo and catchy slogans, whatever Spamton’s voicebox blurted out were rarely his own words. Brands were his ventriloquists, and he would speak only when spoken for. Spamton would sell whatever they demanded, and he sold it well, even if he couldn’t swallow the marketing lies himself.
“THAT’ S IT. [Attaboy.] TAKE MY [%#@!]ING DEAL,” he panted, “TAKE MY [[Hot]] HARD [Cash]!!”
Spamton groaned and fucked his hand harder. He was close—he was so close to pumping load after load of hot, sticky seed on that perfect façade of a smile; that pearly white plastic printed on the page. The slick, wet sound of his hand pumping his cock only drove him further into ecstasy.
“TAKE IT [Angel] TAKE [It] TAKE [It] TAKE [It] TAKE [It],” he moaned. “[Shut up] AND TAKE MY [[MONEY $HOT!!!]]”
In his head, Spamton could hear cameras clicking around him. His hand picked up the pace. Their lights flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t stop; he could see himself—his perfect, star of a self—smiling for the camera, for the crowd; posing, exposing himself as the perverted, all-purpose puppet he knew he was. Spamton moaned, slack-jawed, letting his eyes roll to the top of his glasses.
“YESYES yES TAKE IT tAKE MY [Director’s Uncut] [Size: eXceSs] [[SLAM PIECE!]]” He screamed, “[You’ve got mail!] [[You’ve got mail!]]”
Spamton’s pupils suddenly shrank into dots. He bit down on his ball-jointed knuckles and made a strangled, gurgled noise.
“[&@!%],” he bleeped. “[&@!%]... D0N’T [Hang Up Yet!]. C’CMON [[Angel]], LET’ S TAKE IT SLOW.”
He couldn’t leave this little slice of heaven now. Spamton wanted to bathe in the glory a little longer—he needed this to last. Self-loving or self-loathing, Spamton’s masturbatory self-obsession stroked his ego either way. He needed himself. His world self-centered its orbit around the sun, the star of his universe: him.
Spamton lulled himself away from the brink with the rhythm of his labored breath. He inhaled through his nose, eyes shut tight. When they fluttered open, Spamton’s gaze was foggy, almost wistful. His teeth parted, and a strained sigh escaped him.
“LETS DO MORE THAN [Meet N’ #!@%] , BABY LET ME [[Hyperlink Blocked]] YOU [2 night],” Spamton said. “CLOSEST [Hotline] TO [Heaven] WE’LL EVER [[Inhabit]]! HEAHEAHEHA!!”
Spamton grabbed the page and pressed it down against his pillow. The well-worn pillowcase was soiled with stains—Spamton eyed one particularly suspicious stain and said, “OH Y0U REALLY GET [Around Town], DONTCHA??” He traced a finger across his red-suited self. “D1RTY [Hustler].”
Spamton hoisted himself onto the pillow, pressing tiny hands into its mass to steady himself. His body was barely bigger than the pillow itself. Stubby legs wrapped around its sides, and Spamton squeezed it tight, flush with his body—as close as possible. The aching thrum of absence pounded in his plastic chest.
He could so clearly see what he desired in the swirling haze of fantasy. Spamton’s fingers curled into the pillow, next to the page. With imaginary hands, he shaped the image of himself, and felt it shudder beneath his fingertips. It was impossibly real. Spamton could see himself; feel himself. Every inch of his former perfection was his to touch.
Spamton’s hands groped the pillow—he felt the fabric of a much higher quality suit as he slipped it off of his younger self, leaning forward to lick at his exposed neck. Spamton’s tongue lolled out as he drooled on the page. He could see his own blushing face, hear his desperate whines, and feel his soft, smooth skin—it was so much softer than his own.
“WE BOTH KN0W WH4T YOU ARE, [[Angel]]. JUST A [Puppet]... J JUST A [&!%@]TOY. EMPTY. AND [Aching] TO BE FILLED.”
Briefly, Spamton paused, leaning up to adjust the pillow between his legs; he imagined himself teasing his other self’s throbbing, leaking tip as he thumbed the fabric. His hips rocked forward, and as he grinded his plastic pelvis down, Spamton pressed his cock into the pillow; into the inviting plushness.
“YOU NEED MORE, DON’T YOU?” he panted, “[Why] DONT WE MAKE A DEAL THEN? YOU’RE THE DEALMAK3R [[© 1997 All Rights Reserved]], AFTER ALL!!! E EHAEHHAHEAH!”
He slid his cock against the pillowcase, precum staining what was once possibly silk.
“DON’T WORRY,I’LL [[play with]] YOU NIC E AND H4RD,” he said. “AND ALL YOU NEED TO DO FOR ME IS...”
Panting, Spamton blurted out a moan in the form of a single word—
“BEG.”
He slowed to a stop. “[[Beg.]] BEG FOR [Me],” Spamton breathed. He needed to hear it—he needed to hear just how bad he needed him.
“PLEASE. PLEASE. BEG FOR ME. PLEASE. [Please?]”
Heavy breathing filled the empty air.
“CMON BIGSHOT, YOU ‘ RE [[Killing]] ME !!” Spamton croaked. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. “I NEED y—I NEED TO... GGHh, J-JUST; LET ME , L LET YOUR [#1 LeastFavorite Salesman] GET [[50%]] OFF ALREADY!” Pressing his hips forward, Spamton whimpered out a frustrated whine. His quivering legs clenched around the pillow, and his cock twitched. “PLEASE, PLEASE,” he repeated, over and over. Spamton’s voice reverberated around him. Finally, he shouted, “I NEED [[You]]!”—and each word echoed back to him just as he cried it out.
Spamton stopped. His eyes widened.
“YES, YES [yES] YESyes SAY IT [Angel] SAY IT, SAY IT AG4IN!!!” Spamton sent himself into a frenzy. He bucked against the pillow, openly panting, whining through clenched teeth; chanting, “I NEED [You] I NEED [You] I NEED [You] I NEED [You]”
His moans were long, drawn out pleas. Spamton begged to be touched, to be fucked, to be used already. He sounded so desperate, so utterly debauched—he couldn’t stop laughing. Had he always been that depraved? He couldn’t remember. The regular irregularities in Spamton’s neural networks left his mind a bit buggy. Maybe it was memory corruption, or maybe he’d corrupted his own memory.
“YOU REALLY ARE [[Desperate]]., Y OU ALWAYS [Half] BEEN!!!” Somewhere between moaning, laughing, and sobbing, he said, “[Screaming] FOR, GHH— [[pull MY $tring$’s HARDeR]], PLE@SE!” Spamton inhaled sharply. “PLEASE IT F33LS SO, sO—FE€Ls ssSO gG-gHh/ FEELS LIKE [HEAVENnnNn],” he sputtered. “EHEA>HAH,EAHHHAH [[Feel]] ME HARD ER!!”
Behind hazy, multicolor lenses, Spamton’s eyes watered. He grinded down hard, letting his head fall onto the pillow, against the crinkled paper. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth. Spamton’s face was red. His hair was ruined. His voicebox skipped and stammered as he fucked the pillow harder. Spliced between ecstatic gibberish and robotic moans, Spamton shouted prayers.
“[Angel], [Angel],” he cried. “I [Need]YOU INeED-YoUI l <3 YOU//”
In the throes of fantasy, he feverishly sought friction against the plush stand-in. He was out of his mind, hardly able to focus on fantasizing. When his body blurred out of reach, out of memory, Spamton’s mind frantically searched for the image of himself—his eyes shot open, and as he clutched the magazine page closer, Spamton fell into a mess of incoherent cackling.
“HA EaH\\3AHAEa;!h 4aeh54H!EaA!! THIS [b0dy] WAS>?MADe TO-bE fffFILLED aND&&;F#CKED”
He clenched the pillow between his knees, bunching up the fabric beneath his cock, humping and fucking into it. Each quick, frantic thrust pushed him closer to the edge. He gurgled out incomprehensible combinations of keywords and commercials, muffled as he shoved his face down into the pillow and moaned.
“AANNGGeELllL—~*!?%,” he whined. His face was wet, streaked with sweat and saliva, and as tears trickled down his waterproof skin, broken laughter and compressed caterwauling filled the empty alley. “[Use] ME [Use] ME [Ctrl +] ME [[Come Right In]]SIDE ME; I’MMmM yOUR [[XXX-RATED!%]]F$&!CKTOY, , y0u can [GetOff] WITH mMH, WITHMY[free Discount Code:] PL3453iNEED1T”
It was like his mind had short-circuited. His body was malfunctioning—his movements were erratic; his hips jerked forward and his thighs trembled as his drooling, gaping jaw stuttered out distorted moans that he just couldn’t stop.
“OH FF[{u&?#]*YE$$S, YESyes YES I,M SO CL0SEd OH [Heavens] LET,ME, HAAH, LETME[[Please]], I’Mm a[G0oDBoy], LET ME ! LET ME !!” Spamton was seeing stars. He thrusted harder and harder into the pillow—into himself; into the same body that Spamton imagined as himself.
Suddenly, his vision went white.
“#ffffff[[&!%@]]cK I’M GOING TO , I’M GOING TO , I’M GOING TO , OH, [Angel] YOU’RE GONNA MAKE ME , GONNA MAKE ME—”
Spamton’s eyes shot open.
“[Scream] FOR THE [Cream!]”
His body jerked forward—his hips thrusted and trembled, and he made a choked noise. His cock twitched, and thick, white spurts of cum spilled across the photo. His hips slowly stilled, until his grunts became nothing more than breathy whines. Spamton collapsed his head against the pillow. Dark, wet stains seeped through the paper next to him. Eyes wide, Spamton hesitantly stroked a finger across the ruined page, before closing his eyes and sighing out a ragged moan.
He felt light. Numb. Tingling static rushed through Spamton’s body, through his veins, and to his head as he eventually picked it up from the pillow. He rubbed his bleary eyes. His gaze was serene, and the alley was dim, illuminated only by fading, flickering street lights.
Spamton rolled to his side, lounging seductively. He’d have a fine cigar clamped between his teeth, if he could afford one. Through half-lidded eyes, Spamton looked deep into the darkness beside him. He’d already prepared a shower of sweet-nothings for himself.
“W ELL [[hawt d@mn]] YOURE ONE FREAKY [Son of A] !” Spamton slid his finger down the photograph’s chest. “[Baby] LET ME TELL YOU, WHEN I FIRST LAID EYES-ON THAT [[Hot Bod]] I WAS LIKE, [[Wowza!!]]”
The responding silence was deafening.
“WHAT ? NOT ONE TO [[Pillow Talk]]??”
It dawned on him that he was literally talking to a pillow.
Spamton stared down at his photo. The torn, folded edges he’d fretted over at first were the least of the damage. Aside from the slurry of bodily fluids soaking into the waxy paper, the wrinkles that creased across it made it nearly unrecognizable. Spamton frowned, snatching the page from the pillow and crumpling it in his hands, then tossing it to the other side of the dumpster. He hoped Heaven was looking away as he shoved his quickly softening cock back into his pants.
The layer of sweat covering his body started to cool, and Spamton shivered. He buttoned his jacket back up and leaned back against the now-damp pillow, settling in his crumpled, sticky suit. His sighs were strained, and his glasses were foggy. Spamton stared up at the lid of the dumpster, and the faint light that still shined through.
“YOU DON’T NEED ANY BODY ELSE,” he whispered to the air. “WE DON’T NEED ANYBODY ELSE.”
Spamton wrapped his arms around himself. Slowly, he closed his eyes.
“ALL YOU NEED... IS ME,” he said. “... I know you need me.”
He held tight, and didn’t let go.
