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It started with porcelain limbs and hinge joints, sure. Then it was larynx to mechanical voicebox. Not all his words were his anymore.
Which. Fine. That's. Fine. He can work with [that]. He's Spamton G. Spamton. He'll get through this. Even if this was the doing of some kind of eldritch horror beyond his comprehension.
You know. That's fine. He's not a [!?!#]ing idiot. Or at least, not after a few years dealing with the voice on the phone.
The [?#!?]ing voice.
He really should've been suspicious. Of course it was too good to be true.
Still, back then, who would've second guessed it in his position?
It was just some man's voice. They said they've heard of his troubles, and were there to offer him a little help. No handouts—I've heard how much you hate it. But I've noticed little improvements you can do here and there, and, well, I thought I'd share them with you.
It was the voice of a polite man, simply eager to share their thoughts. No [painless removal] in listening. So he did.
Oh, my name? Umm… how about we keep that a secret! I'll be like a nameless benefactor, haha! Just me and you.
Oh, come on. Don't be like that. What would you do with it, anyways?
And sure, sometimes he knew a little more than he should, but he never really kept his private activities all that private. [SPAMTONGSPAMTON]'s a hedonist. Sue him. So what if a little here and there got out. So what if it was a tad creepy. Wasn't any worse than some of the shmucks out there.
And so, he shared his [business proposals] with the man on the phone. A touch here, a shift there, nothing big, but it made all the difference.
I did some research—that sponsor you're planning on meeting with? They love a good sob story. Maybe you could play up your humble origins?
And maybe they knew all the little [dirty laundry] about the business world, but everyone keeps their eyes open for the competition. Not like he didn't have closets full of other's secrets. Blackmail was just as much an advertising tactic as [Emale] was.
It was always just suggestions, pointers on the future, and the like. They never pressed. Not until what was probably [THE END TIMES ARRIVE].
There's a man I think you'd like to meet.
Like to meet indeed.
[Tenor]. [$#!?]ing [Trash Heap].
It all went downhill from there. Or uphill, maybe. Some kind of schrodingers hill. Whatever.
Oh, Spamton had said. I'd love to, but I'm pretty busy at the moment. And he really should've just kept working.
No, no. I insist. Go and meet him. He will be at the bar on PCEI street, at 9 pm.
He'd never heard any emotions from the man, other than a mild spectrum of vaguely positive tones. But this time, they were tinged with something else.
Hah, what's got your panties in a twist? Something special about this guy?
Special is an understatement. Do just visit.
Well, just for you, pal, if you want it so much. Are you finally showing your face to me? Surprising me with a little something something for us?
A laugh comes from the other end.
No. But you'll like it nonetheless.
Click.
And. Yeah. He did [love] it. Who doesn't like the quite literally larger-than life mother[$#!?]er and his [Charmin] little ass?
Big ass, actually, if he's being [100% Real juice!]
That aside, he'd seen why the man on the phone wanted him there. [Teen]a was an easy swindle—desperate, stacked, and out-of-touch.
Or it would've been, anyway, if Spamton wasn't a goddamn idiot.
So they'd started working together. Of course, managing the workload of his partner's stupid demanding ass was difficult on top of his dues back in Cyber City, especially when he didn't know when the next time the laptop would be brought over to TV World, but hey. Nothing a little call from the man upstairs wouldn't fix. And maybe it was weird that they knew so much about the light world, and that they knew how to travel between dark worlds without [HAND CARVED BUSTS], but everyone's got their [Confidential Information]. Even if they knew all of his, and he none of theirs. Tenna could see into the light world just fine, so it's not like it couldn't happen or anything. Nevermind that he was TV World and TV World was him, and his benefactor was nobody, or so they said.
You didn't pick up my call.
They were upset. Okay, so he missed one. He'd missed other calls before, big deal.
No, not urgent, but I do expect you to be listening when I call. I am supplying you with secrets and assistance, after all. It's only polite.
Which, at the time, he thought was fair. Now, of course, he'd yell [!?!?] YOU MAN! [!?!?] YOU MAN! [!?!?] YOU MAN! into it, but no changing the [Before times].
Sorry, just had a busy night with Tenna. You know how he is. He'd been smiling, saying that, thinking about the dumb lug.
I would not get so close. It won't end well.
Tsch. Yeah. I know. Fucker's all over the place. He'll be screaming about me for the rest of his days when I give him the slip. Don't you worry about me, pal.
If you say so.
Hah, you sound jealous.
Oh, not at all.
Which, thinking back on it, was the most sincere thing he'd heard from them in months.
One day, [Tengu] was looking for background extras for a shoot. He'd asked him if he wanted on, and, well, why the [heck] not?
There he was, just a face among many. But something about it was intoxicating.
The voice explained long ago what he was. A Spam email, destined to be dying in a Lightner's filtered inbox. An Addison. All we do is advertise!
He'd thought he'd get fulfillment once people would truly look his way.
But there he was, a few blips on the screen, doing nothing. And he wanted more.
He wasn't much of an actor. He could advertise, sure, it's what he was (unfortunately) made for, but acting?
Catch him dead pouting his soul out. But his ever-so-sweet partner let him have a showing here and a place there. Just side characters—A clerk here, a doctor over there—he got the feeling he liked playing dress-up with him.
But he got better at it. Thank the actor of TV world for that.
For someone who needs to keep their distance, this is quite a lot of time you're spending with him.
Spamton snorted. Jealous?
You should stop.
Awfully blunt of you. So, what's next on the chopping block?
Nothing. I just wanted to chat.
They were a good conversationalist, he'll give you that. (Read: great at pulling out his thoughts.[!#&#]ing hell.)
But, more importantly, that was the first time he'd heard about the prophecy.
Not the important bit—[LORD OF SCREENS] came later. Still, as the man spoke, it was as though he'd been seeing it, his vision filtered through blue light.
[Wyrd] magic, he'd thought, like the goddamn [@#$%]ing idiot he was.
I must warn you, this won't end well. I am quite serious about this.
Okay. So it's not like it's a secret he and [Sonar] were crushing on eachother. Workplace flings, amirite? He's an adult, he can do whatever the he[double hockey sticks] he wanted. Sure, all of his fun encounters with [Tremor] left his whole body aching for days—especially his joints, Ow, but what's a little [SOX] without nearly dying?
That's not what I meant. I hesitate to tell you, but…
And there it was.
LORD OF SCREENS, CLEAVED RED BY BLADE.
Ah, was all he could say at the time.
Hesitate to [Teller], my ass, was what he thought now. You were [Wading] for this. You [Brand new!] exactly what would happen.
So Tenna was going to die. That's. Fine. It wasn't going to happen right then. He'll. He'll [Figure eight] out. He just had to stop his innards from twisting into knots everytime he saw his goofy face. [Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy!]
Which. Failed.
—
His hands, locking up—what the [He'll] was wrong with them?—his joints hurting, creaking, crackling—He's not getting [BOLD] yet, is he? [!!!]damn.—tiny little folds down his chin—Is he going to have to visit his plastic [sturgeon] again?
There was a little silver ring, adorned with a fake, lab-made sapphire in his frozen palm. He'd have preferred a real one, harvested from the head of a Postiestar, but [Temu] probably liked his cruelty-free gems. Plus, it was cheaper (too cheap; overpaid anyways; it was made of resin—not even a gem) so it's not like he could complain.
Stupid Idea. Stupid [Lightbulb]. Stupid–Stu9id–5tup<d.
He shoves it into the back of the glove compartment, rotating his whole arm to drop it in. God, he h[8]ed when his hands acted up like that. He shouldn't have gotten it anyways. Who was he to fall for stupid [DEALCE] like that? Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit. Getting a ring shouldn't have even crossed his [Maimed] in the first place.
—
[1997 NO.1 RATED SALESMAN SPAMTON G. SPAMTON] doesn't even remember what [Tome]a even said to convince him to sign. He probably could've said [Any Fin, 20% off!] and he still would've, in the end. Not that it mattered.
Ring, ring, ring.
Because then they'd have told him.
Spamton. I thought I'd told you—his jaw clenched in place, suspiciously cold, mouth drying—My help for you only—segments cracking into place—Don't get attached.
Spamton thinks he was about to say something, but… decided against it? Or, maybe he couldn't? Or…
Look. I'm a kind man. Let me show you what happens next.
Flashes of the future fly through his eyes—Broken screens and Addison screams—and, and, and, and, and, and, and,
he's… running?
He's [!&*#]ed. Or—or [Tendo]'s [@#$#]ed. Or— or something. He needs to, to, to? Get out of [Dodge Grand Caravan, Only]. Should've he told ? or, [Temmie] should [Node]. His legs? Can't feel? What's going [on&on&on] wait no it's fine he's fine he'll just . [Wait, don't,] wait why's he going? He [DID] want to [Autumn Leaves] he was just !
Next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment in Cyber City, frantically dialing.
The number you are looking for no longer exists.
Okay. Okay. So he's cut off. Fine! Whatever! The other number, then.
The number you are looking for no longer exists.
…What? No, no he—he can't have. He—he cut him off too. As soon as he found out he didn't have—[#@$#]. [#%*@][#%@%][$@#&]. Y'know what? It's fine! He'll just go back. He's been through the wilds before. The caller told him how, he's done it a hundred times before. Or maybe he'll call him back. Just. Coincidence. Or something. Or anything.
His hand turns to stone the second he presses against the edge of the world.
Doesn't work. Okay. Something else, then. Surely there must be. Hard work gets you places, and, he'll put in the work to .
—
There's an old dream, lying in the mansion basement.
…
How does he know that…?
—
Skin's itchy. He's been rubbing at it for what feels like hours, but it's well past red and it's not felt any better. Or felt anything but itchy—no pain, not even the sensation of touch. He should be bleeding, but nothing but little glitching red-stained pixels flake off his skin.
More importantly, he's hit something [HEART]. Bone? [Agencies] don't have bones.
A fingernail snakes under skin, squelching, slowly peeling back a line of quickly-desicating white and red. Underneath, it's hard, white, and shiny. He shoves it back into place, but it's too late. It refuses to stretch back into place, a small bit of wrinkly off-white framed by porcelain.
He tapes it down, and hopes that that was it.
The next time he took off his jacket, the inside was lined with white pixels.
The next few times, it was redder.
The next, nothing at all.
Spamton was used to not looking at his body. Not that there were many mirrors in the alleys—when'd he get kicked out of the mansion? And that was why he'd only noticed the joints when his elbow caught his thin sleeve. And that was when he noticed the segments running up and down his body, the hinge joints that made up his digits and the ball joint of his torso. A twisted facsimile of a smile on his face, eyes dead, cheeks stained red, jaw…
None of which was real, of course. Some kind of— some kind of hallucination. Who knew what fumes flowing off the dark net did to him? Ha. Haehahaeha. Ha. Ha.
[My oh my], look at [[BIG SHOT]] Spamton G. Spamton now.
how long has it been?