Work Text:
I've got a fun little question for you:
What could possibly make a trip through the Trash Zone, of ALL places, feel like a dandy little stroll through a park on a fine summer's day?
Wanna take a guess?
… Well it's not the rolling windswept mountains of garbage, you can cross that off the list. It's not the ravenous maus nipping at your heels or the viscous little virovirokun's eyeing you from behind mounds of trash, nice try though–
–and no, it's CERTAINLY not the pungent stench of rotted code and spoiled hard drives! I mean, unless you're into that sort of thing… who am I to judge?
Alas no, it's none of that… sometimes you'll find the answer to such things is as simple as it is obtuse. A literal landfill, piled to the brim with outdated HTML commands and the husks of malware now made obsolete, can absolutely make for a pleasant little walk… all you need is some pep in your step, an overzealous bit of optimism, and a good ol' fashioned tune to keep you company!
At least, that's what you tell yourself… I mean, if it works for you, then that's all that really matters.
Having clocked out of work some hour or so ago, you had decided to take that long leisurely route home… through the crowded shopping district to grab a quick bite, perusing a few Addison shops here and there with barely a care, before slowly meandering down to the dumping grounds for the swill and sewage of the illustrious Cyber City. It was the kind of lackadaisical wandering that gave you a chance to finally catch your breath, and for just a brief second you almost forgot the constant hustle and bustle of everyday life– that ever looming struggle of finding just an ounce of free time amidst the drudgery…
...ah, but here you are! Treading down that well worn path, you hum a little song as you skip over the scattered debris and puddles of what you presume to be something unpleasantly corrosive as you make your way to the last –but certainly not least– pit stop on your way home: a tiny no name shop, run by an unusually charming little fellow.
You smile pleasantly to yourself, hopping over a broken computer monitor that had tumbled into your path with all the carefree nuance of a child playing hopscotch.
Yes yes, you'd heard the rumors… Spamton G. Spamton was probably the very definition of a con artist– a charlatan, a two-timing hustler, a despicable little deadbeat– whatever words you chose to use, the specifics never quite mattered. You'd heard the warnings, been read the riot act countless times, but despite it all you just couldn't help yourself could you? One curious trip into the Trash Zone to see what all the hubbub was about, and– BOOM! You were back on his doorstep the next day. To say that the two of you made fast friends would be a downright understatement.
And what can you say, really? The little bugger was cute, funny… and as far as you were concerned, that's all that really mattered. In fact, just thinking about that handsome mile-wide smile, had you unconsciously picking up the pace.
Whistling joyfully to yourself as you did, there's a sway in your stride as the song carries you forward, words falling inline to every step you take.
"...Put on your Sunday clothes... there's lots of world out there! Get out the brillantine and dime cigars~!"
His shop –if you could truly call it one– was finally in sight, and as your stride begins to out speed your tempo, you find your jolly little jingle coming to ahead, voice echoing merrily through the barren junk wasteland.
"We're gonna find adventure in the evening air! Girls in white –in a perfumed night– where the lights are as bright as the *stars*!!"
Without so much as knocking, you grab the handle and swing the shop door wide open, practically hopping inside with a fervor to outmatch your impossibly chipper disposition.
“Heeey Spammy~!” your voice trills in a melodic sing-song tone as you unceremoniously toss your bag onto a nearby cardboard box. “I got ya' a little treat while I was in town– some new startup shop selling CD bagels! They smell amazing, I think you’re really gonna–”
"HEY H3Y [[hay is for horses]]– CLOsE THAT DOOR, AND mAKE IT [[snap crackle pop]] DOLL!!"
Before you've even had a chance to get a word in edgewise, a head of slicked back black hair pops up from behind the makeshift desk in the back of the room, two-tone glasses flashing in the harsh synthetic light. In a matter of seconds– that darkner certainly could book it when he really needs to, age be damned– Spamton darts out from behind the shoddy wooden desk and bolts over to your side to slam the door shut, a look of panic painted over his porcelain face. You watch him with a mild sense of surprise, and a much more skeptical sense of curiosity, as the little darkner scurries about– poking his head out the door and peeking through closed blinds fervently, not unlike a maus hiding from a hungry tasque.
"You, uh... gonna clue me in on what's up?" you ask, an amused little laugh teasing at the back of your throat as he fixes you with an annoyed huff, slicking back a few strands of stray hair that came undone in his haste. Once he's absolutely –100% positive– that the coast is clear, Spamton lets out a deep breath before flashing you his trademark award-losing smile.
"WH@T'S UP? WHAT'S Up?!? OH HO, I'LL TELL YOU wHAT'S UP, TOOTS!!" he says haughtily, practically puffing out his chest as he grabs your sleeve and all but drags you across the room. The height difference alone has you stumbling over yourself– you didn't call him little for nothing, what with him barely reaching your waist– but somehow you manage not to trip on any of the many loose floorboards as he escorts you over to his desk.
He parks you in front of said desk, and from where you're standing now you can see stacks on stacks of what appear to be slightly soggy cardboard boxes, each with a logo you've definitely seen before... but can't quite place. A few of them have clearly been rifled through– Spamton's doing, you're sure– but for the most part they seem rather intact. As you take in all these little details, the salesman dives back behind his desk, rummaging through one of the boxes for a moment before finding what he must've been looking for, pulling out–
–a thin piece of plastic... or was it a screen? It certainly looks like one, what with the holographic sheen shining off its laser thin surface. In fact, it almost looks like a pop-up window, except well... he's holding it.
"EHE aHE HA– CHEcK THIS OUT D0LL!!" jumping into the desk, wooden legs creaking under the sudden shift in weight, Spamton holds the screen out for you to see. There's a look of smug pride, and perhaps the tiniest hint of bashful satisfaction, as he soaks in the look of wonder blooming in your eyes.
"SOME [[dumb as a pile of rocks]] LOS3R LEFT THESe BAD BOYS jUST LAYING OUT AND ABOuT, [[ripe for the picking]]!! YOU KNOW YOUr [[ol' pal]] C0ULDN'T SAY nO TO SUCH A [[Once in a Lifetime]] STEAL OF A DEAL!!" he borderline cackles, holding the screen up and all but waving it in your face.
"YESS!R', SPAMTON G. SPAMTON'S GONNa MAKE IT [[BIG]] WITH ThESE!! [[Ticket to the]] BIG ONE, HERE I COmE BABY!!!!"
Tilting your head in obvious confusion, you make a point of poking a finger through the screen in his hand, watching as its holographic surface glitches and warps in response to your touch.
"Cool cool, okay... but what the hell are they?" you ask pointedly, smile cocked and eyebrows raised. "This isn't gonna be a repeat of that time you were selling actual bags of garbage, right?"
"WO@H THERE TOOTS, THOsE [[fun paks]] MADE A KILLING!! I'M NoT A [[licensed professional]] FOR NOTH1NG, I KNOW THESE MARKET TRENDs LIKE THE [[insert appropriate idiom here]]!!" he huffs, taken only slightly aback by your teasing before clearing his throat and throwing on that patented salesman charm again.
"LISTEN, THESE aRE THE REAL DEAL DOLL!! GENuINE BONAFIDE [[Grade A Pasteurized]] FASHI0N FILES!!” he chides, tone clearly baffled, waving the screen around in a tizzy as if the added gesturing will get his very obvious point across. "WHY wITH JUST A [[click and point adventure]], AnYONE CAN BE [[Dressed to the 9's]]!!"
When you give him that same incredulous look for a second time, Spamton clicks his tongue and sighs.
“TSK… A [[front row seats]] DEMoNSTRÂTION 'OUGHTA DO THE TR!CK– JUST YOU WATCH, DEAR!! PrEPARE TO HAVE YOUR SOCkS [[blown to smithereens]]!!"
With an overly dramatic flick of his wrist, Spamton presses a button on the screen– and in a momentary flash, he's engulfed in a shimmering light which fades almost as soon as it appears. Once you blink the white spots away, you immediately realize what all the glitz and glamor was for– the trademark patched-up suit jacket and slacks the salesman always wore had been magically replaced with a snazzy red suit, dress shoes and gaudy fedora included.
To say you couldn't help the quiet 'holyshit' that falls from your lips as you stare, absolutely astounded, would be an understatement.
"Holy moly– look at you!! Don't we look dashing, huh? Is it like, actually real?" you ask, awe and wonder bubbling in your voice as you excitedly lean over the desk to examine his marvelous little feat of quick change. The cloth certainly feels real, if ever so slightly thin, a warm static rolling off its smooth surface, glittering lightly in your hands–
–and so caught up in poking and prodding his new getup, you miss the way Spamton flusters under the unexpected attention, jumping lightly at your scrutinous touch and flushing brightly under the intensity of your gaze. After a hot minute, he yanks himself out of your grip, smoothing out the ruffled fabric of his suit coat with shaky hands.
"H-H3Y NOW–!!! EASY WITH THE M-MERCHANDIsE SWEEThEART!!" he yelps, tugging the brim of his hat down to hide the growing flush spreading over his rosy cheeks. There's just something about the way he looks, so handsome and darling, that you couldn't help but laugh a little– it wasn't often you caught him looking so bashful... it's more than a touch precious.
"Well well... color me impressed, Spammy. I think you could actually make a serious killin' off these," you muse aloud with a cheerful hum, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as you watch him shuffle through another box. Within a few seconds he's found another file that seems to fit his liking, hopping back up onto the desk and sauntering over to you to gesture once more.
"HeHE, YOU'RE TELLINg ME!! JUST G⁰TTA MaKE A FEW [[customizing your user settings]] AND sOME [[free gift wrapping services]] AND THEY'LL BE GOOD! TO!! GO!!!" he laughs, pushing his bicolor glasses up the bridge of his comically long nose.
"...AND UH... HERE!! SINCE I'M SUCH A [[generous man]], I'LL EVEN LET YOU TeST THIS ONE OUT– B-BUT DON'T G0 THINKING I'M gIVING AWAY [[free samples]]!!"
Pushing the file quite abruptly into your chest, you scramble to catch it before it falls onto the desk, clutching it tightly with both hands as if you've forgotten it's just a hologram and not actually made of glass. With it finally in hand, you take a moment to examine the little luminous screen up close– it appears to be no bigger than a smartphone, displaying an image of whatever outfit has been programmed into it along, with a series of customizable settings.
Truly some futuristic internet tech… what will they think up next?
Glancing up from the file, you notice Spamton seemingly trying --and failing-- to make it obvious that he's waiting for you to try it out… hopping lightly from foot to foot and staring at you expectantly.
"... WELL, C'M0N ALR3ADY!! LET'S sEE IT, TOoTS!!"
You can’t help but let out a quaint little laugh at his almost child-like enthusiasm, and after fiddling with the thing another second more, you find the button that you’re looking for. In another dazzling flash, you find yourself engulfed in that familiar blinding light– but unlike last time you know it’s coming, and close your eyes before your retina’s can be assaulted once more. Opening your eyes slowly, carefully, you glance down to find your once tousled work attire has vanished– in its place, you find yourself decked out in an incredibly dapper dark blue suit, not unlike the one Spamton was currently wearing. You knew it was coming, but despite it you can’t help the giddy sense of surprise that washes over you as you give yourself a thorough once over, playing with the stiff silky fabric of your suit jacket and marveling at how fancy it made you feel.
“Y O W Z A!!! YOU’RE LO0KING LIKE A… L!KE A [[#1 Hottest Single In Your Area]] SWE3THEART!!”
Spamton nearly catches you off guard, jumping slightly at the sound of his voice– and what you could only imagine was the sound of a train whistle, oddly enough– as you whip your head up to find him leaning halfway off the table, hearts glowing in those bicolor glasses of his.
If you were to say the look on his face didn’t get your own heart racing just a little, you’d be an absolute liar.
“Huh, you think so? …Cause I was thinking the same thing about you, Spammy~” you say with a sly wink and a teasing smile. Spamton tries to wave you off, but you don't miss the pink little flush that spreads across his face, or the puff of steam clouding out from between his teeth.
“C-CArEFUL W1TH THE [[sugar and spice]] DOLLFACE… YOU’LL GIVE A GUy THE WRONG ID3A ONE OF THESE dAYS...” he murmurs, turning back to his veritable treasure trove of stolen merchandise--
Which, speaking of…
You hadn't noticed it your first go around, but as you take another look at your new duds, you spy a tag on the inside of your lapel… a tag with a label matching the boxes these files were packed in, a label you've definitely seen before…
"Oh my god… I thought this looked familiar!" you gasp, before pointing an accusatory finger at Spamton. "You stole these from Pink, didn't you?!?"
The little Addison throws you a cheeky grin from over his shoulder, glasses glinting mischievously.
"HEH… WHAT THAT [[stick of sugar-free gum]] DOESN'T KnOW W0N'T HURT HIM– BES1DES, HE ShOULDN'T H@VE [[left them out to dry]] LIKE THAT!!" he turns to look at you, pointing another file at you matter-of-factly. "THAT'S THE [[name of the game]] DOLL, EV3RY ADD1SON [[worth their salt]] KnOWS THAT!!"
It's hard to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all ... so you don't. It sometimes baffles you how Addison's could simultaneously be so charming and yet so… so mind-numbingly obtuse when it came to pulling profits. It was enduring, in an insanely infuriating kind of way.
"Right… Well, let me know if you get mugged again. It almost feels like you're kinda asking for it this time..." you say with an exaggerated sigh, trying with all your might to hide the smug little smile creeping over your face as Spamton hits you with an adorable look of faux hurt.
"DArLING, YOU [[ouch ouch it burns]] ME!!" he says with a sniffle, wiping away fake tears with the file he's holding and placing a hand over his heart. "AND aFTER EV3RYThING I'VE DONe 4 YOU, MY [[favorite customer]]..."
With another roll of your eyes, you playfully flick at the brim of his hat, watching with a catty grin as he stumbles back in surprise.
"Yeah yeah, enough with the waterworks… I wanna see some more outfits! C'mon, give me a real fashion show Spammy!” you practically beg, hitting him with the cutest pout and doe eyes you can muster. Just for the hell of it, you even lean forward to run a quick hand down his cheek– perhaps it was a little too heavy-handed… but really, how could you say no to a face that cute?
“Pretty please?"
“W-W3LL GOSH [[honeybun]]... IF YOU’RE ASKIN’ LIKe THAT, HOW COuLD I POSSIbLY SAY NO??” he somehow manages to stammer out with a humbled smile, scratching at the back of his head and looking everywhere but you. There’s a sweet, almost sheepish look in his eyes… shoes scuffing against the desk nervously and glasses glitching ever so slightly, but it’s gone as soon as you notice as he disappears behind the desk once more.
When he pops up again, Spamton's fancy red suit has been replaced with something far more casual– a white cotton button-up, suspenders, and a comfy pair of dress pants. It's stylish, cute, and best of all the fedora's nowhere to be found… thank goodness.
And that's only the beginning.
From there, he really does put on one hell of a show– switching between various outfits, each flashier than the last, and always with the level of gaudy showmanship that you'd expect from 1997's greatest salesman. Most of them are your standard ‘in-fashion picks’, but a few of the files held some real gems–
–an employee uniform for the butlers at Color Cafe, which Spamton seemed especially loath to wear, but you thought he looked cute. A big ol' baggy sweater, gym shorts, and sandals… a bit of an odd choice, but he was nothing if not comfy. The more outlandish outfits like the cowboy getup and the astronaut suit were sideways a treat, especially since Spamton seemed to enjoy wearing those the most.
...and then there were some outfits that had you wondering if Pink just wasn’t being subtle about his preferences, or if he was looking into releasing a new fashion line that was… dare you say, just a tad bit provocative.
Let’s see, there was an incredibly skimpy priest’s robe with matching garters… a very short, very frilly maid’s dress… some rather risque lingerie that Spamton absolutely refused to be seen in…
Now, did you enjoy seeing all the extra skin and the form-fitting dresses that just really… like really accentuated his curves, like my god–
A-Ahem.
Uh, yes… the answer would most definitely be yes, but you decided to keep that to yourself… for now, at least.
At the end of it all though, the last outfit he tried on was definitely your favorite.
In a shimmer of light, Spamton stands before you in a darling blue gown– puffy sheer sleeves, sequins, bows, just the whole nine yards. He takes a good long look at himself, showing off with a cute little twirl, before fixing you with just the biggest goofiest smile he can manage.
"SO... wHAT DO YA TH!NK, TOOTS? I'M L0OKIN' [[Collector's Edition, Mint, Never Opened]] IF I DO S@Y SO MySELF!!" he trills, sashaying across the desk as he excitedly plays with the gossamer fabric, the smile on his face never wavering.
"I'm thinkin' I'm gonna have to start calling you 'doll' if you keep that up. You're just pretty as a picture, Spammy~" you giggle, loving the bashful little blush that creeps over his face.
He gives you another twirl, but before he can land the final step, his heel catches on the hem. It's a quick tumble, nothing serious– in fact he catches himself before he can stumble off and really get a bruisin'–
–but as he does, he accidentally jostles an old radio that's been sitting off to the side on the corner of his desk. A creaking groan of static pours from its dusty speaker, popping and crackling as it slowly comes to life. In a matter of seconds, the once quiet shop– save for the delightfully sarcastic commentary shared between you and Spamton– is now accompanied by the muted beat of some vintage song you'd never heard before.
"Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars~"
"Let me see what spring is like on… Jupiter and Mars~"
You and the tiny Addison, who wasted no time in picking himself up and dusting off the thin layer of dust that's now clinging to his dress, shared a brief look–
–before you see a flash of something, an idea forming in that devious little head of his, and without warning Spamton ever so politely takes your hand in his.
"W3LL THEN SWEETHE@RT… MAY I hAVE THIS DAnCE??" he asks with a wink, pressing his teeth against the back of your hand in a quick little kiss, all while curtsying. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time, full to brimming with something so soft and wholesome that you can't help the flush that spreads like fire across your face.
Any semblance of hiding behind smug comments or sarcasm goes straight out the window, a genuine smile tugging at your lips, a gentle laugh bubbling through up your chest.
"Why, it would be my pleasure Mr. Spamton," you coo, wrapping an arm around his waist and sweeping him off the desk. There's a surprised little squeak that pops from his voice box, clearly not expecting you to take his offer so openly, but the moment his feet touch the ground and you twirl him in your arms… he just can't help but laugh.
And with that, the two of you dance and twirl, dip and saunter, without a care in the world– a feat to be sure, considering the difference in height, but you didn't care. Neither of you care. It's unrefined, messy– with toes stepped on and tripped over constantly, stumbles and fumbles that land with you catching him or just barely vice versa... but it's unrestrained, and more than that, it's fun.
Spamton tries his darndest to dip you at one point, almost managing to until his heels catch on a hole between the floorboards and he trips, the two of you tumbling to the floor in a fit of laughter.
In the bright, almost harsh light of his shop, surrounded by a seemingly endless field of trash and debris that stretches for who knows how far, the two of you dance and laugh like you're the only souls in Cyber City.
As the song slows, quickly coming to its end, you scoop Spamton into your arms. Without a hint of hesitation, he rests his head against your shoulder, hand clasped in yours, breathing heavier than he probably has in quite some time... but still, he's smiling, that same goofy lovable smile. It takes you a moment to realize, but with him in your arms, his head so close to yours, you hear him quietly mumbling, echoing the song that crackled softly through the air.
"...FILL MY [[♡]] WITH SONG, AND L3T ME SING 4EVER MORE... YOU ARE ALL I LONg FOR, ALL I WOrSHIP & ADORE..."
It's that you realize, as you turn to look down at the little puppet in your arms, that he isn't just singing along to the song... he's singing to you. With his hand in yours, you feel his grip on you tighten, and instinctively you interlace his fingers with yours, pulling him closer as you slowly come to a standstill.
"IN OTHER wORDS, PL3ASE BE TRUE... IN OTHEr WORDS, DOLL... I... I LO–"
BANG!
In an ear-splitting second, something loud and harsh thunders against the shop door, causing you both to jump and the radio to sputter to an ominous cold silence. There's a beat, a moment of quiet... but before either of you can do or say anything, it happens again, this time even louder than before, only to be followed by–
"SPAMTON G. SPAMTON, I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE– AND I KNOW YOU STOLE MY SHIT!! GET YOUR STUBBY LITTLE ASS OUT HERE, NOW!!"
A scream, no doubt belonging to the one and only Pink, echoes through the room; banging on the door like a bat out of hell, and wringing the knob so hard you swear he's gonna tear the thing clean off.
You toss Spamton an amused look– clearly enjoying the pissing contest these Addison's just couldn't help but get themselves in– and in return you catch the way he dramatically rolls his eyes and huffs, clearly miffed that the whole mood's just been completely tossed out the window.
"C'mon, let's change before that poor Addison has an aneurysm out there," you say with a snort. Spamton sighs, a puff of steam ghosting out between his teeth as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder.
"STUpID [[$#%¥]] S0RE LOS3R... RUINING OuR FUN..." he mutters petulantly, and you can't help but laugh.
"Yeah, but you DID steal his stuff... it's kind of justified."
"BUT–!!"
You hush him with a finger to his teeth, pinching his cheek playfully as he swats your hand away.
"No buts."
Spamton grumbles, crossing his arms and kicking his feet slightly, but after a moment he finally relents.
"FINEEE... WH@TEVER, I dON'T N33D HIS [[ sloppy seconds ]] aNYWAY... SPAMTON G. SPAMTON CAn MAKE IT ON HIS OwN!! AIN'T THAT RIGhT, DOLL??" he proudly proclaims, puffing out his chest and throwing you a sly little wink and some snappy finger guns, and you return his daring charisma with a giggle and a smile.
Walking over to the desk, you're ready to put him down... but before you manage to, an idea comes to mind. As you place him gently on the rickety wood desktop, you let your hand linger on his rosy cheek... the smooth porcelain beneath your fingers warm to the touch. He catches the soft look in your eyes, a blush already spreading across his confused face, and without an ounce of hesitation you lean in and press a chaste kiss to his teeth.
"I love you too, by the way," you whisper sweetly, absolutely savoring the way he melts with just the slightest touch.
And so... I ask you once more:
What could possibly make a trip through the Trash Zone, of ALL places, feel like a dandy little stroll through a park on a fine summer's day?
If you guessed that all you need is some pep in your step, an overzealous bit of optimism, a good ol' fashioned tune to keep you company, and a wacky little puppet with an award winning smile…
… you'd be correct.