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This was supposed to be the best night of his life. He was about to get everything, his own show. Security. But Spamton couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. He tries his best to play it off. Accepting the drink offered to him by Tenna with perhaps a bit too much eagerness. But it’s easy to chat with his partner about their plans for the future with the additional buzz of alcohol to push him along. Spamton knew how to hide his feelings. Knew how to hide a lot more than that as a matter of fact. The small scars from where he’d begun to obsessively scratch at his arms for hours on end. The shadows under his eyes. He had to pretend they weren’t there. That he wasn’t falling apart at the seams. Tenna already had so much on his back he just couldn’t add this on to the pile as well. Maybe, once the deal was signed and they had settled further into this new relationship, they found themselves in. Maybe then Spamton could open up just a little. Give himself some room to breathe.
The conversation feels stiffer than usual. And Spamton can feel the concerned glances Tenna keeps throwing his way. But he does his best to brush them off. To push through, keep the vibe positive. This was supposed to be a good night. There was no time for Spamton to break down right now. He gives his partner a bright grin as he's offered the form. Beginning to sign it with his usual flourish. Until the phone ringing breaks the relative peace that they had created for themselves. And they share a grimace. Not now, hadn’t he explicitly said not to call him now? He could just finish his signature. He’d already written the first S. But the ringing does not stop. It will never stop, always there in the back of his mind. Constant endless ringing that keeps him up at night. He needs to answer-
The phone should have automatically hung up by now. Tenna had ignored enough calls to know how long that obnoxious ringing was supposed to last. Yet it does not end. As they're both forced to listen to the noise. Over and Over. Spamton grimaces at him.
“I’m sorry [Big shot], Is it alright if I get that?”
Is he sorry? Does he care? Spamton had assured him that he was his priority tonight. Yet here he was. Halfway through signing their biggest deal and he wants to answer a phone call. His mouth twitches into a tight grin. Too much fang, too strained, but Spamton doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring at that goddamn phone? Tenna knew he should have-
Unplugged that damn thing. That was the first thing Spamton should have done when he walked into this room. This was his deal, not theirs. They weren’t going to take this away from him. He tears his gaze away from the phone with a forced smile. Trying his best to look apologetic for the interruption. The ringing is all he can hear; it claws for his attention while he stares at Tenna. The CRT responds. Gesturing towards the phone. And Spamton can only pray that he had said yes. His hands tremble as he pulls away from the table. Climbing down the stool he’d been sitting on and making his way over to the phone. The closer he gets, the more the noise digs into his head. Demanding to be answered. Oh, how he wished he could just hang up the phone. Ignore the call and get on with his deal. But it was too risky; he couldn’t lose this. He refused to fall back into his old ways. Back to the same level as all those other Addisons.
With a trembling hand, he lifts the receiver to his ear. And listens. At first, there is static and then there are words. They weigh heavy in his mind, pushing out all other thoughts. For heaven demanded all that he had and all he would receive. And with certainty in their words, the angel declares.
“…The lord of screens. Cleaved red by blade.”
A shattered screen, a broken body. A child, no, three children. They stand over a man driven mad by loneliness. Tenna was going to die. But why tell him this? Why let him know? Was it the deal? Was it his fault? Blood dripping down broken glass, the last hushed gasp of a partner. Dead, he was dead. He was gone. Heaven, why had you called him now? Why? Why? Why!?-
Why wasn’t Spamton doing anything? Tenna rises from his seat, trying to get a better look at his partner.
“Big shot? Are you okay?”
Spamton held the phone to his ear. Yet he did not speak. He steps away from the desk, walking over to his shaking partner. Had something happened? He’d never seen Spamton look so terrified before. Even when he looms over Spamton, his presence is ignored. The salesman is too far away, somewhere distant. And yet he stands before him. Barely a metre away. Tenna walks closer and rests a hand on his shoulder. Giving Spamton a light shake. No response. Not even a twitch. His eyes do not see him; they stare into distance. Glazed over and dull. He gives Spamton another shake, this time with enough force to rock his head back and forth.
“Spam? Talk to me-“
He’s cut off by a gasp. And Spamton drops the receiver so quickly, it's as if it had burned him.. He jolts out of Tenna’s touch. Backing away from his as tears well up in his eyes. He looks up. And his gaze stares through him.
“I need [to get out of here!]”
“What? What about-
-the deal?”
Yes, that was right, they were signing a deal, weren’t they? Spamton can’t remember; his vision was tunnelling in. His breathing turning shallow. He takes one step away from the phone. And he runs. Out the door. Out of the building. He hears Tenna chase after him. Hears him call out to him, fighting past-
The crowd is too packed, he can’t move fast enough. Spamton moves further and further away and Tenna is helpless to do anything but watch. He doesn’t know when he’d given up-
But soon his voice dims and fades away, and still Spamton runs. Past familiar buildings, down the roads he travelled every day. The words loop in his head, and endless echo. The lord of screens. Shattered, broken, dying, dead. He was gone and dead. He was broken and lost. And Spamton couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. One foot after the other, the movement was automatic in nature. Like someone else had taken the wheel so he could give in to the panic. Could he stop this? Could he save him? Tenna was dead; he was dead. Fate had deemed him a willing sacrifice, and there was nothing Spamton could do. Oh, heaven hear his plea. Save him. Anyone but him, please just make it stop. Change your desire just this once. He pushes forward. Ignoring the burn in his legs as he runs. No destination in mind, he just needed to get away. From the studio, from Tenna from-
The phone hangs limp on the floor. They hadn’t finished the contract, but maybe. Just maybe he could learn the secret he’d been chasing all this time. He holds the receiver in his hands. Even this far he can hear something. It calls to him, encourages his to listen. The world falls away from around him. Tenna wanted to flee, just as much as he wanted to hear what this mysterious caller had to say. He didn’t understand it, the emotions he was feeling. They had twisted and warped until they merged together. Fear became joy and grief became amusement. And all worries about his business partner left him. It calls to him, over and over. It call for him to-
Listen. No matter what he did he could not stop hearing the ringing. The overwhelming ringing. It screamed in his ears, demanded to be known. No matter how far Spamton ran the phone did not stop ringing in his mind. He isn’t sure how long he’s been running for. But the sights of TV world had long since been replaced with the familiar billboards of Cyber City. He moves automatically. Weaving through alleys and streets with one destination in mind. Home. He needed to get back to the mansion, away from everyone. Then he could begin to piece himself back together. Collect his broken thoughts into something more sustainable. Spamton runs and runs. He doesn’t pause, not until he begins to hear something. It’s distant and warped, but he can definitely hear something.
Someone is calling. Yelling out to him-
“Spamton!”
The Addison snapped his head up to look at Swatch. And they freeze. For in his eyes is such a terror that Swatch couldn’t even begin to comprehend what could have caused it. Tears streak down the salesman’s face, his breathing patchy as he pants as if he’d just run a marathon. It takes a moment for the salesman to even register the fact that Swatch is standing in front of him. But when he does, he plasters on a fake grin. Straightening out into the perfect example of politeness. Something that Spamton was not. They couldn’t tear their gaze away from his eyes. The rest of his body was acting casual, but those eyes. They still held onto that deep, unyielding terror. As if someone else was watching Swatch through them.
“It’s the middle of the night, Spamton. What’s going on?”
Their tails flickers at their side as Spamton lets out a hearty laugh. It was so fake, so stiff. Swatch wanted to wince, but that wouldn’t be professional.
“[Don’t Worry about a thing!]. I’m just taking a [Late night stroll] back from TV world.”
There was that tone again, stiff, artificial. Like Spamton was reading from a script, his grin does not waver, his posture never faltering. And his eyes continue to scream for someone to help him. Swatch glances around. Looking for the gaudy red sports car they’d seen Spamton driving around him. But it’s nowhere to be found. And their worry only grows.
“You ran all the way from TV world?”
The salesman pauses. Grin falling for just a second before it's back with a vengeance. He does not look Swatch in the eyes anymore.
“Spamton, perhaps it would be best if you came inside-“
“Goodnight [Big bird.]”
They pause, had they heard that correctly. Big bird? Spamton doesn’t acknowledge the nickname, not even glancing at Swatch as he stumbles his way into the manner. They want to follow. To check up on him and make sure that he’s okay. But Queen would not be pleased if they left their station. They would wait until later. Then they would visit-
His room. He needed to get to his room before anyone else saw him. Each step is impossible. Spamton fights the urge to collapse on the floor, never to stand up again. But something tugs at his legs. Pulling him further into the mansion. His feet burn as he climbs stairs and traverses corridors, but he does not stop until he reaches his room. It's second nature to lock the door behind him. Spamton slides down to the floor, clutching at his chest as he tries to get his breathing under control. It couldn’t be true, it couldn’t be true. Tenna wasn’t going to die. He refused to believe it. The cool dampness of tears drips down his face. This wasn’t fair. He had offered up so much, given everything he could. And the one thing he truly had was going to be gone. He knew it! He knew he shouldn’t-
Listen in. It would be wrong of him, Tenna knew that. For all he knew, Spamton was on his way back right now. Sure, it had been a few hours partner had just up and left him. But surely he was going to come back. He holds the phone in his hands, and it is so tempting. He can practically hear the words being whispered into his mind. Do it. Listen. You don’t need Spamton. You can be a big shot all by yourself. Tenna grins, flashes of fame and attention sparking in his mind. He would be famous. Never ignored, always respected. No fear of being thrown away ever again. He lifts the phone. And listens. Impatient to learn from the one would had given Spamton everything. Static, no, not static. Something more, something bigger. The noise fills his head, and Tenna wants to scream. He wants to cry. He feels terrified, relieved, remorse. Yet he does not know why. The noise fills his head, chips away at who he is and who he will be.
He puts the phone down. He finds Mike. And he orders for it to be destroyed. Mike looks at him in confusion, but Tenna does not elaborate. For even he doesn’t understand-
What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t go back, not now. Not like this. The noise never ends, the phone keeps ringing. And with each passing moment Spamton feels himself drifting away. He scratches at his arms, the phantom sensation of strings driving him insane. He scratches deep beneath the plastic, down to the circuits. And still the phone rings. He couldn’t leave, he had to fix this. The noise never ends, the calls happening one after another. He slips free from his bed. Pacing around his room. Hand up against the wall to support him. Everything hurt. His needs long since ignored. He had to fix this. He had to go back to Tenna. But without his caller, he would surely fail. It had only been a day; he could wait. He just needed more time. Then he would tell Tenna-
What was going on? Spamton hadn’t been seen in a week. Not by the swatchlings, not by the Tasque manager. The Addison hadn’t left his room ever since Swatch had watched him have a breakdown outside the entrance to the colour café. They want to check on him. To see that he is alive. But the ringing, the constant dreadful ringing. They can’t bear to get near it. The phone rings throughout the day and night. Never answered, never acknowledged. Its shrill ringing is agonising and Swatch doesn’t understand how the salesman can put up with it. Sometimes they think they hear movement. Shuffling and scratching more appropriate for a wild animal than a dignified guest. The phone rings, and rings and-
Rings. Yet once more Spamton does not answer the phone. The line is busy, and then it isn’t. And Mike continues to call at Tenna’s command. But Spamton does not answer. He knows Mike’s getting annoyed, he knows he should give up. But he refuses to let go. Every chance he gets, each spare minute of time, Tenna uses to try and contact Spamton. It becomes an obsession. An urge. He needs to get Spamton to notice him again to see him. It’s a thrumming beneath his wires, a deep itch he cannot satiate. He would not be ignored; he refused it. He was TV, a star. Bright and burning, he demanded to be seen. He stalks around Mike, his tail lashing around violently as he tugs at his Antenna. He had another show soon. This would probably be the last call they could make for a few hours. With each ring, Tenna finds himself growing more agitated. A constant repetition in his mind. Pick up. Pick up! Why won’t he-
Pick up the phone. Spamton knew he needed to do it. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. But with each missed call he became keenly aware of the fact he was losing something. An opportunity, a sale. He was flushing his career down the toilet, and he didn’t know why. He felt strange. Foggy. Separated from his body. Sometimes he could move perfectly fine, but other times it felt as if someone else was guiding him along. It made him feel ill. He most likely would have been sick had he actually eaten something over the past couple of days. His wrists are sore, as are his arms. He’d moved on to scratching his thighs to avoid causing himself any major damage to his arms. The call ends. And for a second, there is peaceful silence. Until the shrill ringing starts back up again and Spamton bites back a frustrated groan. Or at least someone bites back a frustrated groan. His mouth feels tight. Stuck in a tight smile that he hadn’t been able to stop for the past two days. It burned. Part of him was afraid the skin had simply torn apart from how tightly he’d been smiling. But that wasn’t possible, he knew that. He’d caught glimpses of himself in the mirror.
He isn’t sure when he slides off the bed. But what he is sure of the fact that he now holds the phone in his hands. And that familiar static was crawling back into his mind like a scorned lover demanding to know where he’s been. There are words, a plan. The basement, Neo. Power. He could fix this, fix everything. Spamton just needed to make his way down to the basement. He just needed to leave-
His room. Swatch hadn’t heard Spamton leave, but he must have, for the door now sat wide open. The darkness they could see did not offer any clues as to the state of the room. And so with caution, they walked into the room. It took them a few seconds to find the light switch. And the moment they managed to turn on the lights, they immediately wished they hadn’t. Spamton’s room was a mess. The phone, which usually sat on a small table, was tangled in the sheet on the bed. It does not ring. For the first time in a week, there is silence. And Swatch feels nothing but dread. For Spamton was not in his room, but there is blood. On the sheets. On the doorknob. Perfect handprints that show the frantic movements that Spamton had been making. Large patches that spread out across the bed. They’d never known Spamton could bleed this much. They barely have a chance to push down the sick rising in their throat when they are swarmed by a group of Swatchlings. And they tell them all about-
The basement. He needed to get back to the basement. Heaven was waiting, and it was angry. He wriggled and he writhed, but the Swatchling did not let him go. Did not care for the dirt he mashed into their perfectly pristine feathers. He fights and he fights. Until the Swatchling places him in front of the Queen. And for the first time in a week, Spamton's mind clears. For he knows this room. He knew that smell. The acid burned at his eyes, the scent suffocating from up close. He tries to back away, but the Swatchling has a firm grasp on his shoulder. He tries to meet their eyes, pleading to be let go. The Swatchling does not return his gaze. The Queen speaks to him. Speaks to him of disappointment, of trust. But worst of all, of punishment. The acid burns his eyes, and soon it will burn his skin, his soul. He wonders if the queen understands what will happen. He is not like her. His body is plastic, weak and worn. Spamton is going to die a failure. He was going to fail. He pleads with the Queen, tries to fight his case. But she will not listen, and the Swatchling does not let him go. And he was going to die, he was going to die. Holy shit, he was going to die.
“C’mon my [Queen!]. I can [DO ANYTHING!]. I can fix this!”
His knees tremble, his smile wobbles. Oh, heaven save him. He knew he had failed, but it wasn’t over for him yet!
“Nah, I like the acid better. You need to relax, man.”
The queen gives a quick gesture of her hand, and Spamton is lifted from the ground. She grins, and the last thing Spamton sees is the red writing in the Queen’s visor. Goodbye. The moment he hits the acid, he feels the plastic material of his body begin to sizzle. His nerves are on fire, and he struggles to stay afloat. Through frantic gasps, he cries to help. For somebody, anybody, to make it stop. To end his suffering. His screams until his voice glitches and breaks. It cracks and pops and it hurts. It hurts so bad. In the distance, he hears laughter. Cold and cruel, it is a sound he does not recognise. The Queen is gone along with the Swatchling. But he cannot swim. He cannot move. No, oh dear angel, no. Save him. Someone save him. Anything but this. Please. Make it stop! It burns! It burns!! He hears the laughter again. Was it heaven? Had they left him? He’d do better next time! He promised! Just save him! Someone save him! It burned. It fucking burned-
“Help!”
Swatch dusts at the vase with caution. Taking care to remove each speck of dust, nothing but perfection for their queen.
“It burns! Make it [stop!]”
They move on to another, repeating the necessary steps with precision. The Queen wanted this done soon after all, and they’d hate to disappoint her. Nothing good ever happened when you disappointed the Queen. They brush the porcelain with care and caution. Just like they always did.
“Swatch! Anybody!”
The vase lies in pieces at their feet, and Swatch feels themselves follow its fall. They slam their hand over their ears in an attempt to muffle the noise as their heart pounds in their ears. Nobody stops; they walk past them as if nothing is wrong. Spamton’s screams last for an hour. And Swatch cries for two. In the end, the swatchlings have to bring them to their room. They swear, in the back of their mind, they can still hear him. Screaming and begging for someone to save him. They want to go check, to ask what had happened to him. But they are still unable to force themselves to-
Move. He needed to move. Mike had given him the phone in the end; his hand still clings around it. But he no longer had the motivation to call. To do anything at all. Tenna needed to do something, anything. He could hear the rest of TV world going about with their day, and yet he couldn’t muster up the courage to stand. To let go of the phone and move on. Spamton was gone; he’d been gone for a week. Nobody had heard from him, nobody had seen him. And each time he asked these questions, the people would grow more frustrated with him. It was getting to such a point that the other darkners had started to ignore Tenna whenever he asked. Mike was trying to keep the show afloat. Lanino and Elnina tried their best to cheer him up, but none of it mattered to Tenna. How could he do this to him? That little mailman had left him behind. He didn’t want to believe that. He couldn’t. It couldn’t be possible that Spamton would just abandon him.
He tightens his grip on the phone. He wants to chuck it, break it against the wall and move on with his life. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sits in the dark. Waiting for a call that will never come. He sits, and sits and yet-
Nobody comes for him. Nobody looks for Spamton in the trash heaps of Cyber City. His body burns. It's warped and broken, and it hurts oh so bad. He knows that he needs to move. Being out in the open like this, even in the garbage, isn’t safe. Not for him. Somebody would take advantage of him. Someone worse on their luck than him. Not that Spamton had anything he could give them. Each broken twitch of his body sends a fresh wave of hell throughout his entire being, and Spamton would scream if he hadn’t completely fried his voice box from all the screaming. Instead, all he can do is desperately pant as he begs for his suffering to end. Whether it be from death or something else, he did not care. He just wanted it to stop. Please, someone just make it…
Somewhere in the distance, a phone rings. Calling to him. Demanding to be answered. Spamton does not mean to, but his arms begin to drag him across the ground. Fresh wounds scraping against cold concrete. He wants it to stop. He needs to stop moving. But his body does not respond. Something is pulling him forward. Forcing him to inch ever closer to the noise. Spamton wanted to cry. But no tears came to him. For he was not allowed to cry. He did not have permission. He is tugged forward again, and this time he goes willingly. Or does he? Everything is slowly becoming a blur. Everything he is and was becoming distant. What was he doing? What was he trying to accomplish? Did he really believe he could defy heaven? Defy the voice of an angel. He begins to crawl. Ignoring each protest, his twisted joints make. His pain did not matter; all he needed to do was answer the phone.
He’s not sure how much time passes before the phone is within his sights. Spamton tries to stand, but his knees buckle beneath him almost instantaneously. He’s sent crashing into the chair the phone is resting on, sending both it and him into the nearest pile of trash. The receiver lands next to his head. And although faint, he hears that familiar voice speak to him once more.
“Have you learned your lesson, little puppet?”
The voice coos in his ear, in the back of his mind. The words are a part of him, and he is not himself. Spamton cries. The pain is too much; he wants this to end. He had become one with the trash. And yet still, heaven spoke to him. Whispered in his ear. Told him how to move, to talk. He would be perfect; he had to be perfect. The angel waits impatiently. He can feel it waiting for an answer. Pushing at his jaw, its fingers slipping down his throat to toy at his vocal cords. He is not himself; he is nobody. The angel demanded a puppet, and Spamton would go willingly. Bend to its will, follow each order. For all he is capable of now is-
Following orders. It was how Swatch pushed forward. With every item they packed away into boxes, they listened to the voice in the back of their mind. Do this, do that. Because Spamton had betrayed them, Spamton had left. And therefore he had no more place in their mind. Another item, another box. Keep moving, never stop moving. Forget the way those screams echoed down the hall. Forget the way that poor Swatchling had broken down with guilt for what they had done. Keep moving. Pack another item, pack away the phone… They paused. Halfway through unplugging the damn thing. It wasn’t ringing. Why wasn’t it ringing? For a week straight, that phone had done nothing but ring. Again and again. Yet now it was silent. They stare at it. The sleek black things that had done nothing but give them a headache ever since Spamton had moved into the mansion. They knew very few numbers. But they knew of one. One man who should be informed of what had happened to Spamton.
Swatch stares at the phone, and somehow the phone stares back. Judging him to call the number that Spamton had given them in case of emergencies. It stared. And somehow they knew. The phone would not ring; it would not let the call get through. It had gotten what it had wanted. And there was nothing they could do. Swatch unplugs the phone. Raises it up high and shatters it on the ground. They spend the next day searching the city for Spamton. It was foolish of them to hope, but they needed something to do after the Swatchlings had banned them from working for the day. They refused to believe that Spamton wasn’t-
-coming back. He should have known the moment that little mailman walked out the door that he wasn’t coming back. But his car was still parked outside the studio. Some spare belongings were still scattered around Tenna’s dressing room. Discarded. Just like him. Just like their deal. He should have seen this coming from a mile away. Why would someone like Spamton care about him? He was nothing, nobody. Tenna clings to the broken shards of the telephone. Fighting the urge to call for Mike. The urge to ask him to call again. Because maybe this time Spamton would answer. Sure, it had been a week, but he must have been busy. Too busy to look Tenna’s way. Too busy to finish signing their deal. Too busy. Always too busy. And Tenna had been patient. So patient. Spamton was his friend, his partner. He had trusted him, given him everything he could and more.
Had it all been a lie? A ruse? The deal still lies on his desk, half signed. He knew he should chuck it away. Or burn it. But instead, he curls himself against the wall. Beneath a promotional poster. It watches over him, mocks him. He had to be on stage in ten minutes. The work never ended. And yet Spamton was not by his side. Once more, Tenna was alone, unwatched. In front of him lies a phone. One untouched by Spamton. But he does not call the number he had memorised by heart. He does not even give the black plastic a glance. Time passes, Tenna stands and smiles. Walking out of his room, towards the stage. Ready to give a performance of two. The show begins, and ends. And he is alone. The audience stares at him with expectation and joy. And he grins. With nobody by his side. He pushes away the sadness, the anger. Buries it away with all his other flaws.
With each show he performs, one thing is clear: Spamton was gone-
He could never come back-
He was a rotten thief-
A cold hearted liar-
A puppet, tied to its strings. Destined to watch as all that was his shattered into a thousand pieces. And he would smile. For the angel had called to him. And placed fate into the palm of his hands.