Chapter Text
Spamton raises his head up just in time to match his gaze. Granted, he doesn't have eyes, but they clearly aren't necessary for him to be drilling through the salesman with his glare. He's significantly taller than usual and looms over Spamton in an undoubtedly threatening way.
"Spamton G. Spamton," he starts in an exasperated voice. His screen is turned off and pitch black which, coupled with the usage of the full name, only adds to the dangerous image of him. "You've told me that after this episode with two ad breaks instead of one our views would skyrocket. Yet none of that is happening! Why are they lower than usual? Answer, you slimy, GLOOBY little mailman!"
Although it would sound unserious coming from anybody else in the world (any Dark World, for that matter), Spamton knows that this is the highest offense he could say. Thoughts speed up in his head desperately while he makes a step back towards the wall and sees him follow right after him.
"DON'T'CHA WORRY YOUR BOXY HEAD ABOUT IT! THEY'LL BE BACK UP IN NO TIME AT ALL!"
The answer doesn't satisfy him. Spamton is pressed against the wall, not entirely physically but certainly mentally.
"I employ you to raise my ratings, not lower them! Was this just a scam?! Ugh, but what did I expect from an addison." His dramatic sigh makes Spamton seethe from silent anger. He's no addison anymore, for he is above those lowlife Darkners!
He is CHOSEN.
It's second nature how his BENEFACTOR's influence spills smooth words into his speech that are sure to win over his disposition.
"I GUARANTEE THAT NO TRICKS ARE EVER USED AGAINST YOU. WHILE VIEWERS' INITIAL RECEPTION MAY HAVE BEEN NEGATIVE, IT'S BECAUSE THEY HAVEN'T YET REALISED WHAT IT TRULY MEANS. INSTEAD OF THE REGULAR–"
Neither Spamton nor his BENEFACTOR get to continue. He slams his fist into the wall near his head and sends a crack traveling between the tessellating stars. Spamton's breathing picks up rapidly as he's left to his own devices.
"Spamton."
"ME." Spamton's voice makes him pause his onslaught for a moment. The salesman smiles suddenly. "WHY WOULD I EVER WANT SOMETHING BAD UPON OUR SHOW? I LOVE WORKING WITH YA, BUDDY. I LOVE TV. I'D NEVER–"
It's like something activates in his circuitry upon a flip of a switch, and the next second Spamton finds himself in the tightest hug. A flower blooms on the tip of his nose and his antennas twist around each other coyly.
"How could I ever think you would? Obviously you wouldn't, Spammy!"
It's like a magic word. Works flawlessly every time. Just say that you love TV, and he is all yours. Or so he is with Spamton, at least.
The rule stands the same: just say that you absolutely love and adore TV, and all problems are solved.
"[[I Love TV!]] [I love TV!] [[I Love Watching TV!]] [[I love TV!]] [[I lo-ove TV!]] [I LOVE TV!] [[I L0VE T V!]] [I LOV3 TV!] [1 LO–
It's a dull thunk of plastic against plastic when Spamton hits himself on the head again and again to quell the glitch and the memories it brought up. His face breaks off into stray pixels, completely corrupting his already broken words and sealing him into a torturous loop of repeating them again and again. Puppet hands cradle his head and then smack it again, and finally the glitching starts to subside as Spamton's mind clears just enough to return him to his [Never Better!] reality of his little trash storefront.
This is completely in[Voluntary Admission], he reminds himself, he tells himself, he screams to himself. Spamton didn't mean to be saying that in the first place, not one bit. Is it his [pulls the strings and makes them ring] reminding him of his sins? Does [Heaven] wish to yet again tell him his goals? Spamton always knows them! Gain the [[NEO]], get revenge on the [boob tube], and then he can finally !
It's not his fault this alien body of his is so warped and uncontrollable. Parts of his worn plastic limbs are held together by flimsy ball joints, and yet at times they break out into violent glitches that overload this entire system. His voice box is forever marred and spews out the words he's heard before in any voice but his own. Every day for Spamton is a struggle to build his life anew from the [trash heap]s he lives in. Spite and desire for [[Freedom]] are the sole things that move him forward.
So it's only the fault of [Heaven] if his corrupted form pulls up things from his damned past to fixate on. He was just a puppet that was paraded around as free by the [Gameshow host] and the [[ring ring ring]]. Spamton has nothing to do with that guy! Not a [h0t s1ngl3s] bit!
He could never need [I love TV!] to reach [[Hyperlink Blocked]] and–
Spamton winces, pulled out of his thoughts only to dive down head-first into new ones that are even worse than the rest.
Isn't it funny, after all? He can never say [[Hyperlink Blocked]]. But he can say [I love TV!].
What does it matter if it never helped him, though?
A stray werewire seems to have wandered off the road to Spamton's hideout. Had to be because they were trying to avoid the traffic jams of the many little electro-dashers which are a constant in the city – oh poor [Babys], how ugly they are on those little feet! Spamton's trusty [Ride Around Town!] [[cungadero]]s have always been flawless, on the contrary!
He observes the other Darkners through a narrow gap between the lid of the trash container and its wall. Once the werewire comes close enough, the lid flies open and Spamton's marvelous form is revealed. The deformed plugboy hisses in surprise and stumbles a step backwards, but it's far too late to run.
Now's his chance to be a !
"HEY HE-HE Y HYE!! WON"T YOU HAVE A LITTLE [Genorisity]?"
The salesman jumps out in the open and strides closer to the werewire on his stubby doll legs. An electric current runs through their body from their chord and then disappears in the city's ground motherboard.
"I HAVE WARES FOR [Sales]! [S.POISON], POTION, [[It burns!]] HAIR LOTION!"
Spamton's voice breaks even as he's trying his damn best to [an Addison on a duty!"], and werewire doesn't seem impressed in the slightest. In fact, it quickly runs past him through the hallway.
"WAIT, [Don't touch that–"
The werewire seems to be at its limit and sends an attack of sparks of electricity towards Spamton. He doesn't manage to react on time, and when he's hit, electricity courses through his body and whatever electrics he still may have inside, causing him to [IT BURNS. AW. AW IT BURNS!!!].
He pushes away a stray lock of Spamton's hair. His large, fragile and yet tender hands lift the smaller man's body up. Static dances in the corners of their lips as they share a kiss.
"I love you, Spammy."
"I LOVE TV."
Spamton hides the phone behind himself, even though his comparatively small body can hardly do that. He glares up, and he swears that for a moment, the image is pink and yellow.
"Does anything but that phone even matter to you?!"
"YOU MATTER TO ME! I LOVE TV!"
He's sitting on the ground and Spamton sits beside him. Their heights are nearly equal, and Spamton isn't the shorter one this time.
"WE WILL DEAL WITH IT TOGETHER." He gives the salesman a nervous and yet hopeful look. "I LOVE TV."
THE LORD OF SCREENS
CLEAVED RED BY BLADE
"...NO. NO, IT CAN'T BE. HE CAN'T BE… HE CAN'T DIE!"
Sweat drips down Spamton's entire face so intensely as if it could corrode it all the way to the bone. Or are those tears?
"HE CAN'T DIE, HE JUST CAN'T! I LOVE HIM! [I LOVE TV!]!"
He can still feel tears on his face as he's back in the comfort of the changing room.
"I LOVE TV."
The phone is pink and yellow, and the dial spins, spins, spins around like a nauseating carousel.
"I LOVE TV!"
He's so small, so weak, so helpless and hopeless and fragile. Which one of the two is it? Either? Both?
"I LOVE TV!"
[Heaven] states its will.
"[I LOVE TV!]!]
"I love you too, Spammy." "Does anything but that phone even matter to you?!" "WE WILL DEAL WITH IT TOGETHER."
THE LORD OF SCREENS
CLEAVED RED BY BLADE
"[I LOVE TV!] [[I love TV!]] [I L0VE T V!!!!!]"
Spamton begs. Spamton prays. His voice is silent and his pleas are unanswered.
It's not helping. Saying it isn't helping. Nothing is helping.
The NEO body lies motionless on the tracks. After all, after everything he has done, even after he's achieved a perfect body imbued with a Lightner's essence, he couldn't be anything more than a simple puppet. He got defeated by a handful of kids. Kris and the others.
Static clouds his Dealmaker, replacing the colourful lenses with a flurry of pixel snowflakes. Alone, in the cold, motionless. He's changed three different bodies and all of them are dead. Spamton G. Spamton was four times a shell of a man that might have never been there in the first place.
These abandoned Cungadero tracks shall be Spamton's grave. The torn metallic wings are his bed, and the plates covering his body are his robes. There is no audience.
And yet Spamton calls. Not on the phone, no, not this time nor ever again. He strains his dying vocal chords to produce his own voice, to bend it into needed words. To call for his very own puppet master.
"I… love… TV..."
But nobody came.