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After about 5 hours straight of filming, Spamton finally got the chance to go back to his dressing room to touch up his hair and makeup. Sweat beaded on his forehead from thje bright studio lights, smearing the stage makeup he’d worked so hard on. He could feel a few hair strands out of place; the hair gel having dissolved from the moisture. He wanted to be sure he looked as good as possible for his AD segment once Tenna was done. Maintaining a perfect image was important to him. After all, he was the Spamton G. Spamton. He needed to show everyone who doubted him how wrong they were, especially his old “friends”. Looking into the mirror, the salesman sighed in defeat. How long had he looked like such a mess? This would take much longer than five minutes to fix, but they would just have to wait on him. Spamton picked up the jar of hair gel next to his mirror, scooping a generous amount onto his fingers before running them through his hair, slicking it all back into place. Meticulously resting each one in its place, the addison looked up at the clock to see a whole fifteen minutes had already passed. He’d wanted to fix his makeup too, but he didn’t want to make his partner wait any longer. It would just have to do. Spamton bent down, wiping the gel off of his hands with a towel before tossing it aside. Right as he stood to leave, he caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. Green, glowing, and wrapped around his left wrist; a string.
This wasn’t the first time something like this appeared, but it’s been getting more frequent. Looking down at his arm, he expected the string to only appear in the mirror, some sort of illusion. It was just his mind playing tricks on him like always. But not this time. This time, when spamton looked down, a string was wrapped tightly around his wrist, pulling painfully on the skin. Lifting up both arms, he noticed there were more. Delicate strings wrapped around the joints of his arms, a tugging sensation began on his hands, causing his fingers to curl. Panic began to swell in his chest, a tight feeling corkscrewing through his entire body. The salesman failed to notice his breathing rapidly increasing in pace or the way his eyes went slightly out of focus. Every breath sounded strained, a small wheeze following each inhale. His hands trembled as he backed away from the mirror, tripping over an ottoman and hitting the ground hard. The action startled him, and he crawled backwards, slamming his back into his dressing room wall.
Everywhere, they were everywhere. All over his hands, his legs, he could even feel one tightening around his neck. The friction was causing a burning sensation, and the pain was growing by the second. Any attempt to focus his eyes was met with resistance by his panic-ridden brain. A black haziness began to close in on his peripheral vision. Spamton panicked, desperately trying to get them off. He began to scratch wildly at his arms, attempting to pull the strings off his body. It stung, a feeling surely caused by them tightening. It would all go away once he got them off, he just needed them off. He scratched and scratched, feeling something beginning to pile up under his nails. His arms felt hot, and the addison was beginning to feel dizzy. Potentially even nauseous. Whenever he realized it wasn’t working, Spamton’s panic only worsened. His hands shot up to his hair, an action that didn’t feel entirely like his own. They curled around pieces of his hair, and he began to pull as hard as he could. A soft, black chunk fell onto the floor beneath him, but he just readjusted his grip and kept pulling. It was the only sensation that felt real to him. His vision was swimming, the colors and textures changing too rapidly for him to explain. Everything was out of place, switching between different versions of how they were before and what they could be some day.
The sound of his own breathing was drowned out as the noise of a phone ringing began to grow louder and louder. The shrill tone made his ears ache. One hand still in his hair, Spamton cupped the other over his ear in a weak attempt to block out some of the noise. It failed, the sound increasing in volume until it felt his ear drums would burst. It shook his whole skull, as if the phone itself had been placed inside. He curled in on himself, begging- pleading for the noise to stop, for the strings to stop pulling. It was burning. It was burning and it wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t take it anymore somebody god please make it stop-
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It had been a little too long since Spamton visited his dressing room, and Tenna was feeling a bit antsy. It started out as frustration. Annoyedly, the TV host would periodically check his watch, tapping a shoe to the ground as he glanced over to the salesman’s closed door, having to reassure his crew that he would ’surely only be just a minute longer!’ Then that frustration turned to anger. Who the HECK does he think he is making our viewers wait like this??Then it was fear. Did he leave? Abandon ship? What happens when I check his dressing room? Then it was shame. Of course he left. Why would he stick around with someone like you ? Now, internally spiraling with all sorts of convoluted feelings, Tenna sucks in a deep breath, clapping his hands together as he faces his crew with a tense, neurotic grin— all teeth. “Give me. Just a moment, folks! Wrap it up for now, Mike. We’ll be back on in five!” He wags a clawed finger in the air, antennae twitching at the loud smack of a clapperboard, the large TV host having to carefully step his way through a crowd of (significantly smaller) pippins hauling ass to the break room.
Now with the formalities out of the way, Tenna focuses his gaze on the door to Spamton’s dressing room, his tail beginning to agitatedly lash back and forth. Despite his angry demeanor, however, he can’t help but feel a deep surge of worry course through his wires… worry over what may be waiting for him (or, more sickeningly, not waiting for him) behind this sparking threshold. Tentatively, he rests a hand on the knob, before twisting it with great force, ‘brow’ furrowing as he pushes his way through the room, working himself up to tell his partner off for slacking on the job.
“Spamton G. Spamton, you little cheat, we’re on in FIVE!!! Why, I oughta—-“
He strides in with confident indignation, his gloved hand clenched into a goofy fist… until he spots him. Pausing in the doorway, the TV host gawks at the small, hysterical figure of his partner curled up in a corner against the wall, mumbling inaudible nothings to himself. Dumbly, he stands there in silence, completely still, as he watches the salesman quiver and whine on the ground like a scared, frantic animal. Suddenly, though, the severity of the situation seems to resonate with Tenna, as he quickly snaps out of his trance, his once angry expression twisting into one of horror and sympathy, tail tucking between his legs. Quickly shutting the door behind him, he rushes over to Spamton’s side, kneeling down next to him with an extended hand hesitantly hovering over the addison’s shoulder, unsure of whether or not he should touch him like this.
“S-Spammy?? Spam?? Buddy ol’ pal??? You alright???? You— *Eugh-*” He tries to disguise the nausea in his voice as much as possible when he notices the pile of hair on the floor. Did he do this to himself?? Panicked, Tenna decides to finally commit to grabbing Spamton’s shoulder, antennae drooping with concern.
“What the heck happened?!? Is this because of your performance?? Spam, you were great!! A tried-and-true Big Shot in all meanings of the words!! I uh— I know I said we need to work on your pacing but— but that was just...well that was just silly of me!! Honest!! Please don’t stress about it too much!! Or at all, even!!” This is all your fault. You were too hard on him and now he’s going to resent you forever. Why do you keep pushing everyone away?
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The salesman was lost in his own head, completely unaware of the fact that Tenna was talking to him or had even entered the room. His partner's speech was muffled by the ringing in his ears. After a moment he processed the feeling of something gripping his shoulder, and he flew backwards, uncurling and slamming the back of his head into the wall. He scrambled to remove the strings that were now wrapped around his shoulder, pulling them off forcefully.
“D0N’𐌕 [[TOUC#]] M3!!” He screamed, voice heavily distorted by the panic. The sensation on his shoulder lingered, sharp and burning, as if the wires were still digging into his skin. It seemed that no matter how many he removed, more and more kept showing up. Why, what had he done wrong? He followed all the instructions to the letter! He hadn’t messed anything up, he’d met every quota, he always listened! Why now? Why was his freedom being ripped from him in this very moment? Everything he’d done had been under the promise that one day he would finally be free from it all. Staring at the dark and blurry figure before him, the addison started to beg for his life. Pleading to have an ounce of his freedom back.
“I’m- I’m s0rry, okay? I- I [[don’t touch that dial!]] know what I- what I [did you know?] but I C4N [Three Easy Fixes]!! Just- Just G1VE ME SOM3 [[GENEROSITY]]!! A- week, I can fix it in a [weak]!” Spamton was sweating bullets, shaking like a leaf as his hand clawed at the hardwood floor beneath him in search of something to grab on to. One hand remained in his hair, continuing to pull out small strands. A nervous, manic smile spread across his face, a desperate attempt to hide the fear that surged through his bones. A good businessman never showed fear, especially not in the middle of a deal as important as this.
Tenna recoils with great haste when Spamton screams at him, stumbling backward to the point of almost losing his footing, antennae spiking upward in shock.
“I—- Okay!! Okay!! Yeesh— I’m sorry!! I’m just tryna—“He defensively holds up his hands, cutting himself off with a nervous hum- unsure of what to even do here. Once Spamton starts to beg, the horror and confusion on Tenna’s face only grows. He takes a shaky step back, tail anxiously curling around his own leg. “Spammy— what are you talking about?? Fix what?? I don’t—- I don’t understand...” Seeing the salesman clawing at his hair again, the TV host acts on sheer impulse, lunging forward to grab his partner’s hand, forcing it away from his face. He attempts to be as gentle as possible, practically sweating at this point.
“H-Hey! Spam. Spamton. It’s me. It’s your buddy Tenna!! You know… uh…” He coughs, and then awkwardly raises a hand, jazzily shaking it. “…Mr. ‘Ant’ Tenna’s T.V Tiiiiimmee..!” His voice is hoarse and weary. “You gotta at LEAST remember the jingle, right??”
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The addison shows obvious discomfort at having his hand grabbed, an expression where if you look hard enough it morphs slightly into fear. This time, instead of jerking back he just freezes. Spamton’s brain seems to buffer for a moment as Tenna sings his little song, blinking heavily. Then, the salesman’s shoulders relax slightly and a hint of recognition sparks in his eyes. Tenna? What is he, how did he even get-? But wait…Tenna is here, he can help him! Spamton really didn’t like asking for help, but they were partners, surely it couldn’t hurt just this once right? Obviously Tenna could see them too, couldn’t he? I mean they were everywhere for Christ’s sake. He was probably just ignoring them for Spamton’s sake, the CRT knew how much he liked his privacy!! The show host was always talking about how you can “learn anything” on TV so surely he knew something about-
Spamton’s smile fades as his thoughts are cut off by outside interjections. The Lord of Screens Cleaved Red by the Blade. Tenna couldn’t help him, not with this. He wouldn’t- he wouldn’t even be alive in god knows how long! Any second now, Tenna could be gone, and Spamton would be all alone again. It was a thought he tried his best to ignore, but the voice repeated the prophecy over and over again, words echoing in his mind. He swallowed hard, a sudden urge to flee overcoming him, but he couldn’t move. He was being pulled downwards by an unseeable force, locking him into place. Any attempting at moving to stand was met with immediate and powerful resistance. He couldn’t get up if he wanted to, and trust that he really did want to. The string around his neck tightened, and suddenly the salesman was struggling to breathe. His chest burned, each inhale coming shorter and shorter. He felt himself growing more confused. He was no longer sure what he had been doing before, or where he even was. Or for a matter of fact when he was. Everything was starting to slide together, months and years blending into a slurry of smeared pictures and distorted sounds. He knew his name, that Tenna was here for some reason, and those were the only concrete pieces of reality. That, and the strings. Their glow grew brighter, and Spamton squeezed his eyes shut to shield from it. He hated the dark, but was much more displeased with the alternative.
A wave of relief and glee ripples through Tenna’s otherwise nervous expression as the jingle actually manages to spark a bit of recognition in Spamton’s eyes. “See?? It’s me!! Mr. Ant Tenna!! Tens!! Cathode!! CRT!!! Superstar!!!!” Unsure of what else to do, the TV host just starts rattling off various nicknames Spamton tends to call him, in hopes of snapping his partner further back into reality. The salesman only seems to dissociate again, though, as he starts panting and glancing around. Tenna frowns in defeat. You’re so bad at this. Why are you so bad at this? At a complete loss now, the TV host decides to act on the first thought that comes to mind, leading him to scoop Spamton up into his arms, and pull him into a tight, reassuring hug. This better work. Please please work. Tentatively, Tenna begins to softly hum the tune to his show’s themesong. Maybe this will jog something?
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This was a terrible idea. Spamton hated hugs, especially all encompassing ones like that. They made him feel small, and Tenna knew how Spamton felt about displays of affection. The salesman preferred to be the one initiating them, otherwise he would usually wave Tenna off. However, for some reason, this seemed to be working. The hug equalized the pressure he felt from the strings with the rest of his body, making it so there was no noticeable difference. He couldn’t feel them anymore, at least not distinctly. It’s like they were never there in the first place. Something about it just felt…comforting, not that he’d ever admit that. Spamton could still hear the phone ringing, but it wasn’t as harsh. The sound began to fade into the background, and slowly his body began to relax. Now that the addison could actually hear himself breathing, he noticed how bad it was and made a conscious effort to try and fix it. He was still scared and confused and frankly embarrassed now that he was starting to regain some of his sensibility, but he was starting to improve. Knowing there was nothing that could save his pride in this moment, he leaned further into his partners embrace, using the sound of Tenna’s heartbeat to drown out the last remnants of the ringing.
Subconsciously, Tenna begins to slowly rock side to side. Whether it be for self-soothing purposes or for Spamton’s sake, the TV host has no idea… probably a little bit of both. Still humming the tune to his stupid jingle, Tenna sighs with relief once he notices the salesman in his arms beginning to actually calm down.. his breathing having now slowed to a semi-normal pace.
“There you are, Big Shot.” He coos, running a gentle claw through the addison’s hair. “Everything’s gonna be just.. hunky doody! Heh! …I promise. I’ll just tell Mike to play some reruns for the rest of the day. That way our viewers’ socks will be even more knocked off tomorrow when we return with new content!”
Spamton didn’t acknowledge anything of what Tenna said about the re-runs, burying his face further into the CRT’s suit jacket. He stayed like that for a moment, taking a shaky inhale before speaking again. “Get rid of them…please. I dont [want to see them around town?] anymore.” A hand gripped Tenna’s pant leg, hardly using enough force for Tenna to notice considering the size difference. “Please make them [going away for a long time].” With the way Spamton’s voice wavered on those last couple of words, it almost sounded like he was crying! Then, his shoulders started trembling. He was crying. Spamton G. Spamton, this years number one rated salesman, was crying? He couldn’t remember the last time he let himself cry, especially in front of somebody. Just when he thought he had himself under control here he went fucking it all up again. The salesman should’ve seen this coming, crying usually followed the panic once he calmed down. He just hoped maybe it would’ve been different this time? And asking for help??? How low you’ve stooped….
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Antennae flicking upward, Tenna considers Spamton’s words with a puzzled frown, ‘brow’ arching. “Get rid of what? I-“ As soon as the salesman’s shoulders start to tremble, the TV host’s heart sinks. Was he… crying? Spamton? Crying?? He never thought he’d see the day. Now here he was… not only crying, but crying into him. Hugging him. Today was certainly turning out to be strangely historic. Hesitantly, Tenna begins to rub a comforting circle into his partner’s back, supportively patting him once or twice as he sobs into his suit jacket .
“There, there. Heheh.. can’t say I’ve ever seen you cry before, Spammy. What’s got you worked up like this? Is it someone on the crew? I can fire whoever it is you need me to fire— just say the word!! Anything for my 𝒮𝓊𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇!”
Spamton shook his head. How could Tenna not know what he was talking about when it was so glaringly obvious?! He sniffled, pulling back slightly to look his partner in the eyes.
“No, the [strings]! Can’t you-“ Spamton looked down, noticing a distinct lack of mysterious all-powerful glowing green strings wrapped around his joints. They weren’t there. They were never real. Spamton had just made a complete and total fool of himself over something imaginary, flung himself into a panic attack over some minor hallucination. He sat there, so shocked he had completely stopped crying. He felt his face heat up, shame creeping up on him. He sat back, straightening his tie and slicking back his hair.
“Wow, [what the Heck!] was fhat??” Spamton laughed nervously, using one of Tenna’s own voice recordings back at him. “Sorry you had to see that, [Cathode], no clue what came over me! Well, I’m [a-okay!] now, so if you want we can [get back on the grind].” Spamton stood, brushing himself off and adjusting his tie one more time. He noticed the look Tenna was giving him, and he hated it. Spamton hated when people looked at him like that. Pity and sympathy, the last things he needed. He also detected that Tenna seemed unsure about the idea of going back to filming. “Unless, of course, you aren’t feeling up to it. That’s totally fine, [re-runs all day on channel six] is it then!” The salesman clapped his hands together, walking past Tenna and patting him on the shoulder. He rested there for a moment, maintaining the contact. “Thanks for uh…all of that, Superstar. You’re a real [lifesavers], you know that? Just maybe…knock next time or somethin’. I’ve got some scripts to edit. [Catch you later!], Ant.” Spamton rushed off rather quickly, whistling to himself as he exited his dressing room and headed towards his office.
That had been a close one. Much, much too close. He couldn’t tell him, could he? The show host would think he was a liar at best and insane at worst, neither of which were good options. How are you even supposed to begin explaining that a mysterious otherworldly person started calling you on the phone to give you business advice but is now telling you prophecies of the future and threatening your autonomy while slowly chipping away at your sanity in a way too discreet to pinpoint? Even hearing it in his thoughts the salesman was sure he sounded like a fucking nut job. Why couldn’t Tenna just accept the answers he was given? Why did his partner have to insist on putting himself in danger by sticking his nose in places it shouldn’t be?! He sighed, slowing his pace as he continued down the hallway. This was going to be a very long day.