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The roar of the applause still held even after the curtains had fallen—everything was wrapping up beautifully. For Tenna, it was like the cheers and laughter had been poured straight into his VHS, playing on loop; he swelled with joy, nearly twice the height he had been when he walked out onstage. His screen glowed, stretching into a wide grin as he stepped behind the curtain to catch up with his co-host, who had already begun walking.
“Oh, Spammy, wasn’t that just marvelous?” Tenna beamed as he caught up with Spamton in two strides. Spamton strutted alongside him—much shorter in comparison, but he had enough bluster to make up for it. He let out a laugh.
“EHEAHEHEA! You bet your [sorry, sorry!] [[@$$]] it was! We knocked those [little angels?] DEAD, baby!”
He threw his hands into the air for emphasis. His smile extending across his face as he turned towards Tenna.
Tenna’s laughter boomed “I’ve never seen the fun-o-meter that high before! Their faces, Spammy—they loved it! They adored us!”
“Well, of course they love us! Who wouldn’t love a couple’a [BIG SHOTS!!] like you and [[all about me!]]” Spamton gave Tenna a sharp pat on the leg and winked.
The two of them moved down the short hallway toward the green room, where the muffled chatter of the crew could be heard.
Tenna slowed a little, shrinking down so he could get a better distance between him and Spamton. The two of them paused, lapsing into a short silence. Tenna fidgeted with his tie nervously.
“Got somethin’ on yer mind, [[BIG]] guy?”
His voice softened in a way Spamton only heard in the quietest hours. “You were incredible—I really mean it. That show was our best one in a long time.” Even without eyes, Spamton could tell he was looking straight into him. “How—“ he glanced back at the stage in thought, before continuing, “—how did you do it?”
“Run that [BUY!] me again?”
Tenna cleared his throat, “You climbed so fast, it’s hard not to be impressed. Just two months ago you were introduced to the show, and now it feels like you’ve been on it your entire life! It’s magnificent, astounding—what’s your secret, Spammy?”
Spamton hummed, it wasn’t really a personal question, and the man genuinely seemed curious. Of course, he couldn’t let him know the details of his success without—repercussions. He shuddered at the thought.
“How did I do it? I guess [[Luck!!]] and a bit of [DETERMINATION.] goes a long way, huh? I just made the right phone [[CALL 1-800-SALVATION]].”
He bit his tongue, internally cursing himself for that last part.
Luckily, Tenna didn’t seem to care, he looked thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask more, but he relented, seemingly accepting Spamton’s answer. “What do you say we grab a couple of drinks, yeah? My treat.”
Spamton laughed—free drinks? With Tenna? Now that was an idea he could get behind. Nothing would end a night more perfectly.
But—
Ring!
It was faint, covered by the buzzing of overhead lights and the voices coming from the other room, but to him, it was as clear as day. His laugh stuttered into a choke, his hands freezing mid-gesture. His whole body went stiff as he turned towards the direction of the sound.
His throat bobbed in a dry swallow, and his hand went automatically to tug at his tie, which suddenly felt like a noose. He let out a nervous laugh.
“Ah—ahhEHEAHEA—[[lucky me!]] Gotta, uh, check somethin’, pal! Somethin’ [important business?] Just remembered—real quick!” He was already backing away, waving his hands frantically as though swatting the invitation out of the air.
Tenna’s screen blinked, surprised. “But Spam—”
“NO drinks! NO time! [Gotta Go Fast!] You understand, don’tcha, big guy?” He was grinning so wide he thought he might crack, sweat gleaming at the corners of his jaw, dripping down to his collar.
And before Tenna could push further, Spamton had already turned tail, making a mad dash toward his room before the phone could stop ringing.
Spamton slammed the door shut behind him, chest heaving as though he’d just sprinted a marathon. Everything seemed a world away now. Only one sound mattered.
Riiiiiiiiiiiing!
It cut sharp and shrill through the dimly lit room. The receiver on the phone pulsed faintly, almost alive, like a beacon in fog. His hands, still shaking from adrenaline, twitched toward it but pulled back again, fingers flexing nervously.
His throat was dry. He wiped the sweat streaking down his face with the back of his sleeve, leaving faint smears against the bright fabric of his show coat.
Shit. He thought, things were going so well.
“C’mon, Spamton,” he hissed to himself. “You’re a [BIG SHOT!!]. This is what you [signed up for]. Answer the call…”
Another trill. Another nail through his skull.
For one fleeting second—just one—he thought of turning and walking back out. Letting it ring. Pretending he never heard it. Pretending that thing on the other end didn’t exist.
But he knew better.
Finally, he mustered enough courage and grabbed the receiver, pressing it against his ear with trembling fingers. His voice tumbled out before he could breathe:
“Well if it isn’t the [[GUY!]]” He cleared his throat, his voice cracking. “Did you SEE it?! The show, the [crowd screaming their lungs out!]? That was all YOU! Couldn’t’a done it without ya! My [angel investor], my [number one]—”
His words gushed out like water from a burst pipe, fevered, frantic gratitude with every syllable. But halfway through his babbling, it spoke up.
“Y O U A R E G E T T I N G A H E A D O F Y O U R S E L F.”
The sound was layered, distorted, every syllable echoing in ways that seemed to bend the air around him. Spamton’s mouth clamped shut instantly. He swallowed so hard it hurt, shoulders curling in as if to make himself smaller.
“…Y-yeah? Ehehh… eheh… I—I didn’t mean—” He paused, voice breaking into a pitiful croak. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, I—just excited, is all! Nothin’ wrong with a little [pep talk!] right?”
His free hand tugged nervously at his tie, trying to loosen it.
The voice didn’t answer at first, only breathed static into his ear, a sound like wind through broken wires. His nerves crackled raw with it.
Then:
“Y O U D O N O T A N S W E R M Y C A L L S.”
Spamton sputtered, unable to answer. The phone was slick in his grip. God, he should be drinking with Tenna right now.
He had been answering the calls, hadn’t he? Sure, there were some nights where he worked later than most, but if the phone rang and he didn’t hear it, it wasn’t his fault! Of course, he would never voice this aloud.
His knees knocked together, the weight of silence on the other end heavier than any answer. His throat worked uselessly.
The voice returned, sharper now, buzzing with accusation:
“W H Y D I D Y O U N O T A N S W E R ?”
Spamton’s stomach twisted. “I was—busy! Just busy! Nothin’ more, I promise, cross my—[[broken wires!]] It ain’t what you think, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t ignore you, never, never! Your [[SIGNAL LOST.]] must be pretty bad over there.”
The static rattled, low and furious, crawling into his head until it felt like his skull was buzzing.
The phone began to shake in his hand.
The receiver shuddered in his grip, plastic rattling. Breath hitching, Spamton tried to yank his hand away from the phone, but to no avail. The cord had wrapped around his wrist, tight and constricting.
A wet sound—a crackling pop, like meat forced through mesh—oozed out of the speaker. Spamton recoiled.
And then, through the speaker, through the very holes where sound should escape, something pushed.
The first fingertip phased through like it had always belonged there. Thin, gray, and dripping like liquid tar, the nail curved into a sharp, needle-like point.
To his horror, the appendage reached out, grabbing his jaw with icy force, covering his mouth.
Spamton’s knees buckled, his back pressing against the wall as he tried to pull away, but the hand held him still.
“P-please—” he rasped. “I—I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?! I’m—always sorry, [[always yours, GUARANTEE!]], just don’t—”
A second hand emerged. Then a third.
They poured through, writhing out of the small holes in the receiver like a web of clay and liquid. Each finger twitched independently, clutching at the air until they found him. They seized his mouth, his tie, his chin, tugging, grasping for more.
For a moment, he thought he might pass out from the shock and fear of it all, but that relief never came.
The voice spoke again, vibrating in the pit of his stomach:
“W H Y D O Y O U H I D E F R O M M E ?”
“I d0n’t! I don’t [[HIDE!]], I don’t—I never do, I never could, not fr0m [[you.]]—!” The words poured out, frantic, desperate. His eyes were wet now, tears stinging the corners before spilling fast down his cheeks. He didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
The hands crawled across his face, covering his mouth, prying at his eyelids, tugging at his hair. Another clawed into the collar of his shirt, cold fingers dragging against his throat.
His breathing hitched, panicked, high and shallow. He clawed at the hands, but every time he wrenched one away, two more slithered out of the receiver to replace it.
One curled around his neck. Tightened.
His feet scrambled against the floor, heels knocking against the legs of the chair. He wheezed, the sound thin and pitiful.
The voice reverberated again, rattling through his skull:
“Y O U A R E N O T G R A T E F U L .”
Spamton sobbed, the sound muffled by the hand clamped over his mouth. His tears dripped hot down his chin.
The hand froze, then slowly, deliberately, caressed the side of his face. Its touch was clammy, almost tender, thumb tracing down the sharp angle of his jaw as though mocking the gesture of comfort.
His whole body shook. He couldn’t stop it. He bit down on his lip hard enough to sting, but another sob forced its way up, and another.
“I N T E R E S T I NG.”
Spamton flinched, a small squeak escaping him before he could choke it back.
The other hands closed in. One brushed across his other cheek, smearing slime. Another hovered at his mouth, fingers prying at the edges of his lips as though to pull his smile wider.
This was a nightmare. That had to be it.
Another hand pinched his nose shut, cutting off his air entirely. His body jerked in panic, chest heaving with the need to breathe. His vision sparkled with black spots.
The voice pressed, uncaring:
“Y O U F O R G E T Y O U R S E L F .”
Spamton shook his head wildly, hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, tears flying. His muffled cries broke into choked gagging sounds, his lungs clawing for air that wouldn’t come.
The hands pressed harder, nails biting against his skin.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—
And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. The hands receded like a cord pulled to its max, snapping back into the phone with a wet squelch. The phone clattered from his grip, slamming against the table with a hollow crack, before dangling lifeless by the cord. Spamton fell to his hands and knees, greedily gulping for air.
His stomach turned over violently, sour and hollow all at once. He pitched forward onto his hands, gagging. He clawed at his throat as though the touch was still there, red marks already forming against his pale skin.
He choked, spat, then lurched again, gasping miserably as he vomited onto the floor. He coughed between retches, strings of spit hanging from his lips, every convulsion wrenching sobs from his chest.
His chest heaved with broken sobs, lips parted. For a few seconds he let himself sit there, dazed. His hands clutched weakly at the floor, fingernails scraping the tile, searching for something to hold on to.
In a sudden surge of anger, Spamton slammed his fists against the tile and pushed himself up.
“I’M N0T A [T0Y]!” he screamed, voice warbling and tearing itself apart, bouncing between registers. “I’M A [BIG SHOT!! BIG SHOT!!]—A REAL ONE! YOU [[heard]] ME?!”
He seized a chair, slamming it down on the table phone with a resounding crack! He howled, hitting it repeatedly until the phone was shattered into tiny plastic shards across the floor.
“I DON’T NEED—DON’T NEED—[[YOUR STRINGS!]]” His voice cracked violently. “I’m—big—on my own—I am—I AM—”
The words collapsed into a pitiful whimper. He panted, taking a look at the trashed room, shame burning from deep within.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Spamton? Are you in there? I heard yelling, are you okay?”
He froze, instinctively taking a step towards the door. A piece of plastic crunched beneath his shoes and he halted. No. Tenna couldn’t see him like this. He hadn’t calmed down yet.
And what if it wasn’t Tenna—could it be another trick? Some sick game his benefactor came up with to teach him a lesson? It had to be.
He dropped to his knees hard, curling into himself and gripping his hair. Maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it, it would go away.
For a minute, there was silence—Spamton heard some shuffling on the other side, but eventually it went quiet. He looked up, relieved.
Then—
CRACK!
The door nearly flew off the hinges. Revealing a very distressed looking Tenna.
“I am so so sorry! You weren’t answering and I got worried that you were hurt or worse and if I left you here and something bad was going on I don’t think I’d be able to ever forgive myself and—“ He cut himself off.
“Spamton? What’s happened?” Tenna whispered, all the frantic momentum draining out of him. In two enormous strides, he was kneeling—well, as close as his fifteen-foot frame could manage—and reaching out with his broad hands.
Spamton startled at the touch, jerking like he’d been shocked, but when Tenna’s hand settled gently against his back, the dam burst.
A broken sob ripped out of Spamton’s throat, and suddenly he was clinging. His small fingers fisted into Tenna’s coat, burying his face deep into the fabric as though hiding from something only he could see. His body shook with every ragged breath.
“I—I c-can’t—I—” He choked on the words, trembling harder, shaking like a leaf in a storm. “D-don’t ask—don’t—just—just don’t—”
Tenna stiffened in shock. He had never seen Spamton cry—never even seen him lose composure like this. The salesman was always loud, brash, desperate to look bigger than he was.
He swallowed, lowering his voice as gently as he could manage. “Alright, Spammy. I won’t ask. Just breathe, yes? You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”
Spamton clutched tighter, the words tumbling out in broken static between sobs. “I-I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I just—I had to—I [[cant explain until you’re all alone.]]”
“It’s okay, I won’t press.” Tenna soothed, patting his back with care.
The room was still a ruin, chairs overturned, and the lingering acrid stench of bile. But in the middle of it, Spamton clung to Tenna like he’d drown if he let go, shaking so violently his teeth chattered.
Minutes passed. The sobs ebbed slowly, leaving him hiccuping against Tenna’s coat, breath still ragged and shallow.
Finally, Spamton spoke, voice thin and trembling. “I—I’m sorry about the phone. I broke it. I-I’ll… I’ll [[NEED A REPLACEMENT?]] it, I’ll—”
Tenna blinked, his screen flickering with confusion. His glowing eyes darted toward the table.
“Spammy,” he said softly. “The phone is fine.”
Spamton stiffened. His head jerked up, watery eyes locking onto the table.
The phone sat there in its cradle. Perfect. Untouched. Not a crack on it. Not even dust disturbed.
“Oh.” His grip on the fabric of Tenna’s suit loosened, defeated. “Must’ve—um—been too caught up in everything.”
The pounding of his heart had now been reduced to an unsteady thrum, an air of malaise wrapping around him. He was too tired to be scared anymore.
Tenna nodded, unsure. “I know you don’t want me asking, but I’d really like to know what caused all of this.” He looked at Spamton expectantly.
Spamton sighed, releasing his grip and getting up on unsteady legs, brushing the dust off of his pants. Yeah, fat chance. The idea of telling the television anything was a no-go from the start. But he gave him a shaky smile.
“Thanks for your [[help me…help me…]] big guy, but I’m ready to [[HIT THE HAY!]]. I’ll tell you tomorrow, alright?”
Tenna tilted his head, screen flickering with concern. “Tomorrow,” he echoed softly, though he didn’t quite believe it. Still, he let it go.
“You shouldn’t be driving in this state,” he added, voice firm but kind. “Stay in my office instead. I've got a couch big enough for you. You’ll rest easier there, Spammy.”
Spamton opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. His whole body still trembled, exhaustion dragging at his limbs like lead weights. He couldn’t keep his eyes open much longer, let alone risk the drive to Cyber City.
“…Y-yeah. Sure. [[One night only!]]” He gave a weak laugh, but it died quickly.
Tenna smiled, grateful.
When they arrived, Spamton immediately went to the couch. The salesman curled up without a word, tucking his knees tight against his chest. His shoulders quivered once, but no sound came out. Within minutes, his breathing slowed into an uneven rhythm—more collapse than true sleep.
Tenna stood for a long time, watching over him, his screen dimmed with worry. He didn’t press. He only draped a blanket over Spamton’s small frame and let the silence settle.
Soft light spilled through the blinds, the city outside buzzing faintly awake. Tenna padded out of his bedroom, screen brightening as he stretched his arms wide.
“Spammy?” he called gently. “I thought we could have some breakfast. I can make eggs, or toast—whatever you like.”
Silence.
His gaze fell to the couch. Empty.
The blanket was folded neatly at the corner. On the blanket table sat a note, scrawled in jagged handwriting:
Thanks for letting me crash. I’ve got some important work to get to. See you at the show!
—S.
Tenna’s smile faltered. He picked up the note, reading it twice, his chest heavy.
The apartment was silent except for the hum of the television’s own static.
Well, he supposed he should work on the next script. The show can’t write itself, after all.