Chapter Text
The lights on stage dimmed as the show ended. Anthony Tenna stood proudly in the centre of the stage, hand still raised in a silent wave. These moments were always filled with a sort of melancholy, the warm air still buzzing with excitement. As the cameras cut, the charismatic host turned towards the exit, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
His employees flooded the stage, congratulating him on yet another successful show. Anthony accepted their praise with his classic smile on his face, but it didn’t completely reach his eyes. After everyone had left, he made sure to have a chat with the contestants, telling them they’d done great tonight.
It was the same routine Anthony had been following for some years. The show would end, he would speak with the contestants, all the people working with him on the show would leave, and he would stay behind in the studio.
He enjoyed his job, but he was certain this life was wearing on him. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and it definitely showed. He went on as usual, though, ignoring the fact he felt constantly tired, and his head frequently throbbed from the lack of sleep. It had become increasingly clear he couldn’t go on like this forever, even it he hated to admit that to anyone, including himself.
Then, there was the case of his ever-dwindling numbers. Contrary to what his employees made him believe, he wasn’t doing so well. The new, digital age had taken the world by storm, and in it’s wake it had left Anthony with less viewers than he’d had before. Not that he was completely irrelevant, but cable television had simply become less interesting after people could search and watch anything they wanted on the internet. Sometimes, it felt like he was fighting a war, and he wasn’t winning. He needed something to boost his numbers, something to shock the viewers like it never had before.
It was precisely for this reason that he decided to look for a co-host.
They would have to be charismatic, sure, but most importantly, Anthony and them would have to get along well. There had to be a spark, that viewers would come back for. Someone who would help him with writing the scrips, too. Maybe even someone who wouldn’t judge him for who he was. Who’d laugh with him instead of at him. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?
Yes, he’d gotten around to the fact that he needed some help, but now a second problem reared its head: Where would he find such a person? He knew a lot of people around the city, but never had he met someone who he would want to share the stage with.
So, unfortunately for him, he would have to go out and look. Perhaps he’d be lucky, this time.
G. Spamton was not a lucky man. His efforts to make it big in the world had thus far gone… Not so well, and he was beginning to get sick of it. Born into a large family, he’d always been the smallest and weakest sibling. His older brothers and sisters all ignored him, being successful and getting rich. They had all easily adapted to the digital age, but Spamton himself was still going door to door with his products. What could he say, he was old-fashioned like that. While everyone around him was famous, he simply stayed irrelevant, always in the shadow of the rest of his family. It sucked, but Spamton wasn’t one to give up.
Right now, he was sitting miserably at a bar, nursing some alcoholic beverage that he didn’t even enjoy. He always had to join these horrible parties his siblings would throw, he was part of the family, after all. It would look bad on them if he didn’t show up. The lights burned into his eyes, and he was glad he wore his ever-present sunglasses. He thought they made him look mysterious and suave, they were part of his brand.
He looked up when the door opened, and a tall man walked in. His red suit and yellow tie made him stand out, and Spamton wondered where he had seen the guy before. He was probably another rich asshole, someone who would perfectly fit in with everyone around him. The man greeted the people in the room with a warm smile, one that he knew would win over entire crowds of people, and walked over to the bar. He sat down next to Spamton, waiting for the bartender to take his order.
Something in his posture seemed rigid, almost uncomfortable. If Spamton weren’t well-trained in noticing small changes in people’s demeanor, he wouldn’t have known anything was amiss. He was, however, and the more he looked at the man, the more he could tell that he didn’t want to be here. How odd…
The bartender set down a large glass with some sweet liquid inside down in front of the newcomer, and then left as quickly as they had arrived. It was a busy night, no time to waste. Looking down at his beverage, the newcomer’s smile dimmed.
“Ah, I think I might have gotten the wrong… Order,” he trailed off as he realised they weren’t going to hear him in the chaos. He signed, glancing over to his side, where Spamton was sitting. The latter quickly turned his head, acting like he hadn’t been staring.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother, but could I interest you in this drink? I don’t think I would enjoy it, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste,” the tall man said, chuckling awkwardly. He spoke with a strange accent, that vaguely resembled a transatlantic one.
“Thanks, but you can keep it. I don’t like the sweet stuff,” Spamton said. He actually did like the sweet stuff, but he’d rather die than admit that to anyone. Sweet drinks weren’t cool enough.
“You’re welcome to throw it in that plant behind you, though, I’m sure it would be happy with the extra water.”
The unexpected statement got a laugh out of the guy, and Spamton noticed his shoulders getting a little less tight.
“I’m sure the poor thing would wilt immediately from all the sweetness, don’t you think so? The name is Anthony, by the way. Anthony Tenna,” he held out his gloved hand, and Spamton shook it.
“G. Spamton, ‘s a pleasure. You can call me Spamton,” the shorter man said, not bothering with his first name. Looking Anthony in the eyes, Spamton noticed he had barely visible make up on. The sort that people would use while on air.
A new song played, this one even louder than the one before it, and Anthony grimaced. He clearly didn’t enjoy this style of music. Spamton didn’t either.
Anthony Tenna, where had he heard that name before? So many people had been introduced to him today, he could barely keep track of all of them. It didn’t matter, anyway. After tonight he would never see the man again, Spamton didn’t hang out with his kind. Not if he could help it.
After sitting in silence for a while, Anthony spoke up, “Do you usually attend these sorts of parties? You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
Huh. So he was observant. Unexpected, but not unwelcome.
“I would actually rather be anywhere else, if that helps,” Spamton grumbled, swirling the liquid in his glass around.
“Oh, then, if I may ask, why are you here?”
Grinning lazily, he replied, “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
Anthony swallowed, looking a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry for being invasive. If it means anything, I’d like to be somewhere else, too.”
“Yeah?” Spamton raised an eyebrow. “I thought you people liked this sorta stuff.”
Anthony shook his head sadly. “No, I- ah, I am only here because I have to.”
Intriguing… Apparently this guy wasn’t as much of a party-goer either. Spamton wondered what his reasoning was for being here despite that.
“You see,” he continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratory whisper. He certainly was a fan of dramatics. “I am looking for a business partner, of sorts.”
Spamton laughed. “I don’t think this is exactly the place for that, doll. Everyone is focused on dancing and drinking as much as they can before passing out, while trying to not cause a scandal.”
“Oh,” the man’s face fell. “I thought making connections here couldn’t hurt, but they do seem a little preoccupied…”
“Wanna step out for a moment?” Spamton held up a pack of cigarettes. “I doubt anyone will miss us.”
Anthony contemplated that for a moment, looking around the room with a frown.
“Just for a little while,” he replied.
Spamton jumped off his chair, and walked to the exit, pushing away people left and right. Anthony followed, apologising profusely to everyone he bumped into.
There was a slight drizzle as Spamton stepped outside, the cool air feeling light on his skin. He inhaled deeply, this was much better than the sweaty and heavy air inside the cramped bar. Anthony seemed to think so too, because he visibly relaxed.
“Hah, I guess it is way better out here,” he said, accepting the cigarette Spamton offered him. He pulled a fancy lighter from his pocket, one that had the exact same colours as his suit. They smoked together for a while, the silence comfortable.
Anthony sighed, throwing his cigarette onto the floor and stepping on it with the heel of his shoe. He leaned against the side of the building, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket.
“So,” Spamton broke through the quiet. “What do you do for work?”
“Don’t even get me started,” Anthony groaned, dragging his hand over his face. “I host the show TV-TIME, I doubt you’ve ever heard of it.”
Hah, as if! TV-TIME had been the biggest succes of the decade, raking in thousands of views every episode. To say it was popular would be an understatement.
Spamton raised his eyebrows in surprise. “No kidding! I knew I recognised you from somewhere!”
The other only gave a weak chuckle at that, looking a little flustered. “Well, you found me! I promise I’m not all that special, though. No one really cares about TV anymore.”
That last part sounded bitter, and Spamton wondered what had happened to make him think like that.
“What about you?” the showhost said, changing the subject. “What keeps you busy?”
“Oh, I do all sorts of work. Sometimes I’m a salesman, sometimes an engineer, depends on the customer, you know?” Spamton wasn’t ashamed of what he did, but he wasn’t proud of his work either. It was nothing noteworthy, really.
“So a jack of all trades, then! You must be very talented to pull all of that off.”
Spamton looked up in disbelief, but there wasn’t a a hint of dishonesty in Anthony’s eyes. Just sincere admiration, and something else. Curiosity, perhaps? He seemed to decide on something.
“Say, you wouldn’t perhaps have room for another job right now, would you?”
Was he seriously offering Spamton a position as co-host? No, he must’ve misheard.
“Hah, what a joke. You don’t actually want me to be your right hand man, right? You’d be insane!”
Anthony smiled sweetly. “Maybe I am a little insane.”
“I mean, if you’re offering what I think you’re offering… Then, yeah, sure. I mean, I’d love to.”
“Great!” Anthony clapped in his hands. “Here’s my info card, I expect you to be at the studio at nine sharp tomorrow. Don’t be late.” He handed over a small white business card, his name written on it in elegant red-and-yellow letters. Spamton turned it over in his hand, and saw only a phone number written on it, and an address. Did this guy not have an e-mail?
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Spamton, I’m sure we’ll get along very well,” Anthony said. He turned around on his heel, clasping his hands behind his back, and walked away, back into the partying crowd. He was whistling, clearly in a much better mood than he had been before.
Spamton stayed behind, dumbfounded. He looked back at the business card in his hands, frowning at it as if it had insulted him personally.
What the fuck had just happened to him?