Chapter Text
There's strings under his skin.
He can feel them. He can feel them slithering, crawling, taking hold of his heart and tugging. They coil around each vertebra, through the gap between his ulna and radius, piercing muscle and flesh and skin and him to make a creation born of greed and desperation.
He can see them moving under his skin. Always moving. Always planning. Always plotting. He has to get them out before they get him out.
He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to get them out. He has to save Tenna.
He has to get out.
"Gotta get 'em out, gotta get 'em- gotta get, fuck-"
Saliva pools in his mouth as his stomach churns. His chest isn't big enough for the air he needs. He isn't big enough.
He'll never be big enough. Yellow and pink gaze into his soul from an unlit corner of the room. The grin widens before disappearing completely.
He's going to die. He's going to die and they're going to find his corpse strung up in front of his mirror.
Spamton crashes into his dresser as he stumbles around the green room in a quiet panic. There's an uncomfortable lump building in the back of his throat and he doesn't know if it's vomit or the strings or an organ trying to escape now that it knows his body isn't his anymore. He's scratching at his arm because there's strings in him and he needs to get them out before someone notices, before Tenna notices-
"Spammy?"
His head whips around to face Tenna’s worried gaze. The man is standing at Spamton’s door, a hand on the doorknob—unsure if his presence was currently welcome. Spamton knows he wants to come in and probe. Ask his stupid questions. Steal all his success. That’s all he ever wanted from him after all. His secret to fame. His secret. Spamton wonders why he ever agreed to work with Tenna. He didn’t need that old CRT. Didn’t need dead tech pretending it still mattered. Clattering around on borrowed time. Static in a suit trying to keep up. Why did he ever let that thing into his orbit, into his head—
Suddenly, Spamton wants to kill that goddamn TV for even putting the idea of ever betraying his Benefactor into Spamton’s head. And for what? Someone that was going to die anyways? Someone he loves? Puppets don't love. Can't love.
He’s wide-eyed and panting as he stares at Tenna and wonders what it would feel like to smash his screen in. Watch the smile disappear. Hear a pop! before it all went dark forever for Tenna. The idiot box wouldn’t even see it coming. Maybe he could do a line off his broken, beaten frame, inhale some broken glass along the way before he dumps him in the junkyard.
“Get out.” Help me. It hurts.
Tenna frowns harder, taking a hesitant step inside.
“Spamton-”
“I said get out!” Please help me. It hurts so much.
Glass shatters as Spamton flings an empty bottle at his mirror.
“Get out or you’re never seeing your precious Lightners ever again.” He speaks with perfect clarity and stands unwavering even when Tenna flinches, even when Tenna’s expression shifts from worried to slightly fearful. The strings dig deeper. They’ve replaced his nerves. He’s more string than spam at this point.
Tenna leaves with one last look at Spamton—something hurt, something disappointed.
Spamton stares at himself in his broken mirror. Fragments of his reflection gaze back at him, bringing into reality what he truly is—a broken man, through and through. A laugh bubbles in the back of his throat. He couldn’t recognize himself anymore. Was there a Him to begin with? Was Spamton ever someone that existed, or was he only poorly-made clay, shaping himself into what he was required to be? A salesman. An entertainer. A fraud.
A scam. Yellow and pink blink at him from the shards.
1997’s Number One Best Rated Salesman. A FRIEND to all. A FRIEND for all.
He laughs and thinks to himself that maybe, if he tried hard enough, he can tear all his skin off to finally remove the strings.
There’s a brief moment of clarity where he realizes he should’ve never taken that deal. The universe is a thing, he thinks. A living thing. A body. Of course it is. Of course it noticed him crawling around where he never belonged. Of course it wants him out. Back in the trash. Back where the spam goes.
The universe would return to balance once it doled out punishment to the Sinners that inhabited its body. He would never reach Heaven.
Spamton picks up a shard of glass and grips it hard enough for blood to leak out of his clenched fist. He lets go of the shard, brushing his hair back with a shaky exhale. The blood is sticky on his dyed hair.
Everything was under control.