Chapter Text
"My name is Jacob Tenna, and I am dead," said a ghostly man. "No doubt about it. I was buried quite some time ago, my burial papers were signed by Big Shot himself, Mr. Ebeneezer Spamton!" Tenna said, in a somewhat hysterical voice, smiling as he did so, "I'm dead as a doornail," he said, smile being replaced by a smug grin as he turned to face Spamton, who was sitting at his desk, counting money, seemingly unaware of Tenna's presence.
"I present him to you, TV World's most tight-fisted hand-to-the-grindstone, EBENEEZER SPAMTON!" Tenna boomed like a TV show host, "A covetous old sinner, keeping to himself like he's avoiding the damn plague!" He said, chuckling to himself. "Just look at him, and his tiny nose!"
"They owe me money, and I will collect," Spamton muttered to no one in particular as he counted his money. "If they cannot pay their dues, I will jail them," he said, hunched over his desk, "I will get the money I so rightfully deserve."
Tenna's ghostly body floated over and sat on Spamton's desk, with the other still blissfully unaware of the spectre's presence. Tenna sneered, his lip twitching slightly. "He and I were partners for Angel knows how long. He was my business's co-owner, my sole inheritor, my sole friend, and soul mourner at my untimely passing, but Spam wasn't so torn up by it," he said, staring at Spamton with disgust. "He went on with business as usual, making deals up until the moment I was sealed underground for the rest of eternity, and continuing after that."
"He couldn't even bother to take my name off the sign. Some people call him Tenna, others call him Spamton. It doesn't matter to him either way; it saves more money than painting it over does," he said, turning so he was ever so slightly closer to facing Spamton. "No one ever stops him on the streets to say, 'Oh, my dear Spammy, how have you been! When will you visit me? I miss you so dearly!'" He said in a voice of mimicry, though it seemed to sound less like some random person on the streets, but more like a younger Tenna.
"No beggars ask for spare change, no child asks him the time, no one now or ever in his miserly life will ever ask him how to navigate the dark world," Tenna said, now fully facing the exact person he was describing, "But does Spamton care?" Tenna asked with a cackle, "OF COURSE NOT! That's just the way he likes it. All alone in his cold, dark counting house, counting his dues until the day he rolls over and dies, surrounded by his mounds of Dark Dollars."
Suddenly, a ghostly bell tolls, and Tenna makes his leave, looking back at Spamton one last time, before flying out the window into the dark abyss of the night sky. "Angel above, it's only 3 pm!?" he mused to himself, disappearing into nowhere in particular.