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The room was unbearably quiet, and neither person spoke. In an attempt to not sit completely in silence, Mr. Ant Tenna was clicking the sole of his shoe punishingly against the yellow floor. Each sharp tap striking the tile below punctuated his ever shrinking patience over the situation. He wouldn’t be the first person to speak, not when it was that rat who had insisted on their inopportune meeting in the first place.
In actuality, this wasn’t their first reunion at all. The pair had technically met prior, onstage, when the little mailman had the audacity to show his face again after so many years. At the time, Tenna was at his weakest point emotionally, and had been at risk of falling for Spamton’s sympathetic song and dance. After all, the sudden return of a beloved guest star was the exact kind of drama that made television so compelling. Had it not been for the fact that his former business partner's arrival was so abrupt — so public — the show host might’ve lost face entirely then.
Thankfully, however, Tenna was a professional. Despite the unexpected script change, he had managed to stay perfectly in character, and had not allowed himself back into those lying arms so readily. His heart was far more guarded now, and with no audience around to amuse, Tenna steeled himself to reject whatever sad excuse the washed up salesman was planning on selling him.
“TONY…” Spamton started.
“Mr. Tenna.” Tenna corrected him.
“TENNA…” Spamton compromised, and Tenna settled. “IF I COULD JUST EXPLAIN…”
“Maybe I wasn’t clear before,” Tenna was quick to interrupt, “but I’m not interested in your explanation, Spamton G. Spamton. There is nothing for us to talk about.”
What was there for them to talk about, really? Would they discuss the way that Spamton’s leaving had left a hole in his heart so wide that it could never be full again? Or maybe they could chat about the way that Tenna could no longer look in the mirror without the memory of that betrayal staring back at him? Why would he take the risk and try to trust again, only to be strung along on yet another one of Spamton’s grifts?
Tenna knew exactly how adverts worked. He knew the ways that they could trick you, tell you everything you wanted to hear, just to get what they wanted in the end. Sweet talk was an Addison’s greatest skill — and their greatest weapon. Tenna couldn’t afford to give Spamton the ammunition to make him hope again.
Frustration furrowed deep on Spamton’s brow, no doubt disappointed by Tenna’s outright refusal. Still, the puppet persisted, plastic hands clattering together as they wrung themselves tight.
“NOTHING? THAT’S [low grade meats]! WHAT ABOUT OUR [tragic backstory]? I THOUGHT THAT YOU CARED! SO WHY WON’T YOU [hear me out] NOW?”
“After everything that’s happened…after you ran off and disappeared without a word, you suddenly show your face again and expect me to listen?” The TV retorted, tugging his yellow tie taut around his collar. “News flash, Spamton — you’re late. I don’t need you anymore, and I don’t want anything to do with you.”
This time, Tenna’s answer earned a scornful scoff from the other man.
“DON’T NEED ME?” Spamton spat back, “I BET! YOU [Cashed in] ALL YOUR [sympathy points] ONCE YOU [take me for all I’m worth], DIDN’T YOU? GOT [Big] OFF OF MY [Success] AND THEN LEFT ME IN THE [dumps]!”
“YOU left ME!”
Tenna’s voice crackled chaotically, technicolor distortions tearing through his CRT screen. Barely contained rage bubbled over the surface, sharpening his features — fingers becoming claws and teeth becoming fangs. He lurched his body forward, his tall figure nearly towering over the smaller spam email. The gall of Spamton G. Spamton! To accuse Tenna of abandoning him! It was astonishing! Tenna couldn’t understand it. He didn’t want to understand it. Just how low could Spamton stoop for his schemes?
“You left me, Spamton,” he repeated, “not the other way around. You ran out on me.”
This time, Tenna was met with silence from Spamton, whose brow had softened, turning upward into a more saddened expression. With nothing further to combat, a heavy sigh escaped the television, and he struggled to wrangle both his nerves and his glitches. It was embarrassing, really, the way that Spamton riled him up so easily, and yet the pest had a way of getting under his skin like no one else.
“…It doesn’t matter.” Tenna filled the pause left by Spamton with a forced smile stretched wide across his screen. “It doesn’t matter now! I mean, who even needs an ad guy? Commercials? That’s a television’s job! And every Joe Schmoe knows those five minute blocks are for taking bathroom breaks anyway!”
Tenna laughed, clapping his hands together, cheerful now that he had come to this conclusion, that he had been able to save face. “That’s right! Mr. Ant Tenna doesn’t need help from little mailmen! He can run it all! The cartoons, the commercials, the game shows, even the holiday specials!”
Twirling on his tiptoes, Tenna continued to laugh, tickled by his assured assertion. His smile didn’t seem to sway Spamton, though, as the businessman continued to stare back at him with a sorry sort of scowl.
“…ADTONIO, CAN YOU [cut the carp]? YOU DON’T HAVE TO KEEP [play make-believe] WITH ME.”
“It’s Mr. Tenna.” Tenna stopped his spin suddenly, heels clacking against the tile as his feet landed from their en pointe. “How many times do I have to correct you?”
“[Hooey]! I’VE SEEN THE [Real boy] UNDER THAT [idiot box] MASK.” Spamton stepped closer, stretching his segmented arms out to reach for his former partner. “YOU’RE NOT A [CRT], YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME. I WANT TO TALK TO YOU, TONY < NOT THIS [class act]! SO TURN OFF THE [fancy light show] AND [Chat now!] WITH ME! FACE TO FACE!”
“This IS my face.” Tenna insisted, stepping away and clutching his casing indignantly. “This has always been my face — the face of Mr. Ant Tenna! I’m a CRT, I’m the one who brings laughter and tears to the Lightners!”
Tenna's arms finally fell, then folded behind his back as he turned it on Spamton. He hung his head low, and spoke in a lowly hum. “As for Adtonio…Adtonio is dead. He died the day that you left him behind. Poor old fool just couldn’t keep up with the times…” A sincere sadness seeped into Tenna’s words, as much as he tried to conceal it. “But ‘Mr. Tenna’ will always be big.”
It was Spamton’s turn then to turn his nose downward, no doubt disturbed by Tenna’s delusions. The static snow in his spectacles gave no signal to his true feelings, and so Tenna could only speculate on what the little spam mail was thinking.
“…IF THAT’S [100% genuine],” Spamton finally spoke, “IF ADTONIO REALLY IS [.EXE Not Found], THEN YOU’RE NOT THE MAN I [till death do us part]ED. IF THAT’S TRUE, THEN…THERE REALLY IS NOTHING FOR US TO TALK ABOUT.”
With nothing left to shill, Spamton finally took his leave, and left the stranger, Mr. Ant Tenna, alone in complete silence.