Chapter Text
Most people probably woulda gone to a hospital after a whole car accident and nearly burning to a crisp. Not him though. This incident? This right here, as he dragged himself from hungry flames while that horrid ringing echoed in his ears, this was opportunity.
Samson W. Addison would probably be declared dead when they found the burnt wreckage of that lovingly fixed-up car with its bold license plate of BigShot and the burnt ruins of the few things he’d had when he fled.
He could make that work.
He stumbled from the ashes anew, blood soaking his shirt as he pressed a trembling hand to his face, wheezing as his jaw clicked and shifted at an odd angle. He could be someone new.
Off the hook, Scott-free.
He could go where he wanted, do whatever he felt like, and Tenna was better off without a parasitic liability around anymore.
Spamton G. Spamton turned away and staggered off in the opposite direction, he didn’t dare look back.
He didn’t stop moving for a long time after that. Days blurring into weeks blurred into months.
He had that sweet-sweet taste of Heaven now to lead him. Freedom, he claimed. An angelic taste of nothing holding him down… or well, he’d imagine it would taste good? His sense of smell and taste were fucked up for a good while there and he was pretty sure it hadn’t come back quite the same. But eh, that was fine… probably? Yeah, that was fine. At least digging around in the garbage was easier to deal with, small wins!
So that’s how it went.
Place to place, town to town, city to city. Walking or hitch-hiking or sneaking onto truck shipments, headed for who-the-hell-knows-where. Scraping by, slinking away when he’d out-stayed his welcome, and trying to bury his teeth into this new life.
And eventually? That led to him being spat out here, some little speck on the map, a monster-filled town that was quaint and a curious kind of content. A town that called itself Hometown.
He swayed into town on foot with a low hum and a tired look about, years upon years having crafted a phantom into a semblance of a man. He found a bench to curl up on for the night and made sure to be up before someone could chase him off.
Spamton hadn’t planned to stick around long, but curiously enough, it wasn’t all that difficult to slot himself into the cracks and crevices of the place.
He managed to go unnoticed for at least a week before a goat monster scared the daylights out of him by sneaking up on him while he was digging through the guy’s trash can. It didn’t take long after that for others to catch wind of the new shadow lurking in town.
Spamton took to coming out at night or hiding away in the dumpsters more, trying to keep small and harmless. He’d been in monster towns before, not as common as the human ones could be, but usually the tension his arrival could cause would be enough to spook him off onto the road again. They usually didn’t drive him off outright like the human towns, didn’t quite ignore or shun him like the mixed cities, but he knew when he wasn’t wanted.
Yet. Something was different about this place. There was wariness, of course, but also something else? Spamton didn’t think it was pity, not quite. But it was enough to make him hesitate.
That was what led to that conversation. As he huddled in an oversized coat along the branches of a park tree and tried to shakily light one of his last cigars. A cool, quiet night interrupted by a steady, curious voice asking how the view was up there.
He remembered choking on his own spit before stuttering out some quip or another, a poor excuse at words really. But the old monster seemed amused enough with his response and eventually the stilted chatter smoothed into an absent kind of back and forth.
And apparently whatever opinion the geezer had developed of Spamton was enough for the other town folk.
The tension that had been building eased. They still watched him, noting him with attentive gazes, but the atmosphere had lightened.
People became familiar, he figured out the layout of the place, and when he hesitated to look around for odd jobs, the work he found gave him more direction than he’d had in ages.
Deliver packages here and there, slip letters into mailboxes, easy shit like that. Spamton figured to collect some money, get himself more presentable, and then he’d hit the road again.
Except he just… didn’t really leave.
He got himself some busted little apartment with one sweet view to the alleyway below, the ladder stable enough to slip down so he could land on a dumpster he’d claimed for himself. He haggled paints and went trash collecting, set up shop like he had managed in a few cities in years prior. This time, though, he actually got customers.
Most would claim it simply as ‘selling trash to kids’ but he liked to think it more like ‘introducing the younger generations to the wonders of recycling!’ Heh, okay, it was a scam truth be told, but so what? The kids found his crap interesting and down the line when they realized he could fix things and knew how to pick locks, well who was he to turn down the new opportunity!
Worked out well enough.
It even got him settled into a proper routine of things. Monday through Friday he had work heading the rounds to deliver shit from one place to another. Then, he’d be back a couple hours after noon and linger bout his shop until it got dark. Entertain himself while he waited, painted the alley walls, and found new ways to decorate. Saturday and Sunday he had the shop open all day, getting to work on whatever crap he’d collected through the week and letting the brats drop off their broken trinkets.
There was a system for that, the brats would come on by and bang on the dumpster, he’d either pop the lid and crawl out or he’d scramble on down the ladder to open ‘shop.’ Either pick-ups were made, they’d ask about what garbage he had for sale, or they’d cough up their little allowances and projects for him to deal with.
It was a good gig. Hometown saw him as harmless enough and he was fine with that.
Spamton put on some weight and actually had some comfortable bullshit to nestle down in when the months got colder and the nights grew longer. He gained money for cigars or food, collected worn books, and became just another part of town.
If people had things they didn’t want anymore, they’d leave it out just to see what he did with it. If broken things were left out with some food or knick-knacks, they’d eventually get fixed. If someone needed to find something, they’d come to the guy known for giving information after a little bribery.
And time did as time does. It passed. Spamton stayed. Content in what he’d made. He had something to occupy his thoughts now. Something to keep his mind from wandering to those long gone decades.
He let his guard down.
And that’s when some of them brats brought a piece of the past to his damn shop. A figure with gray mixing with pale fur and a photo of a long dead man held in shaky, gloved claws. A figure with questions on his tongue and not a hint of recognition in his tone.
“I, uh, I heard you’re good at finding things?” That voice hadn’t changed all that much, a touch quieter and a touch sadder, but still undoubtedly belonging to someone he thought he wouldn’t see again.
It took him so long to reply, but he managed. “W-what’s— you ppay—in’?”
That brow furrowed, an antenna twitched, and eventually the other sighed and began to rummage in his pockets.
Spamton carefully slipped the ring dangling from his necklace chain more securely under his shirt and suit, smiling despite the way the motion made his jaw pop, and promised empty deals for the low, low price of one Anton A. Tenna’s debit card.
And if his heart positively ached at the way the monster smiled at him with all the uncertainty expected of dealing with a stranger, well, no one had to know.