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The get-well cards were already at his bedside table when Tenna woke up. The last thing he remembered was the Knight slicing off his arms—now aching, healing, reattached.
Tenna didn't recognize the card’s handwriting—loopy, uneven, the letters leaning into each other like they were tired. But the glitter on the front caught the light, and the inside said "GET WELL SOON, KING WHO ISN’T MY DAD" in what appeared to be fourteen different colors.
He stared at it for a full minute.
Then he read it again.
There were a dozen others, all addressed to "Mr. Ant Tenna" or "The King of Only" or simply "TV GUY". Some had stickers. Some had glitter. One unsigned card had a charming pop-up of what looked like a pipe organ playing itself.
Tenna's screen had brightened. Just a little.
Then the door creaked open, and Tenna saw the person who had delivered the cards, and was about to deliver more.
Spamton.
He stood in the doorway, a canvas mail satchel slung across his puppet body. His lenses swept the room—the pile of cards, Tenna's screen—and his mouth curved into a smile.
Any denial Tenna might have been holding onto regarding the identity of the puppet completely shattered upon seeing Spamton in a blue mailman uniform.
"[[Special Delivery]]," Spamton said.
Tenna's screen flickered. "Good morning, Mr. Mailman," he said—the old, familiar words, the proper greeting for the mail guy.
Spamton’s smile faltered. "[Top of the morning to you]." Spamton said after a moment, stepping inside. His footsteps were too loud on the floor, different from what Tenna remembered. And his voice, that was worse. Spamton hadn’t sounded like this, like other people’s voices were emerging from his mouth. But it was still him.
He pulled a stack of envelopes from his satchel and deposited them on the bedside table with a flourish. The one on top had a cartoon cat wearing a top hat.
"SEV3NTEEN IS A [[Prime Number]]." Spamton gestured at the pile. "CONGRATULATIONS. YOU'RE [Back by Popular Demand] AGAIN."
Tenna's screen warmed. He was hearing Spamton's voice again—the quality was different, and it was louder, but it was certainly his, interspersed with words that sounded like advertisements. "These are all... from different people?" And Spamton was personally giving the cards to Tenna, now that he was conscious.
"[[Current and Former Employees]]. [Anonymous Admirers]. [Corporate Entities]." Spamton shrugged. "DOESN'T MATTER. [[Postage Paid]] MEANS [[Delivery Guaranttee]]."
Tenna's antennae drooped. Was Spamton only delivering these because he was being paid to do so?
Spamton turned to leave.
"Spamton," Tenna suddenly said. "Is there one from you?"
Spamton froze. His back was to Tenna now, the blue fabric of his pants stretched across his puppet frame. His ass was smaller, like the rest of him, but unmistakably round and familiar. His hips moved. The blue fabric shifted.
And Tenna saw it.
Tucked into the back pocket of Spamton's pants—a corner of pale yellow paper, just visible above the seam. A card. A card in Spamton's pocket, not his satchel.
"Wait."
Spamton stopped. Didn't turn.
"There's a card in your pocket," Tenna said. "In your back pocket."
Silence.
Then Spamton turned. Slowly. His lenses were unreadable, but the set of his jaw—the puppet hinges tight—told Tenna he was nervous.
"[Observant]." Spamton walked back toward the bed. Each step was deliberate, measured. "YES. THERE'S A [[Card]]. FROM ME. I WAS GOING TO [Deliver] IT. BUT..."
He stopped at the edge of the mattress. Looked down at Tenna.
"YOU [Asked]. INSTEAD OF [Being Patient] AND [[Waiting in Line]]." He crossed his arms. "SO NOW I WON'T [[Hand It Over]]. IF YOU WANT IT..."
He paused.
"YOU [Collect It] YOURSELF. [[Specil Handling]]."
Tenna went momentarily static.
Then—understanding.
Slowly, carefully, he sat up. His arms—still healing, still tender—protested, but he ignored them. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Spamton didn't move.
Tenna reached out.
His fingers found the edge of Spamton's back pocket. The fabric was warm beneath his touch, the puppet body solid beneath the blue cotton. He slid his hand inside, felt the card's smooth surface, and—
His fingers brushed against Spamton's ass.
Soft. Warm. Round.
Spamton didn't move. Didn't speak. His lenses were fixed on Tenna's antennae, which twisted around each other, delighted.
Tenna pulled the card out.
He held it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, the warmth from Spamton's body still clinging to the paper. Then he looked up.
Spamton's expression hadn't changed. But something in his posture had softened. Just a little.
"[[Satisfied]]?" he asked.
Tenna's screen glowed. "Yes."
Spamton turned. Walked to the door. Didn't look back.
Tenna watched him go. Watched the blue fabric shift. Watched the curve of his ass—small, round, his for just a moment—disappear through the doorway.
The door clicked shut.
Tenna looked down at the card.
It was pale yellow, with a cartoon bee on the front, its wings fuzzy with glitter. The bee was holding a tiny envelope. And above it, in Spamton's cramped, uneven handwriting:
BEE better soon - SPAMTON G. SPAMTON
Tenna stared.
His screen flickered—warm, bright. His nose itched.
A flower bloomed from the tip, soft and pink, the petals unfurling one by one.
He smiled.