Chapter Text
The position came to him like almost everything else has done recently, orchestrated by forces he had no way of comprehending. A piercing ringing of a phone call woke him up in his studio apartment in the center of Cyber City at 6AM. A mildly annoyed sleepy Spamton reached out towards a black vintage rotary phone perched on his bedtable, answering after the third ring. Still half dreaming, he slurred a “Hello?” in the receptor, barely stifling a yawn, silently cursing whoever was disturbing his beauty sleep. Its importance on his physique was promptly forgotten, whispers of future events filling Spamton’s head.
He quickly grabbed a pen and a blocknote, conveniently located right next to the phone, and started scribbling down the instructions. His benefactor was generous on the details that night, giving the exact date and address he needed to show up and the lines he needed to say. Spamton listened carefully, repeating every word in his head, trying to imprint them in his mind. Once the whispers subsided, he took a deep breath, trying to calm the shakiness in his voice, before replying.
“Thank you for your help, once again, sir. I’ll make it happen, sure thing! Anything to become a Big Shot.”
He held his breath as he listened intently to the answer. It never changed since their very first phone call. But it was important for him to hear it nonetheless.
“I’ll make you so Big, you’ll reach Heaven.”
The air left Spamton’s lungs in a whoosh once he heard the telltale sound of a concluded call. He carefully put the receptor down on the hook and closed his eyes. Another opportunity, another chance to climb the ladder. He needed to prepare. Slowly, very slowly a manic smile spread on Spamton’s face. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his chest, erupting suddenly like a geyser.
All of those bastards were wrong about him! He would go so far, they wouldn’t even compare to him! He was getting there already, day after day, a step closer to becoming big! And where were they? Back in their little shops, making their little ads, chasing their little goals! Pathetic.
He scrambled off his bed, his sleep forgotten and ran into his bathroom. A fresh shower, brushed teeth, neat raven hair (the object of jealousy of every unicolor Addison in the city and he’d be damned if he shared the hair dye link with those assholes) and a few sprays of his signature cologne. All practiced movements that he put just a bit more thought into than usual. After all, his appearances had to be perfect in order to make the right impression on the right people. He needed to be by TV Times’ main building by noon.
Spamton checked his pockets for his car keys and grinned at his reflection before swiftly exiting his apartment. His fast steps echo in the quiet of the building, threatening to wake his neighbours up as he is running down the stairs, heart beating fast. Oh, he wouldn’t miss it for the world!
Anyone who’s anyone in Cyber City knew of Spamton G. Spamton, the rising star of the business world. But everyone, every single darkner out there knew Mr. Ant Tenna. The face, quite literally, actually, of TV Time. From cooking shows to Wild West, TV Time offered entertainment galore to young and old. The most viewed program however was The Marvelous Mystery Board - a game show in form of a contest that a few selected lucky darkners could participate in to win prizes, hosted by Mr Tenna himself. The program was as popular as it gets, the citizens of dark worlds tuning in at every broadcast. Each aired episode would become the next hot topic of every conversation until the next one would inevitably top it, that’s just how good it was. Being invited as a contestant to the show was enough to make anyone’s popularity skyrocket overnight. Contestants were showered in adoration, the most popular ones even had their own fan clubs, members of which would proudly wear T-shirts with their face plastered on it for weeks. Spamton remembered how other Addisons used to complain how difficult it was to get any rookie contestant to sign an ad deal, fame getting to their head the second they got the TV branded red envelope in their mail.
If the contestants were popular, it was nothing next to the man himself. The creator of TV Time was a handsome tall darkner, charming, charismatic - a flawless host, the symbol of entertainment itself. Smiling brightly from posters, mugs and lunch boxes, his CRT shaped head was incredibly easy to spot. His booming voice chanting the iconic slogan “It’s TV Time!” accompanied by the show’s jingle was the most listened to track on every media. Every time he was spotted outside, a line of fans would form around him, crying and begging for a chance to shake his hand. Which of course he did, even taking photos and signing autographs, all winks and smiles, perfect in every way.
Any piece of merchandising with his name on it was guaranteed to sell out in hours, minutes even.
Suffice to say, if every viewer's dream was to participate in Mr. Ant Tenna’s show, every businessman's dream was to work with the man. And Spamton just got the confirmation that a position was about to get wide open.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Spamton growled and pressed on the steering wheel repeatedly, loud honks signaling to the cars in front of him to fucking move it. Some of them nervously shifted from foot to foot but most just ignored him. The Addison cursed under his breath and released the wheel, slumping on the seat. Some moron was holding down on the “stop circulation button”, which meant that the cars would not budge until the timer was up.
“Come on now, grandma, I have places to be!” Spamton muttered, honking a few more times, for good measure, the other hand shooting to his hair, readjusting it for the third time since he got stuck in traffic. Despite his flaring anger, the cars still didn’t move. There was nothing to do except wait. Good thing he anticipated this potential problem and left his studio when he did or else he could've been late! And that would've been a disaster. Spamton surpressed a shudder that threatened to run through him at the thought. Better not think about that right now. To make the time pass quicker, he decided to brainstorm his next steps.
Spamton wasn’t an idiot. He has researched Tenna extensively as well as all the other prominent darkners that could be beneficial for his rise to the top. And, helpfully, Tenna has done a lot of interviews, which made sense for a TV darkner. After all, he was meant for the cameras. What wasn’t very helpful was that the guy, surprisingly, was a bit of a private person. Nothing was known about his personal life except what has been already available to the public. But he would passionately prattle on and on about his game show, praising the contestants and reciting funny backstage anecdotes. What he didn’t mention much was the future, leaving the burning question each interviewer eventually asked him “ What big thing is TV Time doing next? ” largely unanswered. Every time the question would come up, Tenna would masterfully redirect the reporter's attention with a well placed joke or a witty remark.
Spamton always had his suspicions on this secrecy before, but after this early morning’s call it was pretty much confirmed. Mr. Tenna was in a creative slump. TV Time suffered from the disease plaguing many stars that rose to the top - it didn’t have a plan for the future. And in this field, relevancy was key.
Sure it was relevant now, what with every darkner tuning in to watch the show, but without innovation, it wouldn’t have much to offer except nostalgia. And nostalgia can only get you so far. If TV Time failed to deliver its next big thing it would inevitably fade away from the spotlight, obsolete and forgotten. It needed something new, brave and daring or better yet, someone.
And that certain someone was parallel parking his flashy red Cungadero right next to TV Time’s HQ. Spamton checked his appearance in the rear view mirror for the last time before exiting his car. He figured that he looked good, as good as he needed to look to seal the deal. His black striped tailored suit paired handsomely with his raven slicked back hair and porcelaine skin. A bit of makeup concealed the bags under his eyes from the sleep he missed because of the phone call. A thin veil of perfume enveloped him, not overbearing but present enough to indicate status. He flashed himself his trademarked smile, for practice, the one he usually used in front of the cameras for his advertisements. It was always effective, all white blinding teeth with just one chipped tooth on the right side, giving his salesman persona extra “approachability”. Yes, he was 100% ready.
After locking the car, he turned to face the main building and took a few hesitant steps towards it. Subconsciously his hand reached to readjust his hair once more even though he had decided a second ago it looked perfect. Now that he was so close to the place where his fate would be determined, he felt a tad bit more nervous than he was hours prior in the safety of his studio apartment. The tension in his code was rising since his car breached the border of the TV world and was threatening to reach its peak. It was exciting but still so risky, a word misplaced could ruin his career and prevent him from reaching his goal.
And it would be lying to say that he wasn’t quite intimidated by the man who was to become his boss. It would be imprudent to underestimate Mr Tenna, if not downright foolish. After all, he was facing not merely the host of TV Time, but an experienced crafter of the show, well known and well renowned, whose presence elevated every event from mondaine to VIP.
Not to mention his killer looks. This guy sure knew how to look good in front of a camera.
It was safe to admit that Spamton has always been star-strucked by Tenna. As a small fry Addison with nothing to his name, he was never granted the opportunity to meet him. But on rare evenings, when his fellow salesmen gathered together to discuss their future business plans, Spamton, excluded from their talks, would focus most of his attention on the flow of the TV, watching intently reruns of episodes of TV Time. Wishing, it was him who would get the chance to stand in the spotlight, flashing brilliant smiles to the audience and laughing at the host’s quips. And every time Tenna appeared on screen, little salesman’s eyes would be glued to him, following his elegant moves. The way he would dip his head in a bow to the audience, the way his antennas bounced when he laughed, the way he would turn to the camera with that cheeky grin, cupping his mouth as if there were only Spamton and him in the whole world, sharing a secret through the screen.
Admiration and jealousy was quite a complicated cocktail of emotions, but it was the one Tenna used to invoke in Spamton. He couldn’t help himself, envying the TV for his effortless fame and respecting him for it in the same breath. Nowadays, the feelings remained much the same, except that Spamton realised how much effort actually went into maintaining the CRT’s status. Which amped up the percentage of respect, but did not affect envy in the slightest .
Spamton swallowed hard and adjusted the collar of his dress shirt. He needed to get a grip and he needed to get it quick. For his plan to work he had to be charismatic and suave, not a blabbering mess he risked to become in front of the TV Lord if he indulged in any more of his memories.
“Focus now, Big Shot.” he whispered to himself. “You made it this far.”
It was his moment to shine. All these nights of being excluded, forgotten and neglected were behind him and in front of him was a way to secure everything he ever wanted in place.
After drying his sweaty palms on the fabric of his trousers, Spamton continued to walk to the entrance of the building. Despite his efforts, he felt his hands becoming wet once more. Just how nervous the perspective of this encounter made him? He tucked his hands in his pockets, making an effort to relax his posture, aiming for a semblance of confidence. “Fake it till you make it” philosophy carried him where he was now and was one of his most trusted strategies. Lines were jumbling in his head, incoherent messes of first introductions that he quickly abandoned. He’d figure something out when the push came to shove, improvising a pitch was in the code of every Addison.
Once he reached the stairs in front of the building, Spamton promptly ignored them, opting to turn right and slump against the wall behind the corner, trying to look inconspicuous. Checking his wrist watch showed 12:05 PM. If his benefactor’s words were to be believed, something was about to happen in two minutes. Spamton waited.
Two minutes later, precisely on time, a very down looking Pippins was escorted out of the building by a pair in fancy looking outfits and dark shades. A guy with a yellow face that looked like a crescent moon, with a white pompadour on top, wore a dark blue suit accentuated by bright red accessories - gloves, tie and cracking crimson flames on his shoulder pads. The other one, a girl, whose face looked like a light blue droplet surrounded by cloud looking hair, wore a blue and yellow dress, which at closer look resembled an open umbrella. Her feet were tucked in bright yellow rubber boots, perfect for splashing in a puddle on a rainy day. Their colours matched each other exactly, to the point that they looked like a set. Spamton could already visualise the ad [sold together, do not separate]. Both had matching canes, silver and gold respectively, with a, frankly bizarre choice of decoration on top, - a white pointed index finger.
« The inseparable weather duo, » Spamton thought giddily, recognising the pair. « It’s all coming together. »
The couple walked down the stairs, following the Pippins closely, stern looks plastered on their faces, the picture of professionalism. Once they reached the pavement, they crossed their canes, a loud « ding » warning the Pippins to turn around to face them.
« You are permanently banned from our establishment! » the cloud girl declared, her voice airy but firm. Spamton could swear he could hear the pitter-patter of rain accompany it.
« Consider yourself fired! » her partner chimed in, fiery and loud. Spamton wiped a few beads of sweat off his brow and huffed. Did his voice make the temperature jump up by a few degrees or was he going insane?
« You said it, my sparkling moonshine! »
« Not as good as you did, my glittering cloudlet! »
The couple exchanged loving glances at each other, seemingly forgetting the entire world outside of them. The silence stretched for an uncomfortable amount of time, the couple making no attempt to continue their speech. The Pippins rolled his eyes and mumbled something Spamton didn’t quite understand but was pretty sure was something along the lines of « couldn’t even fire me properly » and « this job was a joke anyway » before sauntering away with an obnoxious « boing » sound effect. The noise seemed to alert the couple to its surroundings, as they finally turned their heads towards the place where the Pippins once stood.
« He seemed to have gotten the message, my darling love » commented the crescent moon guy, his eyes following Pippins’ quickly shrinking silhouette in the distance.
« I suppose we can return to our posts then, my sweet prince » the cloud haired girl replied, linking their arms together, gently tugging her man towards the front door on top of the stairs.
« Hopefully Tenna doesn’t take it too badly this time.» Her boyfriend sighed, starting his ascent back to their workplace. « You know how he hates abrupt changes in staff. »
« He really does, but we had to let him go before he caused any more trouble! » she reasoned. « He’ll understand. »
« You are right as rain, my droplet of nectar. »
« Oh, you! »
And with that, the giggling pair disappeared behind the massive doors of the studio.
Spamton let a few minutes pass, making sure that the weather duo got far enough as to not make them suspicious of his sudden presence. If he would follow them immediately, popping out of these doors like a jack-in-the-box, right after they fired the guy he wanted to replace, it could jeopardise the entire operation. No, he needed to appear in the studio almost naturally, if a bit too luckily. He waited intently, tapping his foot on the pavement, periodically checking his watch. Once he decided that enough time had passed, he stepped on the stairs, climbing them quickly, not letting the hesitation set in.
He grabbed on the handle, twisting it and pushing the doors open. Somehow, they were lighter than he had estimated, flying open immediately, almost hitting the opposite wall. Spamton had to lunge forward with his entire body weight to stop the door from banging loudly, his newly polished shoes sliding on the tiled floor with an unpleasant noise. He cringed internally, but composed himself rapidly, letting his salesman persona take the lead. He took a look around the entry hallway, spotting a few of the crew members. All of them have been running around, taking care of some menial tasks, but have stopped dead in their tracks, eyes glued to him due to his unexpected entrance.
Spamton summoned the most lighthearted laugh he could, ignoring the creeping feeling of anxiety on his back. He lifted his arms, palms towards the public, his signature smile on his face and bowed, bringing one of his hands to his chest. They were TV world citizens, they would appreciate such theatrics.
“And that’s how you make an unforgettable entrance, folks! Watch and learn!”
He heard some of the Shadowguys huff a melodic laugh but most of the crew remained silent, some of them exchanging glances, some smiling politely at him. They soon returned their attention to their tasks, forgetting almost immediately about the small interruptor. Spamton gritted his teeth, head hanging low, biting back on the insults that threatened to spill from his mouth. Now wasn’t the time for his bad temper! Playing it off as a joke was the only right move. He couldn’t afford aggravating the crew he soon will be working with before he even had the opportunity to apply for the position!
Lifting his head, he spotted one of the Zappers detach from a group and approach the salesman, his eyes scanning his small frame in that special bouncer way, already evaluating his level of threat. It must not have been very high, as his posture remained slack. As soon as Spamton noticed him, he summoned his award winning smile, which didn’t seem to impress the Zapper much, if at all.
“And who would youse be?” He inquired, tone flat and disinterested. That same tone he, no doubt, usually used when dealing with annoying trespassers, trying to get an autograph from their favourite star.
Spamton’s smile strained, eyes squinting in irritation. He was aware that he wasn’t quite on the same level as Tenna, yet , his face just beginning to feature in commercials, but at least TV Time’s crew should have been able to recognise who he was! Ads air on TV, for Heaven’s sake!
“He’s just a bouncer, he doesn’t know shit about what goes on air.” the Addison reasoned with himself. “Don’t blow it up now! They’ll learn who you are soon enough.”
Composing himself, Spamton forcefully relaxed his expression, shoving his hands back in his pockets to avoid fidgeting with them (or punching the guy).
“Name’s Spamton G. Spamton.” He answered, pronouncing each syllable of his name clearly, making a point of it. “I’m here for the interview with the big boss, so if you don’t mind directing me to his office?” He looked around almost cartoonishly, as if searching himself for the aforementioned office.
The Zapper tilted his head, visibly confused. “Da interview? Already? I just learned that they’ve fired da guy.”
Spamton’s irritation spiked again, his hands bawling into fists in his pockets. Who was this guy? Not recognising him, now questioning his presence? They should be happy someone showed up to replace the good for nothing Pippins, not to mention, grateful that of all the darkners to apply to the position, it was Spamton who decided to come through these doors.
“Happened to be at the right place at the right time. You know how it is in show business, don’t you, pal?” Spamton’s voice seethed with barely restrained rage. Instead of shouting, which would be his usual way of approaching any type of conflict he found himself in, he resorted to speaking in a sickly sweet voice, still somewhat mindful of his first impression on the crew. The Zapper didn’t seem to pick up on his bad temper, though, clearly pondering the fired Pippins’ fate.
A few seconds passed in silence, before Spamton coughed loudly, drawing back the Zapper’s attention.
“Office?” he demanded matter-of-factly, all pretenses of politeness left behind.
The Zapper shrugged, turning around and beginning to march towards a door on the left side of the hall. “Follow me, sir. Da boss is busy though, youse have to wait until he's done with da shoot. Shouldn’t take too long, he usually takes a break around now.” A nod towards another door, in the back of the hall accompanied his tirade, the place where the former shoot was undoubtedly taking place.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s great.” Spamton huffed, almost running after the Zapper, his short legs struggling to keep up with the bouncer’s large strides. His guide didn’t seem to notice his struggles, or if he did, didn’t seem to care enough to change his pace.
They’ve entered a long, dimply lit corridor with a series of identical doors lining on its right side. Each door had a plaque with a name on it, some older than others. They passed up the door with a plaque that said “Elnina&Lanino”. Someone had drawn a moon and a cloud on it, with a big red heart outlined around the drawing. “The weather duo.” Spamton mentally made a note of their names. Those two seemed close enough to Tenna for him to bother remembering how they’re called. Another door read “Mike”, a sticker of a microphone underneath the dusty plaque. This one seemed really old, traces of corrosion eating at the metal plaque, the name on it being barely visible. Just in case, Spamton decided to remember that name too.
The left wall was covered entirely in posters. Seasonal posters, advertising TV Times special episodes, giant posters with a full size Tenna on it pointing towards the name of the show in bright letters, tiny posters with just the CRT’s smiling face surrounded by dates of the new shows’ premieres. Spamton spotted a few ad posters, one of them with Tenna presenting a kitchen sink fur guard. “Fur all our furry viewers!” read the text underneath. The salesman felt himself smirking - who wrote that? He could come up with 10, no 20, better slogans for that product on the spot! Who approved of this ad, how did it even get past the selection process? What were the other options if this one was deemed the best one? For crying out loud, this place needed him more than he needed it!
Lost in his thoughts, Spamton almost bumped into his guide who stopped suddenly in front of one of the doors. A string of muttered insults escaped between his clenched teeth. This guy definitely wasn’t to his taste, way to obtuse for this line of work. Mentally, Spamton added him to a list of potential darkners to replace.
“Here we are.” A purple finger pointed to the door in front of Spamton. It was bright red, with a big golden star in place of where a plaque should be, Ant Tenna engraved in it in calligraphic letters. No traces of dust could be found on the star, the thing was polished so damn well, it was reflecting the corridor back at its visitors in a golden hue.
Despite himself, Spamton gave a whistle of surprise. The door was absolutely ginormous , the handle positioned at least a foot above Spamton’s head. The small darkner shuddered slightly, trying to repress his once again flared up nerves. If the door was that big, that meant that…
“You can wait inside,” the Zapper reached to the handle, pushing the door open before Spamton could even address the issue of his size in comparison to it. A beat passed before he took a step, crossing the thresholder separating the corridor from the TV host's office. His feet sunk in the plush red carpet under him. He gulped, suddenly needing more air. That was it. The point of no return.
Belatedly remembering something, Spamton turned around, placing a hand on the closing door behind him, keeping it open enough to see the disinterested expression on the Zapper’s face.
“Quick question: the guy that got fired, what was his position, exactly?”
“Uhm… Shouldn’t youse know already since you’re…?” the darkner appeared stunned for a moment but decided to let it go, clearly eager to go back to his own business. “He was da mail guy. Managed da fan mail and all da contestant’s invitations.”
For the first time since he got here, Spamton felt his lips stretch in a genuine smile. ‘Thank you,” he thought reverently, his phone call from this morning echoing in his mind. He grinned at the Zapper, who seemed slightly perturbed by the sight.
“Oh, this is absolutely perfect .”