Work Text:
Chapter 1
Life for Spamton G. Spamton has become sickeningly [sugar replacement], with slow morning meals with Mr. Ant Tenna. Even after [deposed] by the prophecy, he still has the habit of [disgusting] domesticity. Spamton enjoys watching him cook. Lightly [tap-tap-tap] eggs against the counter like starting a [gig] for the perfect crack. [Mix and Spin DJ Set] batter until smooth before cooking perfect pancakes. All while humming a [original ost] from his TV Show, it almost let Spamton forget about the prophecy.
"Spammy, could you please get the pan off the stove. My arm is on the fritz again." Tenna says, motioning to his arms. While the rotator cuff still functioned, letting him lift his arms, the [real goods] froze, unable to close his own hand fully.
"ON IT!" He swings his legs around the chair and jumps down, he hurries to the stove. Everything is [Cathode] sized, meaning, he has to reach up to grasp the handle of the [non-stick semi-pfa pan]. Spamton pulls it over to the second [eye of the beholder] so it won't burn. He slowly pulls it off of the stove before attempting to flip the pancake; It is not the practiced flip Tenna achieves with a flawless flick of his wrists. Spamton's [second-rate rebate] is clunky, being forced to pull a TV Time themed spatula out to flick it over.
Tenna nudges Spamton's chair to the oven, giving him the [stand]. Spamton finishes the pancake with slight [crispy bits]. Spamton claims it, the slight crunch of butterscotch cinnamon stands stronger than his previous vittles. He also knows Tenna is a big baby about burnt food, and didn't want to watch him waste food either.
"I'll have to call Mike to check the wiring again." Tenna sighs, his screen dimming down. "I probably need a re-calibration." His arm rests on the table, twitching every so often. Tenna must be trying to force it. Push the mechanics just enough to [reignite the engine].
"[Hold the phone], WHY DON'T I DO IT? IT'LL BE LIKE [Nostalgic Marketing Campaigns]." Spamton says, his mind drifting to lightly corrupted memories of [routine repairs free for the first week]. His nostril receptors fire up, reminding him of the cigars he used to smoke. Yes, yes, Spamton will dig out his shop tools; he's stored them in the drawers or in the corner of closet. Besides, he didn't want that [cheap counterfeit] @#$+ away from him.
"Spammy, you don't have to. You kno—"
"I WANT T0 AND 1 W1LL!" Spamton retorts, already speeding down the hall into their bedroom. He first hits the drawers—taking the vanity chair and clamoring up, ensuring his footing is secure on the excessively plush [tailgate] cushion— or as Tenna calls them 'his ,very [specil], coccyx cushion'—starting from the [tip-top shop] and working his way down. Spamton pushes [intimates] aside trying to find the scratched plastic case of tools. Yet, with each drawer he cannot help but notice how his lover's laundry habit have changed. What once was [department store] level folding, with each shirt creased to perfection and staggered for [trash heap] to select from various shades of white. Now? It's simpler, either a sign of one of the fake Mikes, or [has-been TV Host] has laxed in presentation. Spamton pauses his [word search] to debate if he should give his lover some light ribbing. Though if he did, he knows Tenna return the favor by jabbing at his [apocalypse prepper kits now] style of rolling his [rats nest] into neat little cylinders that can be tucked away into a drawer. Then, he'll probably offer to get him new clothes, and Spamton still does not take handouts.
The drawers are a [bust]. Meaning, the closet is its hiding place. Spamton despises going into the closet; tightly [crammed] with memorabilia and clutter Tenna simply could not part for the new TV Station, nor could figure space for in the Castle Room. Spamton stands before it; a slight squeezing sensation starts in his chest the more he looks at the disaster zone below the line of suits. Was he getting [horror game sale] this easily? He mentally chastises himself. He has snaked his way out of a [squish toys] pile of digital offals before! He has wriggled out of [BIG SHOT AUTO] when the rusted jack [gave its two week notice]! He can certainly handle some trophies Tenna gave himself out of narcissism. He goes into the suspiciously Spamton shaped hole formed from the various trash bags and boxes. The makeshift walls draw closer the deeper he crawls in, the haphazard nature of the memorabilia transforming the place into a maze. It's dark enough that Spamton has to summon a little angel to illuminate the space. It buzzes and makes a face at his summoner as they squeeze down the right 'corridor'. To each of his sides he's surrounded by cardboard, they tower over his all fours position. The trash bags in front of Spamton feel light enough for him to push up and go [spelunking]. The angel hesitates to follow him as he manages a gap big enough for his nose, but Spamton manages to whack him forward.
He is half way underneath the garbage bags when it decompresses around him. The hard edges of [certificates of business acumen] and props dig into his back. The tightness in his chest constricts more, sweat starts to bead across his forehead. Spamton reaches out, his hands pushing out from under the bag and against the wall. He moves his hands in a waving motion. His fingers brush against poster frames, fake plants, and finally the rough texture of his tool box. His second hand shoots to the side of the box, pulling it under his chest before quickly scrambling out of the hole. He breeches the depths, to the red of the bedroom. He presses against the closet door and takes a few deep, ragged breaths as he holds the box to his chest, almost as if he's trying to squeeze it to death. His eyes start to un-focus as artifacting starts spreading to the corners of his vision.
"Hey Spammy…" Tenna's voice forces his vision to refocus. He's taken off his apron, and is in his comfortable [family show] attire: a green sweater vest with a baby blue button up underneath. Time is [kromer], Spamton forces his feelings down.
"REPAIR TIME! SHIRT OFF!" Spamton says, pointing to the bed. Tenna frowns, obviously want to speak more. Thankfully, he complies and sits on the bed and pulls his shirt off (some feeling seems to have returned since his [adventure]).
On the bed, Spamton flips the lid, revealing all his [nuts and bolts]. Tenna wordlessly offers his arm, turning it to show the pale maintenance panel. Spamton hunts for the Philips screwdriver. Then, palming his face, remembering that he left it with [cathode] nearly over a decade ago. He selects a flathead instead, knowing it'll work well enough for their task.
"Are you sure you want to use that one? Won't it hurt the tready things or whatever you call them?" Tenna asks.
"ONLY IF I MESS UP [TIP-TOP]." Spamton says, as he places the screwdriver in. He grips the screw and turns it, but it slips and slides out and across the skin.
"Yeowch!" Tenna cries out, gripping his arm. "Spammy give me a sec will ya?" He reaches over and starts rifling through his bedside drawer, suddenly he pulls out the missing Phillips.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU [Apening Act] WITH THAT, [Criminal]?" Spamton fusses, taking it away from him. With the appropriate screwdriver he's able to pop the panel off and sit it on the empty side of the tool box. Electrical tape and twisted wires greet Spamton, showing him what sort of [hack job] the girl and the others accomplished. Spamton reaches in and feels the wires earning a giggle from Tenna. He runs his hand up the tendrils, slotting his fingers in between each. He eventually finds the source at the joint.
"Will you have to disconnect?" Tenna asks, his screen dimming and showing the burn-in.
"YES. I'LL BE [IN-N-OUT]!" Spamton doesn't hesitate pulling on the wires, disconnecting them and letting them flop out on the bed. Underneath the black metal skeletal structure stiffens, stopping mid-pump of the upper arm.
"Dust me out too." Tenna says, a little annoyed at the lack of warning (something Fake Mike gives him), pulling out some canned air. Spamton nods, grabbing the air, and sticks it in. He has to really push down to make the can [FIRED], irritating his thumb in the process. He arcs the air around, reaching the straw into the hidden parts forcing dust and a rabbick to come out.
"{H0l1 cann0l1] HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THERE?" Spamton asks as the rabbit hops off, apparently not in the mood for talking. Instead of sitting in awkward silence, Spamton starts fiddling with the knot. He selects a wire at random, sliding his fingers into the knot as he tries to feel for a give. Instead, his joint scratches the wire leaving another mark. Spamton clacks his teeth together in frustration before deciding to try and pinch the wire and tug. The artifacting starts to creep in, making the fine details of the wiring start to blur. He starts to tug at a wire, cursing under his breath when he sees the mass of knot tighten.
He fiddles with it more, his puppet fingers slowly starting to ache from the [fancy dance moves]. He ignores it, he ignores it until they start to lock. His thumb freezes. He sighs and stands up, walking to the headboard.
"Whatcha doin—WHOA HEY MAMA!" Tenna cries out as Spamton slams his thumb against the headboard to loosen it. Tenna grabs his [pointy shoulder pads] and pulls him over. "Spamton G. Spamton! Why in the world would you do that?"
"TO GET IT WORKING?" Spamton says. "IT HAPPENS [cathode] YOU GET [Buy Used] TO IT."
"How about you take a break? Until it feels better."
"IT ALREADY IS, SEE?" Spamton wiggles his thumb as proof. He had to finish this arm. He pulls away from Tenna and slips to his non-working side. He starts pulling at the wires again. When Tenna tries to touch him again, he bats it away with his hand. His annoyance grows with each attempt. Every tug fails, every pull doesn't snake a wire out. Why was this so hard for him? Why couldn't his &*@!#$+ fingers co-operate with him?
"Spammy? Spammy?" Tenna's voice rakes in Spamton's ears in a high pitched whine.
"WH4+?!" Spamton shouts, suddenly glitching. He moves away from Tenna as the rage rolls over his body making him stutter uncontrollably. He cannot stop Tenna from holding him with one arm.
"I think you need to call your little buddies." Tenna hums, his channels flickering to the soothing sounds of the shopping channel. Spamton wordlessly listens, letting Tenna finally have some words in. "It's hard. It's really hard. To not… to be unable to do the things you used to do. You know it messes with me everyday. I can't put on shows like I used to, heck! I can't even write contracts like I used to. But I know if I can work around it with help. Spammy, I heard you freaking out in the closet earlier. It sounded like a real thriller, he he… bad joke I know."
Spamton wordlessly summons his little selves and watches as they effortlessly untangle Tenna and put him back together. Tenna shoos them out of existence as soon as they screw the final screw in.
"Let me help you, Spamton. It's… it's the least that I can do. What do you need right now?"
"HEAT. HELPS [Unlock The Full Version]." Spamton replies realizing his body has locked up. "I ALSO NEED [H20]." He always found himself parched after fits like this.
Tenna, ever the perfect housewife, delivers on both fronts. He lays Spamton on his heating pad before fetching a glass of water and a straw. For half an hour they sit in relative silence, only loud slurping and the shopping channel fill the air.
"So! I've been thinking! What if—now hear me out—what if we make a little book of ways to help each other out. Oh! We can make it into a scrap book! We can add pictures, and cute little drawings!! It'll just be adorable!!"
"WE CAN'T WRITE EVERYTHING [Medical Equipment] NEEDED. WE'LL BOTH [Lockjaw] HAHAHAHAHHAHA!" Spamton laughs, feeling a twinge of schadenfreude at the idea.
"That's why we just do the scrap book and telling parts. I know how artsy you are. We'll just get Mike to do it."
"AND IF HE TELLS US TO [BUZZ OFF]."
"Ha! He can't, it's in his contract." Tenna says, a catty grin stretches across his face. With a claw extended he reaches to the side of his head. "Ooh Mike! Could you come to my place with a TV TIME fountain pen and a journal! Oh! Bring Shuttah too!, and some paints."
"I ALREADY HAVE [oil]."
"Scratch the Paint. Bring everything else, and a snack!" With that, Mr. Ant Tenna summons his fake Mikes.