#the word repitition and tics are mostly just me projecting bc I have ADHD lmaoo

[nb-n0v4]

Spamton headcannons/Lore

ok this is long as FUCK so it’s going under a readmore but basically this is some of my ideas of what Spamton was like before and during his fall from grace + it turns into actual like story writing like halfway through because I can’t keep a consistent writing style to save my life. Warnings for body horror and, uh, depersonalization I guess? Also my description of post-Mike Spamton is inpired by @7greentears version of him please check out their art it’s so good. also this isn’t proof read or anything so apologies

Ok so I headcanon that Spamton used to be an Addison like most other people do, but the most popular idea is that all of the people he was close to ditched him once he started making it big. Mine is sort of the opposite. So, the first thing of note is that, before he made his deal, Addison!Spamton had a stutter. Whether it was from a glitch in programming or whatever idk but it obviously made it difficult for him to do his job. I like to think that he was actually a used car salesman before he started doing telemarketing for whoever this “Mike” dude was. 

Once he started talking to Mike though, one of the first things that happened was that his stutter disappeared. Like a miracle! And Mike urged him to really step up his game in his original trade, lots of flattery and hype. He encouraged Spamton to start shooting really high and try and get in with the Queen, telling him that he deserved it. 

And at first Spamton was still cool with the other Addisons, cause they had been buddies for a long time and mostly they were happy to see him finding success! But Mike had been talking for a while about how they were obviously jealous of him, and they might even want to sabotage his career before he had a chance to really make it big. And Spamton laughs this off at first thinking Mike is probably just paranoid and trying to look out for him, cause him and the others have been friends for ages, no way him getting a little popular would split them up.

But then one night he overhears one of them kinda complaining a bit about how he feels like Spamton has gotten real flashy recently, and maybe he could be a bit less in their face about how well he’s doing yknow? And the others don’t agree with him but they don’t disagree either, and with how hard Mike has been insisting not to trust them, that’s really all it takes. He feels kind of sick about it honestly, he’s worked so damn hard to get here and it’s a miracle it even happened in the first place and he’s not trying to show off! It’s just he can do nice things for them now! He wants to do nice things for them. And there they are, being . . . ungrateful. It stings more than he wants it to.

So he ghosts them. Stops going to meetups, makes up excuses, ignores calls. If they’re not interested in being friends with a big shot that’s fine, because he doesn’t need them, he’s got Mike, and he’s just landed a room in the Queen’s castle, of all places! He can start mixing with the high life, where people won’t get bitter at him just for spending a little money.

But it could never last forever. Mike starts getting really, really pushy. Spamton starts losing sleep, sometimes even skipping meals just to keep up with the demands of his benefactor, and he can hear the ringing of that fucking phone in what little sleep he manages to get. And he won’t stop talking about something called a “keygen”, barely offering him any help and rambling about freedom and other banal nonsense. Spamton starts getting worried. Has his boss gone off the deep end?

The thing is though, Spamton is honestly pretty smart, and despite some programming flaws, he was made to be a salesman. The only thing really holding him back was finding the right script and the voice to sell it, and thanks to Mike, he’s managed to get both. He’s sure he can manage on his own, even if for some reason the phone calls stopped. After all, Mike helped, but he was the one who earned a place in the palace.

The work doesn’t let up though, and it’s really starting to take its toll on him. The worst part though, is that no one really seems to notice, or if they do, they don’t care. He’s gotten a few pitying looks, some polite enquiries about his health that he’s smart enough to know they don’t want him answering honestly. He had cut himself off from the people he really cared about ages ago. He realizes he’s made a mistake. 

He calls Blue, spends the first 12 minutes of the call apologizing before he’s told to get to the point. He tells him that he wants to apologize for, well, everything. He’s been a shitty person, and an even worse friend. He wants to try and make amends. Blue . . . agrees, because honestly, they had missed him, even if he had been getting a bit boastful. Spamton is so thankful he damn near cries on the spot but Blue advises him to save the waterworks for the others cause they may not be as happy to see him.

He thanks him and hangs up, ready to make amends with his friends and maybe even take a day, or a week, off. He’s damn well earned it at this point. And then the phone rings. He’s tempted to just ignore it, the phone call with blue left him drained and he’s starting to get a headache but muscle memory wins out and he picks up the phone, putting on a wide grin.

“Spamton G. Addison speaking! I’m delighted to get your call and even happier to be of service!”

“What are you doing?”

His grin drops as he hears Mike’s voice on the line. “Oh, it’s you.” He says, grin falling into a scowl. “Listen, I’ve been working hard and doing everything you say, and I think I’m entitled to a little bit of time off. I need to patch stuff up with people, burned bridges aren’t good for any salesman, and besides, I-”

“No.”

Spamton stops, shock that quickly turns to annoyance filling his face. “What. Do you mean. No?” His tone makes it very clear that he’s reaching the end of his patience. He’s already decided he doesn’t really need Mike anymore, he can sustain himself. He had been hoping they could stay at least cordial. He gets the feeling now that that won’t happen.

“Bring me the KeyGEN.”

Spamton quickly loses his patience. 

“I’ve told you a million times, the Queen keeps whatever the hell that thing is under lock and fucking key. I could phase through walls and I wouldn’t be any closer to getting it for you. If you want it so bad why haven’t you tried getting it yourself, huh? I haven’t seen you around here once.” He actually hadn’t seen him period, so he wouldn’t realize even if he did, but that was irrelevant.

“Bring me the KeyGEN.”

“I’ve tried! I’ve been trying! Ever since I fucking got here in between all the fucking phone calls you’ve been forcing down my throat I’ve tried everything I can to get my hands on it! You need to lay the hell off or actually give me a plan to get the damn thing!” “Bring me the KeyGEN.”

Spamton sneered in disgust. “No. This conversation is over.”

“Is it?”

Always one to get the last word, Spamton retorts. “Yes, yes it is. Goodbye, f-forever-” He stops, a hand creeping up to his throat. 

“Is something wrong?”

Mike is never emotive, his words are always mind-numbingly monotone, but Spamton swears he sounds almost smug.

“No, nothing is w-wrong, asshole, now d-don’t ever c-c-call me ag-again!”

His hand comes up to hold his neck. What the fuck was going on?

“I think you still need me.”

That fucker, he was taunting him, a hundred percent. Spamton grimaced, even as a cold sweat broke out across his forehead and back. “Yeah? W-well, I think I do-don’t! Ev-even if you give me this da-damn stutter back!” He slammed the phone down onto the receiver. This was a blow, but even if his speech impediment was back, he wasn’t washed up. If anything, it could get him pity points, and he had gained enough that he could coast for a while before finding another line of work if he had to.

The phone jumped off of the receiver.

Spamton went cold, and picked it up to put it back on, intent on throwing the damn thing out of the window. As soon as his hand touched the phone though, he froze. He couldn’t move, actually couldn’t move. His feet felt glued to the floor, and his joints were locked stiff. The only move he could make, his arm jerking like it was being pulled, was to put the phone to his ear. Mike’s voice droned from the earpiece.

“Do you remember our deal, the official one?”

Spamton’s mind raced. Of course he remembered. After the one off phone call, they had gotten in touch again to hammer out the details. One point now stood out to him starkly, and his heart hammered in his chest. He had written it off as the guy being eccentric but, when they made the deal, Mike had said, in an almost cheerful tone, the most emotion Spamton had ever heard from the man, You’ll be my little puppet. He had laughed it off. He was a fucking idiot. His hands were shaking.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t think he could’ve, anyway.

It started in his hand, the one holding the phone, tingling, like pins and needles. Then it spread down his arm, to his chest. It worked its way up his legs, up to his neck, his jaw, his eyes. He still couldn’t move

He was a fucking idiot.

The feeling intensified, slowly getting worse and worse til he couldn’t stand it and then he felt, instinctively, he could move his mouth again.

“W-what, what are you doing to me.”

Silence.

“H-hey buddy, c’mon, I w-was just s-stressed, I di-didn’t mean it, I s-swear!”

Silence.

“I-”

Silence.

“I-it burns! Ow! S-stop, h-help me, It BURNS-”

Silence.

After too long he finally fell blissfully unconscious.

Hours later he awoke with a groan, pushing himself up. He had had the weirdest dream. He guessed the lack of sleep finally really got to him. He put a hand to his forehead at the killer headache that assaulted him. Then he froze, the click of plastic on plastic sending a wave of spine-chilling nausea through him. Shaking, he pulled back his hand. Where there had once been smooth, perfect skin, there was hard plastic-porcelain, interrupted by seams and joints. He swiftly brought up his other hand. The same sight greeted him. Jumping to his feet and trying to ignore the way the room spun, he threw himself in front of his mirror. And almost screamed. 

His white hair had gone pitch black, his eyes an unsettling yellow with pinprick black pupils. His eyes were surrounded by dark makeup, a mocking parody of the bags that had formed from Mike's endless backbreaking schedule. His jaw, open in shock and horror, hung too far forward on a hinge, and he could tell that closed, his mouth would be forever set in a horrific imitation of his wide salesman smile. Red paint dotted his cheeks like some kind of fucking doll, or clown. Even what he could see of his chest past his rumpled shirt had grooves and an unnatural shine.

The phone was still off of the receiver.

He was a fucking idiot.

Picking up the phone, he opened his mouth, to yell, to beg, to cry.

Only for no sound to come out.

He tried again.

Nothing.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what it is I’ve done to you.”

Spamton jumped at Mike's voice, and opened his mouth to do something, anything.

Nothing.

“I have needed a puppet for a long time. To get me what I want. You have failed.”

“[[what]] [[have]] [[you]] [[done to]] [[me]].”

Spamton choked on the words, his voice a horrible cut up parody of the one on the phone.

“Nothing that your own arrogance didn’t do already. Did you really think you could borrow my words and pay no price for failure. Anyone could see this was not a one-sided deal of help. You have failed to please me, and so this is adequate payment.”

“[[help]] [[me]], [[please]]”

“No.”

The line went dead.

Spamton stared down at the dead receiver for what felt like hours.

He dropped it and let it thud against the wall.

It only took a week after that for everything to fall apart. After all, what good is a salesman with no voice. He managed to steal most of the words he needed from the concerned and disgusted talk of the residents of the palace, everyone looking at him with barely disguised chagrin. His speech was a horrible mismatch of everyone around him and it put off everyone, including himself. He found out that the sick bastard had left him only his screaming from that night as the remains of his old voice. And then the advertisements started. Then the glitches, and the tics. Nothing of his body was his anymore. He couldn’t face anyone. He could barely face himself. He ran from the palace before they could evict him, an older rotary phone the only thing he took with him, a half-formed, desperate, sleep-deprived hope. When Blue came to the palace later that day, the only thing he found was the wall mounted phone in his room, hanging off the receiver. 

He needed his life back.

He needed his voice back.

He needed

He needed

He needed

Freedom.