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It’s a very, very special day, at last, and you’re absolutely beaming with pride. You can’t help but break into a little skip as you move to the door of your ground-level apartment, and a grin stretches at your metallic cheeks. Oh, this is going to be so good!
Your hands jitter with excitement as you unlock the door, and then you grandly swing it open, announcing your entrance to your eccentric and loveable roommate. “Heeeeey, Spamton!! Surprise!! I’m home early!”
That’s right…it’s been a whole week since you’d taken the little trash-dwelling puppet in, and though it had definitely been a bit of a struggle at first, you’ve grown pretty comfortable living with him now. He has his own small room, in a space you’d been using simply as extra storage, and though he can’t pay you, he’s been helping around the house in exchange, like some kind of tiny live-in maid.
When you stride into the kitchen, you find him standing on his step-stool at the sink, wiping off a damp dish. But at your entrance, his face metaphorically lights up, and he hops down from the stool, pattering eagerly up to your side.
He’s wearing his white turtleneck and dress pants, but instead of the usual black blazer, he’s got a blue apron tied over his shoulders and waist. It’s something you’d bought and then tailored and shortened to fit him, and it just warms your heart every time you see him wearing it. He seems to really like the color blue, and that makes sense, as it’s supposed to be a very psychologically calming color.
You wonder why he doesn’t have any more blue clothes, but then again, he hasn’t been able to purchase any for quite a while, has he? Especially since any money he’d acquired had just ended up in his soft little stomach. Eventually, maybe you can take him on a shopping spree and get him a whole new wardrobe. Just imagining him trying things on and showing them off feels really exciting. Man, that would be fun…you’ll have to put that on your list of future activities.
“AH! MY GRACIOUS [Homeowner]!! YOU HAVE [Finished Task] AT THE EARLIEST CONVENIENCE?!” Spamton eagerly chatters to you, and your smile only widens.
Though his voice still cuts in and out of those advertisement fragments, it’s a bit steadier than it used to be. The crackles and misspellings in his words are coming less frequently, and you’re taking it as a small sign of healing.
You can’t help reminiscing about the past week and thinking over how much progress he’s made. He’d been so nervous and apprehensive the first time you’d let him inside. Over and over, he’d kept insisting that he had no way of paying you, and eventually you’d had to ask him to do housework, just so he’d accept your care.
For a scam artist, it’s kind of strange that he wouldn’t let you get away with not asking for anything in return. You’d think someone like him would have no quarrel with being a freeloader. But maybe…that’s a sign that he really cares about you. After all, that very first day, he’d already expressed concern over how freely you’d just given all your money away. Despite trying to pull scams on you, there’s still an odd sort of integrity to him.
You’re letting him do the dishes, take out the trash, sweep and dust, but the one thing you still can’t trust him with is cooking. Food…actual, traditional, edible food, designed to be consumed and delight the taste buds… He’s still being slowly introduced to it.
You recall that first meal he’d finally been able to finish, as you’d sat across from him at your dining room table, giving him gentle encouragements. He’d responded best to thin, flat things, probably because of their similarity to the texture of “Kromer”, so you’d gone with a dish of fettuccini alfredo and cola to drink. He’d eaten it extremely slowly, but he had eaten the whole thing, and then asked for a refill of his soda. You’d given him a big hug and told him how proud you were of him, though he’d protested in his own encoded way that this was nothing to be proud of.
You’d started cooking for him, as much as you could, creating breakfasts and lunches for him that he could warm up while you were gone at your job. And though there were a few things you’d discovered that he didn’t like—carrots, for instance—he’d been very receptive towards the real, nourishing food that you provide for him.
For the first few days, he’d still been addicted to the feeling of crinkling dollar bills between his teeth, and you’d caught him trying to steal out of your wallet the first night. Instead of completely denying it, you’d decided to give him some of that “delicious Kromer” as a bedtime snack every day, gradually lowering the amount. In only one week, you’ve almost completely weened him off of it, and you wonder if you can get away with giving him just five Dark Dollars tonight. He’s been enjoying real food quite a bit, and it makes you so happy to see.
You briefly wonder if you’d been created with the initial purpose of being a healthcare robot. You’re much different from those Ambyu-Lances that roam the city, but...why else do you have this nurturing spirit? Seeing Spamton getting just a bit healthier, a certain soothed strength returning to his small body, a sparkle of life to his glasses-eyes that hadn’t been there before…it just fills you with such joy.
Well, it probably also helps that he’s been bathing regularly again. You’d had to go out and buy shampoo, since you don’t have hair and had never needed the stuff, but fortunately, your standard body polish also does wonders for his plastic parts.
Your mind returns to the present, to the incredible plan you have in store today, and your robotic limbs are practically jittering with excitement. “That’s right!” You chirp down to him. “And have I got something amazing to show you!”
It seems a little of Spamton’s salesman lingo is starting to rub off on you, and you awkwardly catch it a moment later. “Um, well, I mean, I got something cool for us.”
But the regurgitation of his language immediately has the puppet man hopping and flapping his arms with excitement. “AN [[Unbelievable Prices!!!]] YOU SAY?!?! OH WOW OH WOW!! I WON’T BELIEVE MY [Holes]!!!”
You let out a light-hearted laugh. “Yes! Yes, that’s right! Guess what? Since it was a half-day, I’m taking you out for lunch today!”
Your own heart quivers with anticipation. Because…that isn’t the whole truth. And you can’t wait for him to see.
“LUNCH AT A [Fine Establishment]?! OOOH, [[Hot Damn Skippy]]!!!”
You can’t help but chuckle again—his expressions are something else.
But Spamton pauses, the edges of his wildly grinning, slatted mouth turning downward. “BUT I HAVE TO FINISH THE [Dishwasher Liquidation Sale] FIRST.”
“Hey, don’t worry about that.” You bend down and place a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll still be here when we get back. C’mon, let’s go now!”
“REALLY?!” Spamton’s face snaps upwards so quickly that you swear you see his nose jitter.
“Really, really.” It’s heartwarming when he gets so excited over something as simple as this. Well, there’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t know that yet.
His hands start to reach back around his waist to untie the apron, but you stop him once more. “Don’t worry about that—c’mon, I wanna go right now!”
“BUT I’M NOT [Dressed to Impress]!!” Spamton frets, and you rub soothingly at that shoulder.
“It’s just gonna be us. No one else will even see us, I guarantee it.” Considering what you have in mind, it’s probably best that he keep the apron on. Once again, you know you’ve done it.
His hands halt and then drop to his sides…and his body starts to sway back and forth with untapped energy. “WELL, IF I HAVE YOUR [100% Trusted Garanttee]…”
It isn’t just “deal”…he has other particular buzzwords that he responds to, you’ve learned. Ones that will help him trust you. And you’ve been using them, along with your gentle compassion and consistency to gain his trust thus far. It just makes you feel so wonderful…how much he truly does trust you now.
And at last, you eagerly beckon, and he follows you out the front door of the apartment. Your hands are shaking as you lock up behind you…and you notice he’s already staring at it. He probably doesn’t realize why it’s there, but he’s fascinated with it in any case. So you proudly stride up to its side and place one hand on its hood.
“Take a look at this! See, we’re not just going out to lunch—we’re going out to lunch in my new car!!”
Spamton’s jaw drops open so far that you’re surprised it doesn’t literally detach and fall onto the ground. You double over in laughter at the sight. A little over a week ago, you would’ve found that face to be terrifying, but right now, it’s just hysterical.
You pat at the hood of the car another time for emphasis. “Yup! I left early from work to go pick up this baby! Thought I’d surprise you with it.”
The car is a slightly sporty model, deep blue, and sleek. It’s not the fanciest car on the market, but it’s pretty high-end, and you’re sure Spamton recognizes its worth. One of the numerous tidbits you’ve learned about his past is that he used to sell cars. And you’d bet anything he’s extremely impressed right now.
For a moment, he just sort of crackles and buzzes and tries to form computerized syllables, and your giggles return full-force. Oh, this is great—it’s even better than you’d anticipated.
Finally, he gets a broken sentence out, and his voice has somehow shifted into a slightly higher pitch. “WE’R3 GOING TO TAKE A LITTLE [Ride Ar0und Town]?!?! IN YOUR [[BR4ND NEW!!!!]] LUXURY [Nighthawk 2030X]?!?!?!?!”
Of course, he’s recognized the name and model right off the bat. You wonder how much he can tell about it just by looking at it. He definitely hasn’t had the opportunity to be up close to any of these expensive current cars. But you can imagine him passing the time by picking scraps of modern car ads out of the trash can and reading over them, stacking them together like a magazine. That’s probably how he knows the name of this one, actually.
“That’s right!” You bounce forward, a little closer to him. “I needed to get my own car eventually. And I figured I’d take you on a little drive at the same time. It’s been one whole week since you came home with me, we should celebrate!” You’d been secretly planning this for a few days, and you’re so glad it seems to be paying off. It’ll be a wonderful day for both of you.
What comes out of Spamton’s mouth next isn’t a word of any kind, but just a scratchy extended beep that lasts for several seconds. Though you normally always try your best not to make robotic noises, you let out a happy electronic chirp along with him. It’s just too joyful.
When he snaps out of it, his body goes into action, and he scurries up to the car and slips his small body right in underneath it.
You jump back slightly in shock. Oh…he’s probably just checking out its parts, you realize. He might want me to pop the hood for him to take a look in there, too.
After a moment, your sound receptors pick up something like soft banging, and you start to worry that he might break something down there. You don’t know much about the mechanics of these things…but then again, maybe he can teach you, when you need to know. Maybe maintaining this car can be a new little job for him.
Thankfully, Spamton emerges again, glasses shining, and hops back to his tiny feet. “NOT BAD! NOT BAD AT ALL!! BUT IT MIGHT [Wear and Tear] AFTER [Two Year Limited Warranty].”
“Oh.” You briefly wonder if you should’ve taken him with you when you’d gone shopping around. But then again, the dealers might’ve recognized him and said something disparaging to him. It would’ve been incredibly awkward, especially considering…
“Do you think you might be able to take care of it for me, so it’ll last a long time?”
Spamton rubs his knuckle over the bottom of his jaw in consideration. “SURE COULD. IT’S [[Just That Simple]]!! BUT YOU REALLY SHOULDA BOUGHT A CLASSIC [Cungadero]!! NOW THOSE THINGS ARE [[Built To Last]]!!!”
A Cungadero, huh? You’re pretty sure you remember seeing a few of those cars…in the used car lot in the back. But it’s probably true—they’d been pretty old, but looked to be in pretty good condition.
“Are…those the cars you used to sell a lot of at Big Shot Autos?” you delicately ask. You’d gotten the name of the business out of him a while back, plus you’d noticed a few old posters with that name hanging around.
“OF COURSE!!!” Spamton cries, angrily waving a hand at you, as if you should’ve known that already. And then…you watch in disturbed fascination as something entirely new happens.
He begins to…sing? It’s distorted and a little off-key, but it’s a measured, halting jingle that pours out of him. “Big Shot Autos! We’re here for you! Big Shot Autos! Now’s your chance to! Be a big, big shot!!”
As soon as it finishes, he bursts into his manic, crazed laughter, throwing his head back and yelling. “EAHAEHAEHAEH!”
It’s natural that you’re a little disturbed—he’s never done anything like this before. But…maybe it’s a sign of overstimulation and you should try to steer him in another direction.
“Spamton…hey. I appreciate it. But we should get going now.”
Just hearing you say his name already seems to help. For a moment, he looks crestfallen, as if realizing that he’s not the proprietor of Big Shot Autos anymore. In fact, when you think about it, the lot you’d brought this car home from might have even belonged to him in the past. Maybe if you’d thought to dig around there a bit more, you could’ve found a few Big Shot Autos branded items still hanging around. It’s probably best not to mention that to Spamton, though, especially not now.
Awkwardly, he reaches down to wipe his hands on his apron…and his glasses go into that concerning static buzz that always seems to happen when he loses his grip on the present. His jaw waggles furiously, his body quivers, and a frantic rambling whisper comes out of him—“taxtitleandliscencefeesapplysubjecttocreditapprovalseedealerfordetails--”
“Spamton,” you firmly say his name again, and you kneel at his side, putting your face right in his field of vision. You want to be the first thing he sees when he comes back to himself. “We’re going to lunch together, remember? Aren’t you hungry?”
Spamton’s glasses pop back into their usual colors, and you notice his eyes blink a few times behind them. His spiel cuts off, and he takes a sudden, sharp gasp. “AH! I AM VERY [Empty], THAT’S CORRECT.”
You give him a soft smile. There are always going to be moments like this that frankly scare you a bit. But you’ve decided to be here for him and guide him through it. It’s going to be okay.
“Well, come on, then. I know just the thing to fill that empty belly.”
He gives you a slightly flushed grin, and you give him a consoling little rub on his upper arm. It’s time to go, at last.
Once you’re settled into the driver’s seat, Spamton slips into the passenger’s seat beside you, and even though you’d pulled it all the way in, his feet don’t reach the floor. By standard traffic laws, he should probably be in a booster seat, but you’re definitely not going to humiliate him like that.
He runs a hand over the dashboard, checking out the feel of the interior and the features installed at the middle console. You start it up, and his finger pushes into one of the buttons. Horrible clanging “music” blasts out of the surround-sound speakers, and you nearly leap through the roof.
“Don’t touch that!” you yelp, frantically pressing the radio back off, and you notice Spamton laughing. Maybe he’d done that on purpose—everyone knows the only “music” allowed to be broadcast are things Queen likes…like noise music.
“GOOD [Bass-Boosted Stereo] SOUND SYSTEM!”
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate it, but maybe let’s not use the radio. Like, ever.”
You’re thankful that he’s not actually disappointed, and he just continues chuckling to himself as you pull the car out and drive out into the city. Soon enough, he’s found the owner’s manual stashed in the glove compartment, and he begins to read it like it’s the most compelling mystery novel in the world.
When you arrive at your destination, you have to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention again. “Hey, Spamton, hey. Take a look at the menu and decide what you want.”
“WHAT [Five-Dollar] MENU?” He drops the manual and holds out his hands, as if waiting for you to hand him something.
You smile a little at his confusion…you’d thought this might be the case, actually. “Have you never ordered from a fast food place before?”
“WH4T?!?! I HAVE [Standards!]!! I WOULD NEVER [Dine and Dash]!!!”
You chuckle and pull him over to your side of the car so he can get a better look at the big, illuminated menu board. His face flushes in response to the closeness, but he does look over the list of combo meals in curiosity.
“AND ALL OF THIS IS [[Fresh Start]]?!?!”
“Yup, that’s right!” It takes him a moment, and you start to worry that the cars behind you will get impatient and start honking. But at last, he selects “option number 6” and you pull up to give the order to the attendant at the speaker.
Strangely enough, Spamton looks a little glum while you pay and receive his soda and bag of food from the window. Once you park, he looks over to you, holding the bag and frowning. “I FORGOT THAT THE [[One and Only!!]] ONE OF US TO GET [Free Lunch] WOULD BE [Your Favorite Top-Rated Salesman!].”
“Oh,” you realize, and it kind of warms your heart. “Are you feeling bad again because I can’t eat?”
“IT’S NOT [[Seller’s Remorse]]!!” He insists, but you can tell. You’ve only been getting better and better at reading him.
“Oh, Spamton. I know you won’t believe me, but it really is true.” You give him your softest smile. “Watching you eat is all I need. I really, really like to just…see you eat. I always have. It, um, it makes me so happy.” You’re aware that you’ve begun to blush, and it feels so weird, just admitting this out loud, even though you’ve said it before. Maybe it feels more intimate with the two of you alone in a car together. God, if only he knew just how much you like to see him eat…
His own flush creeps across his nose and under the rims of his glasses, but he’s grinning widely again. “THAT SEEMS LIKE A [Logistical Failure] BUT I SUPPOSE I SHALL [[Accept This Great Deal]]!!!”
He turns and digs into the paper bag, and you have a sudden suppressed urge to poke at the cute bright red blush dot on his pointy cheek. You can’t deny that he’s only grown cuter to you as you’ve gotten used to him. Now, he only seems creepy when he experiences a heavy glitch, like he had earlier. Your hope is that they’ll ease away the more you care for him. His speech has already improved a little, after all.
Spamton pulls out his meal—a fairly standard hamburger and fries—but he marvels at the scent of the fresh patty, at the feel of the soft bun, and you beam. He’s probably never held one that wasn’t half-rotted and stale, at least not for the past several years.
“Have you ever had a non-garbage hamburger before?” you decide to ask him, and he vigorously shakes his head. “Haha, well, that really does make this special, then!”
He balances the meal on his small lap, and you start messing with the car’s features. You pull his seat back, giving him more room to get comfortable, and you flip down the little screen in the ceiling and turn it on. And then…you both have a little movie time in the car together while Spamton eats.
Naturally, you end up watching him more than the movie, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. After his third bite of the burger, he exclaims that it’s “the bee’s knees” and it seems like he’s more focused on his own consumption than the movie as well. It’s really just there for calming background noise.
You’d known what you were doing when you’d insisted on him wearing his apron. You see…Spamton still hasn’t mastered the skill of biting into things with his puppet jaw without spilling pieces of them in the process. Bits of lettuce, tiny bun crumbs, and little dollops of ketchup have tumbled onto his chest and his lap. You really can’t fault him for it—it must be hard to get used to a body like that, to perform a function that he’d practically forgotten.
When he eats the fries, he first starts to just shove them into his mouth whole, before you implore him to try biting into them. They’re crispy and nice! Don’t let that go to waste! He bites them quickly down, like a sort of wood chipper, and it’s just so amusing, you can’t help softly giggling.
Once he finishes the burger, you reach over and wipe his lower jaw/chin piece thing with a napkin, and his blush flares up again. Based on your previous experiences, you know he’s acutely aware and ashamed of the mess he’s making, so you whisper to him that it’s okay, you don’t mind in the slightest. Seeing him enjoy food like this…it’s just so worth it.
Spamton’s small hands gently slap your own hands away and he shouts out, insisting he can take care of himself, but you know by now that…he appreciates it.
The movie is about half over when he slurps down the last of his cola. The crumpled burger wrapper and empty cardboard fry pouch sit in his lap, and it makes you happy just to look at it, knowing where it’s all gone now. With a satisfied little “fzp”, he sets the cup down and balls up all the trash, shoving it into the bag. “BOY HOWDY! THE JUNK FROM THE [Speedy Delivery] JOINTS IS [Better and Faster] THAN I THOUGHT!”
“Good, huh?” You grin with your own sense of satisfaction. “And I know a really good place to go get some dessert now, too!”
“MORE [[Sweets and Tr3ats]]?!?!” Spamton reaches down to pull his seat forward again, and his stubby legs kick with excitement. “THAT’S JUST [Too Much] [T00 MUCH]!!!”
“I told you we were celebrating.” You’re smiling so joyfully, seeing his eagerness. “I’m going to spoil you today. I got this awesome car, and you get whatever “sweets and treats” you want.” And I also get a little show, you shamefully admit to yourself. God, feeding him is just so…fun. You hate to admit it, but God, you love feeding him.
“HOLY [Cungadero]!!! I AM ONE LUCKY [[Lucky Sp1N]] MAN!!!!”
“Sure are,” you heartily agree. And I’m pretty darn lucky myself.
God, it’s adorable, the way he wiggles excitedly in his seat as you leave the parking lot and drive off towards your next stop. He’s like a kid on their way to the toy store, and it’s just making you giddy with happiness yourself. You’re fairly close to the carnival section of the city, and there’s a little place here you’ve had your eye on for a while. You’ll have to get out of the car to order, but it’ll definitely be worth it.
Spamton removes his apron when you park, and the two of you walk up to the building. There’s a hand-written menu board outside, and you nudge him close to it, so he can read it and make his choice. Again, it’s taking him a long time, and so you lean beside him to hear his thoughts.
“CHOCOLATE CHIPPED COOKIE LOOKS [Super Yummy!] BUT RASPBERRY SWIRL…AND THE CHOCOLATE [So Good You’ll] [[Die]]!!!” His hands grip the sides of his forehead, and he’s practically sweating as he tries to decide. “HOW IS ANYBODY SUPPOSED TO [[Submit Order Form]]?!?!?!”
Your grin is a bit devilish when you notice this perfect opportunity. “…Why not all three?”
“WH4T?!?!” Spamton looks at you like you’ve also lost your marbles, but you confidently stride up to the side of the order counter, where a confused Plugboy is waiting.
“We’ll have a three-scoop sundae—Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, Raspberry Swirl, and Death By Chocolate.”
For the first time in a while, your little puppet companion is completely speechless when you hand him the large bowl containing the three scoops of ice cream, topped by fluffy dollops of whipped cream. You have to guide him over to a metal bench nearby, where the two of you sit, overlooking a scene of the fairground below. He’s still utterly awestruck, and stares at the dessert for a whole minute, before you hand him a spoon and urge him to start eating before it begins to melt.
At first, he starts shoveling it in too quickly, and you have to take back everything you said and get him to ease his pace—it’s not an emergency! You worry, since Spamton isn’t wearing the protective apron. But he’s very aware of his own eating problems, and he leans close over the table, so that anything that escapes his mouth lands back in the bowl.
He just chews the ice cream like regular food, and you tell him he should try licking it. Though a moment later, you feel kind of stupid and awkward. What if he doesn’t even have a tongue? It’s highly possible. You have a tongue, yourself, but it’s only for emoting, not for licking and tasting. But it doesn’t take long before you’re proven wrong.
Awkwardly, Spamton lifts up a spoonful of the Death by Chocolate ice cream and extends it in, past his large, parted teeth. And you watch as from the depth of that cavernous mouth, a tiny, stubby little tongue presses forward, licking at the ice cream mound.
Oh, you realize, and you have to prevent yourself from laughing. It’s just really, really small. So short, it won’t extend past his teeth, and he has to really get in there for it to reach. That’s kinda disturbing to watch…but it makes sense. It’s silly and strange, just like everything else about him.
From then on, Spamton alternates between licking and chomping the ice cream, and his gaze shifts away from you, towards the shimmering lights of the carnival area. After a moment, you join him, and you watch the enormous ferris wheel gently turning in the distance.
“Hey, Spamton?” You speak, for the first time in several long moments. He pauses, gulping down his latest bite of Raspberry Swirl. “Have you ever been to the carnival before?”
With a sort of wistful air, he holds his empty spoon up and taps it to the side of his face. “THERE WAS NO TIME FOR [Fun For All Ages]. ALWAYS [Sales] TO BE HAD, ALWAYS [Limited-Time Deals!!] TO OFFER. ALWAYS THE [Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring]…” His head droops slightly, and you can just see the colors beginning to fade from his glasses, the telltale sign that he’s going into another episode.
“Well, how about I take you there sometime?” You speak up, your voice steady, reassuring. “Maybe next weekend. We got the car now—we can go anywhere!”
“NO, NO!” Spamton’s glasses pop back into their usual bright colors, thankfully, and he assertively meets your line of sight. “THAT’S NOT A [Square Deal]!!! THIS [Local HonestMan] SHOULD TAKE YOU ON A [Two-For-One Vacation Package!] TOO!”
“Thanks,” you tell him, and a certain warmth flitters through you at the thought of taking an actual vacation together with him. It definitely wouldn’t be boring. “Let’s…do a lot of different things together, alright?”
It’s true…before all this, you hadn’t had any friends to go out and spend time with. Spamton…he’s filling a hole of loneliness inside you that you hadn’t even known was there. It’s wonderful.
In response, Spamton only blushes, nods, and fills his mouth with ice cream again. Cute.
A fireworks show starts up against the navy darkness of the sky, and the two of you watch the bursts of electric color casting shifting hues across the city landscape. Just before the finale, Spamton finishes his sundae and wipes the chocolate stains from his teeth, grinning with satisfaction.
“How was it?” You ask, though you’re pretty sure you already know the answer.
“MARVELOUS!!! SUPER [[Delicis]]!!!! INCREDIBLE [Exclusive Flavor!]!!!!!!” His glasses blink back and forth with enthusiasm, and you nod along.
“I knew this place would be a hit.”
As you’re leaving the bench, you notice Spamton touching at his belly, almost curiously. You wonder if the ice cream feels different inside him…this is the first time he’s really eaten something cold like this. Plus, when he stands up straight, you can notice a bit of an outward curve at his waist. Ah…the fullness is becoming visible now. That was quite a large dessert for his little belly. But still…
“Anything else you might want to try before we head home?” You glance over at him once you’re both seated in the car again. He’s fiddling with his fingers now, the tiny joints clacking. “Remember, it’s a special celebration, and I more than don’t mind.”
It takes a long moment…but when he answers, his voice is a bit more crackly than usual. “THOSE [Speedy D3liv3ry] PL4CES…ARE THERE MORE [Unique It3mS For Sal3]????? I WANT TO I WANT TO [[FREE TRI4L!!!!]]!!!! WHOAH, YOU KNOW… THERE’S SO MANY [[Fantastic FLAVORS]] TO EXPERIENCE!!! YOU’VE [Introductory Rates!!]!!! I CAN’T I CAN’T [[Don’t Quit Now!]]!!!”
With a huge, glowing grin, you plop your hand right on top of his head, and his small body quivers with nervous energy. “I get it. I got you hooked on fast food, didn’t I? There’s lots of different places, not just that one. You wanna try some more?”
You can almost hear the steam whistle as Spamton turns to look at you with a tomato-red, overstimulated face. “YES YES!!!!!!!!!!! [[%1000]]!!!!!!!!”
You burst out in laughter, released from your own thrilling little heart. “Well, here we go, then!! We’re going on a fast food tour of Cyber City!”
A computerized screech comes from the little puppet man as you peel out of the parking lot, and you immediately head for the closest highway ramp. The buzz of literal electricity is running through your limbs, and you know just what to do. The other places you know of are on the western edge of the city, so it’s going to take a little longer to get there. But as it turns out, both of you are more than happy to take the highway.
You rev the engine, flying past little red, legged cars, and it relieves some of your balled-up energy. Meanwhile, Spamton rolls his window down, and shoves his face into the blast of wind, yelling “SWEET BREEZE!!!!!!!” In turn, you open your window as well, letting him get pummeled from both sides, and he absolutely loves it. You imagine that anyone within the next mile can probably hear his piercing, shrieking laughter. God, this is probably the most fun he’s had in decades, and you’re so delighted you’ve made that happen.
The drive lasts for quite a while, and when you finally turn off the highway, Spamton calms down again and closes up the window. Playtime’s over, apparently, but you make a mental note to make sure you take him on another highway drive sometime.
Then…your citywide junk food crawl begins. A soft pretzel dipped in gooey cheese…a loaded hot dog with all the fixings…a stuffed burrito with spicy sauce that makes his face turn red and makes him scream about “hot hot hot hottest deals”. Straight through the afternoon and into the evening, you cruise around, occasionally walking a few blocks, to spoil your little salesman roommate with all different kinds of common, processed cuisine. As a result, the curve of his tummy steadily, softly nudges outwards…rounding and swelling with this delicious smorgasbord of treats. He adjusts his pants, probably sensing that they’re getting too tight, and just continues munching through his latest selection, which is a small bag of popcorn.
At last, after a few long, meandering hours, the two of you return to your car, and Spamton heavily plops himself into the passenger’s seat with a huff of air and another one of those fizzle-hiccups of over-fullness. He shuffles to get his apron back on and recline the seat back a bit. You see his eyes close behind his glasses, and he rests one hand at the top of his round tummy, the apron draping over the gentle little ballooned shape of it. God, he looks so, so content, almost proud. You’ve lost track of his consumption by this point, but it’s certainly been enough to feed an entire family of five. It’s a good thing his eyes are closed, because you can’t stop staring.
I wanna touch it. I wanna touch it so bad. Oh, what the hell? I deserve to…!! And your gloved hand snakes over, cupping around the lower curve of Spamton’s well-fed belly, patting a little, feeling the warm heaviness inside.
His glasses flash back to life, and his face flushes a soft pink, but he has no objections. He likes it, he must like it.
“How’s your stomach?” You give it a tiny rub. “Feeling pretty full? You want to call it quits, or do you still have room for more?”
A little rumbly motor-like noise hums out of him, maybe a sort of groan, and he presses in on the top of his belly where his hand is resting. “SEEMS LIKE I HAVE SOME [Half-Price Room Available!]” He grins, though it looks strangely a slight bit lopsided. “I CAN HANDLE [All This and More!]!!”
The electric jolt runs through your arm again, and you return it to the steering wheel. “Okie-dokie! In that case, there are a couple more places I know of. Let’s see if we can fill in that little ‘vacancy’.” You almost giggle at your own stupid joke…but saying it had felt so fluttery. You ought to lightly tease him about his appetite more often.
As you’re driving through some of the slower-moving, more populated streets, however, something happens that bursts you out of your flustered little bubble. You have to stop at a red light, next to a street corner where a pink-colored Addison is calling out and hawking his exclusive tea shop. And as you get closer to him, Spamton slips down in his seat, ducking his head, so that he can’t be seen.
The sound of the Addison’s boisterous voice is muffled through the car window, but for as long as you’re stopped next to him, Spamton remains scrunched out of sight, his long nose practically poking into his own bloated stomach. When you pass through the light, he finally uncurls himself and seems to take a slow, deep breath, as if relaxing after the danger has passed. That reaction…
Your mind whirls, and you’re starting to piece it together now, from the little things you’ve been observing and mentally filing away. I’m going to talk to him about it. I need the confirmation. We can’t just keep ignoring it. We have to talk.
For right now, though, you’ve arrived at the next fast food joint, and this time, you order for Spamton, intending to surprise him.
He looks a little confused, but he lights up again when you hand him a little cardboard tray filled with four barbecue chicken tenders and waffle-cut fries. He eagerly chomps one of the tenders right in half and beams at the delightful new taste. “HOT AND FRESH!!! TENDER AND [Juicy]!!! THIS MUST BE THE [Top Ten Eateries] [[You Won’t Want to Miss]]!!!”
“I doubt it actually made a list like that,” you admit. “But it makes me so happy to see you enjoying regular food so much.”
Spamton stuffs a few fries into his face and reclines again, setting the tray on top of his tummy. There’s hardly any space left on his lap now, after all. Carefully, you maneuver the car into a parking spot, and just spend a few minutes watching him. He finishes his second tender, and then sticks his whole hand in his mouth for a second…probably licking the sauce from his fingers.
This position… It’s just so indulgent and luxuriating. Lying back, more food perched atop the round mound of that spoiled little tummy, indulging its gluttony even more.
“Fzzrp!” He hiccup-buzzes, and brings another small handful of fries to his mouth. His eyes are sleepy and half-lidded, as if dragged down by the weight mounting inside him. “Kzzp! Fzp!”
You swear you actually watch the inundated little ball of his belly nudge upwards, push up and pop out a tad, as he polishes off over half of the new meal. The way the blue apron just frames and accentuates the curve… You’re so strangely enamored with it. Maybe not having a stomach yourself has made you all the more fascinated with his. But you can’t get too sidetracked. God, you hate to do this, to break this comfy, decadent spell…
“Spamton?” Your voice is hesitant at first, but it grows in resolve at the end of his name. He glances over at you, grinning, swallowing another couple of fries.
“Spamton…you’re an Addison, aren’t you?”
Spamton freezes. He sets the fry he’s holding back down. With a grunt of effort, he rolls forward again and slides the food tray onto the dashboard. And then…he just slouches, looking away from you. The blush dots have disappeared from his cheeks, and he’s faintly frowning…but at least he hasn’t slipped away into the realm of static again, at least not yet.
“No.” You decide you can’t waste time dancing around it any longer. “I know you’re an Addison. And something must have happened to you when you lost everything.”
You know you’re right. You’ve seen them by now… Naturally, Spamton had had to remove his glasses to take a bath. And you’ve seen them. His eyes. Beady, soft black ovals that quickly squint into little black lines. Just like an Addison—exactly like one, if not for the puppet jaw and sharp cheeks. Plus, that old, faded poster you’d seen a scrap of on the wall of an alleyway… A white Addison with black hair, advertising some sort of car. An old photo…of him. His mouth had been just like theirs…
“What happened?” you delicately inquire in a caring whisper. “Why do you seem to be avoiding the others?”
A long, uncomfortable moment of silence fills the vehicle.
“That was our deal, remember?” You speak up, firmly, but with a gentle tinge. “That you would tell me about yourself, about what you’ve been through. You can’t hide it forever, and I want to know. I want to know about you.”
Spamton’s small shoulders are shaking, but you can’t tell what sort of emotion they carry, besides turmoil. His glasses are blank, solid colors. And then he speaks.
“THOSE [[#%^&%$%^]]. THEY [LEFT] ME. BECAUSE I AM [[slime]].”
Left him?! What does that mean exactly?
“THEY WERE ALL [Envied] BECAUSE OF MY [[Great Success]]. I BET THEY HAD A [Big Party] THE DAY I GOT [[Sacked]]!!”
Ah…sadly, that makes sense. You know nothing about the lives of Addisons, but you can imagine how competitive they must be. “I…see…” You whisper out.
Thumk!! Suddenly, Spamton violently slams the side of his fist into the passenger window, and your body gives a start. Thankfully, he doesn’t have enough strength to actually put a crack in it, but it’s a shock, and you’re immediately unsettled.
He’s furious, and you have never seen him like this before. He yells out, and his glitches become more intense. “NOTHING!!!! TH3Y NEVER NEV3R… NO M4TTER HOW I [[SCR3M]] AND SCREAM !!! NO ONE WILL [help]. COLd…THE [Pain Pain]… NO ONE TO HELP!!!”
Spamton’s whole body quivers, and his left hand clutches at his chest, at the top edge of his apron. He takes rattling, ragged little gasps, chokes a tiny bit, twists his brow in agony.
So they’d been his friends…or at least his colleagues. And they’d just left him for dead when everything went downhill. No wonder there’s so much resentment here… Is it…true? Did all of the other Addisons willfully abandon him, leaving him to rot in the literal garbage? No matter what, that’s what he believes…and you don’t doubt for a second that it’s destroyed even more of his damaged psyche.
But despite his outburst, Spamton is still managing to hold onto some piece of himself. His long, thin, drawn face lifts, and those Addison pupils appear, shifting up to meet your widened eyes.
“NO ONE…UNTIL [you].”
That’s right. An uncertain smile cracks onto your face. There was no one to help him…until me.
Spamton’s face softens, releasing its clenched fury, an inch away from relieved tears. His gaze shifts away from you, but his blush dots bloom back into place with a tiny smile. “YOU ARE MY [Genuine] ANGEL.”
Your heart squeezes at those words. And nothing matters anymore. Your arms extend across the middle console and wrap around him, over his back. He shifts, eagerly, into your embrace, clamping his arms around under your chest. You can feel the little ball of his belly bump against your own waist, and it’s frankly adorable. You pull him in as close as you can, just trying to transmit that feeling of safety.
Another awful shudder runs through his body. “D On’T LE4VE,” he mutters. “DON ‘T LEavE… LikE THEy DID.”
And it comes out again. That voice. The steady, soft voice from somewhere deep inside him. “Please don’t leave me.”
A few emotional tears leak out of your eyes, but you hold him steady, reassuringly, tucking him in towards your chest. His hair is soft and smells faintly of the melon-scented shampoo you’d bought for him. Healthful and well cared for… You’ve brought him this far, and you want to bring him so much farther, still.
“No… No, I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”
Spamton turns his head and sort of nuzzles into your chest. He starts repeating you name over and over, mumbling again and again. It might be another glitch, but it might also be a self-reassurance. You’re real, you exist, you’re not a phantom of his own broken mind. You’re not going to fade back out of existence when he closes his eyes. It’s okay now, because you’re here.
You pat his back, and his body pulses in a hiccup. “Okay now?” You whisper, once his muttering has tapered off.
Spamton shuffles and gently pulls back again. Then…he says something especially strange.
“[MEMORY DATA INACCESSIBLE].”
“Um…what was that?”
“WHAT WAS WHAT?” The confusion in his expression seems genuine.
What was that?! Is he really missing a piece of his own memory? Can he not even remember the act of trying to remember?
Oh, well, you’ll have to dig into that some other time. It seems like the more you learn about him, the more questions are brought up. You also make a mental note to go and confront some Addisons about him when you have time by yourself.
For now, you nod at the tray, where one chicken tender and a few fries remain. “So…are you going to finish that?”
“OH!” Spamton pops back into his cheerfully manic demeanor and snatches it back into his hands. “YES YES OF COURSE! DON’T YOU DARE TRASH THE [[GOODS]]!!”
You smile, with a relieved little chuckle. Of course…after all that he’s been through, he’s definitely the sort of person that, no matter how stuffed he is, he’ll cram the rest of it down rather than throw it away.
He hunches a bit, speeding through the remainder of the meal, and his stomach sits heavily in his lap, the waistband of his pants tucked in underneath it. Though the apron still covers most of it, his turtleneck is slipping upward, and you can see his plush little bulged sides. The white color is slightly brighter than it used to be, after having been washed and rubbed clean. So healthy…
Spamton takes a shallow puff of air and leans back once he’s finally finished. “YOU SURE KNOW…HOW TO—kzzlp!—[Treat] A GUY. HOO BOY, THIS TANK IS [Filled To the Brim].”
You’re starting up the car again and glowing with pride. “Had a great first-week anniversary, huh?”
“THAT’S [Underselling] IT!!!” Spamton grins, woozily, and strokes his overindulged little belly.
“Does it feel alright? No pain or anything?”
“NO PAIN. IT’S JUST…[Heavy Load]. IT FEELS LIKE [Satisfaction Garantteed!].”
“Aww, that’s great. I love to hear it.”
It’s going to take a while to get back to your section of the city, especially since you decide not to use the highway this time. You want to be as gentle as you can with the pedals, so the car doesn’t jostle him too much. The whole time, he hasn’t been wearing a seatbelt, which is yet another traffic violation. It wouldn’t fit properly over him anyway, especially not now.
Spamton is drowsy, quiet, and calm, and though you’ve come to enjoy his booming voice, you can’t helping loving when he’s like this.
A devious little idea crawls into the circuits of your brain after you’ve been driving for about 25 minutes. Without Spamton even noticing, you swing past one last stop, making one last order…
“A-aH?” Spamton’s glasses-eyes pop open when you set the plate onto the apex of his belly mound. It probably feels warm and pleasant right there. “IS THAT [Great Value!] CHIZ PEEZA?!”
As you gently drive away from the delivery window, you notice him pull himself upward a little and grasp the large pizza slice in his small, knobby hands.
“Have you had pizza before?” This is the first piece of food he actually seems to recognize, and you’re curious about when he last had some.
“YES, BUT IT WAS [Loaded] With [High-quality Ingredients]. NOT JUST [4.99] CHEEZ.”
Despite what seems like a criticism, he wastes no time bringing the tip of the slice to his teeth and taking a gooey, stringy bite. “YUMMY! SOMETIMES SIMPLE IS BESTEST, [Capice?].”
This was probably a bad idea. It takes all of your willpower to focus on the road and not constantly look over at Spamton, who’s making little groans and fizzles as he stuffs himself even further. Geez, he really will eat anything that’s put in front of him, won’t he? It’s probably a survival instinct for him—eat all that you can while you still can. But now, he’ll never have to worry about that again, thanks to you. God, it makes you so happy.
At last, when you park back outside your apartment and turn the car off, you eagerly turn to take in the sight of him.
Spamton is lazily chewing on the last piece of crust, eyes soft and droopy behind his glasses. And his tummy is as big and round as a heavy little bowling ball, absurdly swollen against his small body. His turtleneck has rolled all the way up to his chest, and his apron is draped over it like a tiny blanket attempting to conceal a massive boulder.
“Oh, gosh…” You can’t help feeling a bit guilty for encouraging his gluttony this much. “I…think we might’ve gone a little overboard.”
“Kklrmp…” Spamton mumbles and sucks the crust piece into his teeth. “CAN’ [elp!] IT IF ISH [Choo Guud To Reshisht!]!” With his mouth full, his speech is even more incomprehensible.
“You didn’t have to eat the crust, too, you know.” But no, you realize, as soon as you’ve said it. Of course he’d had to eat the crust.
Your hands slither over, almost as if magnetically drawn to it, and tenderly rub over the soft cloth surface of that engorged belly. You haven’t even asked if it aches—though it probably does—and you don’t even know if he really needs this. But you just want to, out of affection and pride…petting it as if rewarding it for doing such a good job. A very good job…holding all that nourishment inside, giving him such nice grounded feelings of contentment.
His eyes meet yours and his face turns bright pink again. He’s certainly embarrassed, but at least he doesn’t seem ashamed and upset at himself. Does he know how much you like this? It’s a possibility.
After a few minutes of soft rubbing, you finally give the very peak of that tummy a tiny pat and pull away. “Alright, let’s get going.”
You step out of the car and walk over to his side. It’s painfully obvious that he’s not going to be able to walk like this, and it looks like he knows it too. His arms raise for you as you bend and slip your arms under him.
“Hooff.” It’s difficult to pull him out of the passenger’s seat without jostling him at all, and your arms are shaking. A quiet hiccup pops out of him as you heft him up towards your chest. “Man, I swear you’re getting heavier.”
It’s totally my own fault for feeding him so much. I just couldn’t stop feeding him. He’s…so damn cute like this though.
Spamton’s eyes are closed again, just relishing the comfort of being held, and your heart is so flush with affection.
It’s a bit of a struggle, but you carry him with you back into your apartment. Softly, you set him on the couch, and he immediately lies back on the cushions, stretching and giving his tummy plenty of room to poke up and out.
“It’s a little early for bed,” you speak up, when you come over to sit beside him. “How about we finish up that movie from before? Then I’ll get you your snack, and we can start getting ready.”
Spamton’s head gently shakes. “N-NOPE. NO SNACK.” One hand lifts to weakly clutch his ballooned little side. “I COULDN’T—kkkp!—FIT EVEN [$1 Down!]!”
“Oh.” A wide, mischievous, celebratory smirk stretches onto your face. “I know what to do, then. I’ve done it, I’ve cured you. All I have to do is stuff you so full every night that you can’t even think about eating money.”
A crackly little giggle escapes from Spamton, and his hand presses harder into his stomach to keep it from bouncing. He falls silent and leans his head back, lavishing in the comfort of the pillows around him and the weight inside him. You carefully remove his apron and tuck a blanket over him, for maximum coziness.
Only a few minutes into the movie, and he’s already dozing off. You mentally laugh and watch the round lump under the blanket rise and fall with his breathing. This has certainly been a day to remember.
You’ve learned some things, unlocking even more of Spamton’s long and painful life story. But just as he’d said…you’re a part of that story now. You’re the one that can take it in a new direction, that can open doors he’d probably thought were barred to him forever.
There’s still so much more to find out, and you’re deeply resolved. You have a real purpose now, and it’s caring for this unique little Addison that you’d stumbled across in a back alley. This future, this path… Seems like it’s going to be bigger and better than ever.