Spam was not as gullible as others thought. He would never give away his wallet for someone else. That wasn't what Pascal meant. That wasn't what he said. But it sure sounded like it was. Why couldn't people just say what they mean? At least his future self was direct and upfront in his methods, as unnerving as it was. Especially with that fight on Friday. Of course, he doubted Future Spamton at first. He had even tried speaking out, yet Future Spamton just interrupted to declare Spam wouldn't... Whatever he had said. Spam couldn't understand half of his words. They sounded like personified advertisement met a glitchy calculator on the world’s most virus infected windows computer. It was times like these he wished there were words around people, like videos games... That would be nice.
His hands flipped, folded, and finished putting laundry away. The shower running in the next room reminded him who owned the clothing in his hands. His fingers fiddled with a frayed string on the collar of a jacket Spam was pretty sure was wool twill- which Oakley once told him was pretty expensive. It was Spamton's, Binx having snatched his clothes to join the other laundry while Spamton showered.
The idea of a fallen business man being his future..?
It terrified him.
His siblings going against him? A giddy feeling built up in his chest and throat, involuntarily forcing chuckles out. Before yesterday evening, Spam would never have expected a fight so bad! Which kind of time travel logic did this use? Since he saw his future, is it now permanently his? Could he really change it? How could he, when he could barely understand what his future self means?!
This wool feels weird, his brain unhelpfully pointed out. His building panic snapped with his last 'ehehe's puttering out. But not bad.
Fancy fabric aside, even the pants folded on the counter looked self repaired. Well done, but with whatever was on hand clearly. Spam picked at a loose yellow thread under the collar that didn't match the aesthetic of the black jacket. Maybe it was suppose to match the colourful sunglasses? He wondered about Spamton's loose joints. If the future really meant homelessness, then they really needed to get Future Spamton some new clothes. Maybe he could call Oakley and ask about it. Was it too soon to do that?
Spam dropped the worn jacket on the counter and left the laundry room. He jogged across the hall, down the stairs, then turned around towards the study where their only phone was. He idly wondered why they had only one, but it passed quicker than his thoughts on his task. He had to call before he forgot he wanted to. Reaching the study, He confirmed the computer was off before he snatched up the phone and began punching in Oakley's number. The call patched through, his fingers still hovering over a 3. He paid no mind to the oddity.
"Hello? Oakley?" Static greeted him on the other end. It jittered in volume before, as quick as it appeared, it was gone.
"Spamton?" Oakley's voice came through the speaker. "Hello? Can you hear me?"
"Eh- yes? Is your phone not working or something?"
"Just a bit quiet is all. I... Almost forgot to turn off the internet. What did you want to ask me for this time?"
The wording sounded off but Spam couldn't place why. He decided to ignore it for now. He laughed awkwardly, "What do you mean this time? I don't ask for many favours."
"Oh, silly me." Oakley chuckled back. "I suppose that's true. So? What was it?"
"Er, well. Funnily enough, you were right about a favour... Do you recall the, um, the, um, the supposed future me?"
"Yes. I do. And?"
Spam fiddled with his fingers. "And. Would you be okay with sizing him up for some new clothes today? I can pay of course, I know fabric is expensive. Or help in your shop for how ever long? Whatever you think is a fair trade."
There was a long pause. Anxiety was just starting to bubble in him when he heard Oakley again. The voice seemed practiced for some reason? Customer service mode? "Of course, Spamton. I'm happy to help whenever. Don't even worry about the cost. Be here by 15, I'll close shop early."
"Really?" Spam licked his canines as he swallowed air, "I mean- Thanks Oakley! We'll be there! Love you, bye!" And he hung up before Oakley could say a thing. He almost felt guilty but stampted the guilt right back down. He said bye, now he needed to catch Spamton before he disappeared. He didn't know how, but he was sure that geezer was going to take off soon. The scam artist seemed like a runner. Why else would he still be homeless if he wasn't running from his family? Or they were dead, but he disliked that idea even more than the first option. He made sure to tell Binx he loved him too, after telling him the plan for Oakley's.
Spam hated to admit it to himself but facing this addison claiming to be from the future forced him to. Spam and Spamton are both assholes. He never notice it before and was ashamed, even if he likely wasn't Spamton's level of loud dickheadery. So, that was part of the reason Spam believed Spamton's claim. Belief that Spam himself could become even worse, turning into a ticking time bomb asshat scam artist.
Spam fidgetted with his yellow dress shirt. Today was a yellow day, so even his shoes were yellow. He wore grey pants to avoid being an eyesore. He was long lost in his head of thoughts by the time he reached the guest room. The shower had stopped so he was assuming Spamton was back in the guest room. In his idle spiraling, looping thoughts, he didn't stop to consider what he would see, casually pushing further open the room's cracked ajar door.
Spamton was sitting on the bed, fiddling with some sort of strap on his shoulder and muttering frustrated noises. Little versions of the con artist, addies, ambled across the bed and were trying to help with whatever he was doing. They didn’t look very successful. He was only wearing black slacks and Spam’s white sneakers he offered up, though Spamton’s legs looked funny in the gap between the shoes and pants. Spam wasn’t sure why. One of Yael's yellow hoodies was discarded on the ground. Honestly, Spam totally thought Spamton would be done getting clothed. Apparently not. At least he had on pants, Spam was just glad he didn’t walk in on something more… Intimate. He must have found a tie for his hair, since it was pulled back in a black one. Whatever dye used on his hair had washed out completely, leaving behind familiar fluffy white. Really, really fluffy and long. When was the last time he got a trim— right, homeless. He wondered instead why Spamton didn’t brush his fur, then noticed exactly why. He was entirely missing his left arm, even his elbow. His other arm looked weirdly like a plastic puppet arm connected to a harness over his shoulder. Spam realised that was the strap Spamton was trying to fix. The other side of the harness was another longer puppet arm.
"Do- Do you need help..?"
The older addison screamed out panicked probably-profanity as he floundered back uselessly on the guest bed. The addies tossed the bed's comforter across him as if he had something to hide.
I really need to remember to knock first.
Spamton peaked out from the nest his little addies created. He looked more like Spam than ever, ignoring the many other things wrong with the addison. Even his addies looked exactly like Spam. Really, Spam wasn’t sure how much more evident he needed. Maybe he just didn’t want to believe Spamton. There was a pause, then, "NO. NEVER BETTER. LEAVE."
Spam wanted to argue, but was reminded of his thoughts moments ago. About being an asshole. Did this count as being an asshole? Shit— he didn't know. Another topic to join his ever growing list of 'stuff he doesn't know that everyone else somehow does'. He's pretty sure Spamton would fight him if he somehow oversteps in a way he actually hated, anyway. Spam took a breath and-
"WH Y ARE [U] [Hungering For More?]??" Spamton garbled, speaking faster than he.
"My ARM!" Spamton waved his... stump? Was that the right word? Spamton exaggeratedly waved at him regardless. "I LOST IT, I LOST IT ALL!" If Spam didn't know better, he would think Spamton was almost embarrassed somehow. It disappeared quickly.
“Ah.” Spam wasn’t sure if he should press, but— well, supposedly and unfortunately pretty convincingly, this was his future. His future. So sorry if that changes things! “...How?”
“HUH?” Spamton put on an almost convincing act.
“How did I lose almost a whole arm?” Okay, so maybe Spam was getting frustrated already. He gets frustrated easily! Sue him. His foot started to tap down repeatedly. He didn’t even try to stop his foot, this time.
“EHAHAHAEH! [[Wouldn’t You Like To Know, Weather Boy]]!!
Just?? Answer the goddamn question!? What, was he deliberating? For what reason? This was pretty important! He’d like to avoid whatever caused that, thank you very much. He crossed his arms. Spamton was unmoved. Unfortunately, involuntary movements with impatient gestures do not sway the mind of a seasoned salesperson. Or whatever Spamton was.
“S AY! HOW ABOUT A [[Specil Deal]]? IF U HELP REATTAAACH MY [Limbo, Jimbo], [The Quicker Picker Upper] I EXPLAIN!.”
Spam raised an eyebrow, “I want a better end of the deal. You come with Binx and me to Oakley’s for some clothes, and I’ll help reattach your arm.”
This way, he was sure to convince Spamton to come. Plus, he heard Binx close his bedroom door, so he was probably getting changed to head out. Which meant he needed to comprehend how to help Spamton fast, if they were to be there in time. It was almost 2:30! He hated being late, the thought not helping with his frustration.
“ARE– AR– ARE—” Spamton stuttered. Spam felt a smidge of empathy. “ARE YOU SERIUS? No [Agonising Promises for Glory]? [FREE]??”
“Yes, promise. I already told Binx and Oakley anyway. Now, you said that I help ‘reattach’ your limb? What’s wrong with it?”
“ITS mY [Silly Strings]. [[Silly Strings]].” Spamton growled in frustration, his teeth grinding before he tried again. “HAR. NESS. IS. TWISTED. I CANn”T FIX IT. MY [Angel] ARE [A Weakling!]. I CAN’T [Move It Move It] RIGHT UNTIL IT’S FIXED.”
A winged addy popped out of the blanket pile and flew across to tug at the limp puppet arm on the bed. It could pull it, sure, but quickly demonstrated that it couldn’t hold it up on its own. The other three angel addies joined to try to help and while they could lift it up to Spamton’s shoulder, they just couldn’t pull it through the strap to correct the loop. They couldn’t hold it and the strap, and Spamton couldn’t easily reach across to hold it for them. Clear red embarrassment flushed across the salesman’s face as he watched them fail. Even one of the addies turned red as well and kicked at the arm like it offended it. It was kind of cute.
“Oh, okay.” Spam walked over to look at the arm. He glanced over to silently ask if he could pick it up. Spamton shrugged best he could. The addies floated off, sitting themselves around the nightstand and lamp.
Spam was very careful picking up the arm. He wasn’t sure how sturdy it was. Though, he supposed Spamton did nearly destroy a table, so… He hummed as he looked at it. It was clearly some sort of plastic modeled to look just like a regular addison arm. It didn’t glow. A pale yellow sleeve like thick cotton connected to the arm but not the harness. There were two green cable wires connected just below the sleeve. One short one which stopped in the elbow to control it, and one long one that went under the hand. Probably to use the hand, though he wasn’t sure how since it was covered. He was fascinated. Up closer, Spam realise it wasn’t just a puppet arm. It was a prosthetic. Which made sense now that he saw Spamton without his shirt– as weird as that sounded in his head– but he had never seen a real prosthetic before. He just knew of them from movies. He glanced to the other arm that was on. The hand was cracked, from the table probably. It had a sleeve, the hand wire, and was much shorter. Spamton had that elbow apparently. Did he have prosthetic legs too? What he did see did looked weird, but he didn’t make a habit of looking at people’s legs. He hoped Spamton actually explained instead of continuing to skirt around things like he always seemed to do.
The harness was twisted backwards. It wasn’t too hard to flip it and adjust the straps to match the other side correctly. Just a little annoying, and requiring dexterity that Spamton and his addies lacked. “How does it go on?”
“IT. SLIPS ON. LIKE A SOCK. SHOULDER. THEN. ARM.” Spamton lifted his arm up and his right hand closed. Amazing.
It was much more boring to slip on the harness, then the sleeve and arm on. Spamton fidgeted with it afterwards, two addies swiftly coming to help him readjust the sleeve and cords. The other two helped free him from the blanket nest they created, showing that Spam was right. His ankles revealed his legs were prosthetics too, but they were already on. Maybe they didn’t have straps that could tangle? Was his jaw a prosthetic too and that’s why it was weird?
“Will you explain now?” Spam almost forgot that was why he looked at the arm.
“[Give Me Just A Moment]” He replied as he unsteadily got up to grab Yael’s sweater off the ground and slip it on. Once he was done, the addies all poofed out of existence and he turned to Spam. “YOU ASKED [How did I lose almost a whole arm?]?”
Hearing his voice copied was still weird, but, well, to be honest it was kind of cool. He wondered what else Spamton could copy. “Yes. And, your legs?”
“IT WAS [[Hyperlink Blocked]]! NO, No, not THAT.” Spamton glitched out, static creeping into his lens. “IT WAS. A MISTAKE! I SLIPPED AND NEXT I KNEW WAS IN [[Dr. House]]!! I WAS— WAS— [[Hhuh..? Where am I..? HeLL0? What— WheRE— Wh3re— Where are my hands? Help! Please, it hurts!! WHAT haPPENED TO MY H4NDS?!]]”
Spam’s eyes opened as he jerked his head back. It was no longer as cool to hear his voice recorded. That was… Him? In… Doctor house, doctor… The Hospital? Hearing the same sound bite from a few days ago was horrifying. A much clearer, extended version of the recording. He listened as his own voice slowly distorted more before a familiar shout of Spamton’s voice had screamed. At the time he didn’t give it much thought, the ravings and peculiarities of a mad man at his doorstep. By the time he considered Spamton was telling the truth, he had forgotten it entirely. If he was honest… He was lying for saying he believed him, before.
“Are you two ready to go?”
Both Spamtons jumped. Binx had managed to sneak up on them. Spam turned to him with closed eyes and a smile, “Oh, yes. I was just telling Spamton about heading to Oakley’s. He agreed! He and I were just about to come find you. Looks like you beat us to it, eaheha!”
He noticed Spamton blinked confused and hoped he said nothing. Binx didn’t need to worry. Maybe Spam was still freaked out by the sound bite, but that was his own fault for asking. They really did need to get along, though. “Since we’re all ready, are we taking the car? Or walking?”
“Hm.” Binx looked at him funny. “The Car. It is too late in the day to walk to Oakley's currently. I'll drive?”
“Works for me!” Spam grabbed Spamton’s shoulder and, ignoring his startled linux error ding, pulled him forward past Binx, “C’mon, let’s go!”
He could feel Binx’s eyes on him as they all headed downstairs to the garage. Thankfully, he couldn’t look at him the entire way to Oakley’s. Not unless he wanted to crash.
By car, Custom Style Tailoring was only 10 minutes away in the center of Cyber City where the highways were. On foot, it would have been closer to 30 minutes. He had forced Spamton into the front seat. Spam kept his eyes off Binx and Spamton, watching out the window instead. Nothing of real interest was along the roads. Other cars, other darkners. They drove past a cafe, Sweet Teas and Cakes. He saw it was open and wondered if Pascal was still mad about their last fight.
“Dammit, Spamton, I’m fucking worried about you! I don’t want to have to bail you out of some shady shit again just because you want to be some sort of big shot! It’s not worth it! Why can’t you just listen to me for once?!”
Spam turned from the window. Spamton was meddling with the radio and lightheartedly arguing with Binx about the music choice. After yesterday morning… After just minutes ago… He didn’t know how to feel. He’d been trying sales since he was 15, and claiming such a high title for months. He’d wanted something more for years. He didn’t know what else he could do, he was an addison! His siblings were so successful too. They weren’t yet top-shelf household name brands but they were close to it. Especially Pascal after creating that magical person-flavoured tea. Oakley made formal clothes for the queen’s personal staff. Binx sold high-end footwear and accessories to other dark worldsand the light world! Yael would probably be selling the newest fancy electronics and take the world by storm, if he didn’t prefer to fix up and sell old things. Sure, they were extremely busy and half them worked the weekends, but. Spam was falling behind in every aspect a salesman needed and more. His stupid repetitive and vocal bullshit drove most customers away, even if it was nowhere near whatever the hell Spamton’s got. His dumb little email job was mostly just sitting around waiting for no response.
He was sick of it.
They parked behind Custom Style Tailoring, the trio getting out and heading around for the entrance. It was locked, but a quick knock and chat was enough for them all to head inside. Oakley looked to be sorting the remains of the day’s work, paperwork being neatly organised into a file cabinet.
Binx looked around a bit puzzled, “Are you the only one here, right now..? Were you working alone all day today?”
“No. I sent my workers home, when I got Spamton's call.” Oakley said with a shake of her head. They kept up their frantic closure.
“Oh. I'm glad you weren't alone… Well, which room do you want us to meet up in?”
Spam almost missed Spamton wandering off if not for the click sound of his jaw against his teeth giving him away. He must've known where from the moment when he entered the building. It was certainty that made Spam guess it was related to future events. He scamper off towards—
“Four.”
Room Four. Spamton flicked the light switch on as Spam followed right behind him. Two flood lights filled the room with white daylight bulbs. Inside there were red painted walls, an orange sectional couch taking up the whole left side of the room, and a couple double door closets. A golden mirror hung on the wall above the couch.
Binx and Oakley were there soon after their distracted chittering. Oakley pulled Spamton away to a separate closet area in the room. It was so sudden and experienced, Oakley a whirlwind of action before words. She swiftly forced Spamton to strip Yael's hoodie for wrapping measuring tape and jotting down hectic notes in a little book. She didn't bat an eye at his prosthetics, just carefully worked around them.
“What happened before I came in the room?” Binx eyed the prosthetics entirely unsurprised as well. He tilted right towards Spam with a whisper after the two left hearing range. “Don’t lie again. I heard that recording.”
Spam swallowed and licked his canines nervously. “I saw— I saw he has those prosthetics, so I asked how. He had trouble. With speaking, I mean, you know how he is. So he played that sound. He said… He slipped? And ended up in the hospital. But his voice… You heard it. It warped. I think there's more to it, but I don't know if I should have asked.”
Binx frowned, his tail swishing in agitation behind him.
They watched Oakley spin around the con-artist several times for each measurement. He looked dizzy afterwards.
“I have some close to your size for now. You're nearly Yael's size.” They pulled out a few dress shirts, slacks, and various jackets. She paired them in sets of two or three, laying them out on the bed. “I'll make more accurate ones later.”
“WOAH, [2 for 1 Specil]?? [[No Refunds.]]??”
“Think of this as a deal.” She smirked low and mocked a stage whisper. Clearly this was her evil plan the whole time. “I can't get the other Spamton to model for me much anymore. You'll help, right? Modeling for free clothes, fair exchange?”
“[[Hoochie Mama]] PROCEED TO SIGNN M3 UP [$4.99 Email Subscriptions] AN YTHING NEW!” Spamton eagerly agreed.
“Great. Now, I picked out these ones. They should do for now so we'll leave you to change. We can discuss the details of the deal more after.”
“YES, AFTER.” Spamton nodded, his lens glitching the colours back and forth.
Quick as they entered, they all left Spamton back out to the lobby. Oakley closed the door behind them.
“Binx. Spamton.” Oakley put away the notepad in her inventory, looking at the two. Spam sweated slightly at her unnaturally emotional voice. “I'm sorry for Friday.”
“Huh? Oh. No, no, it's okay, really! I'm the one who continued to argue!”
“We were all fighting, Oakley… This is a really unusual situation.” Binx reassured. He gave them a hug, pulling Spam into it with an oof. “I'm not sure how we're going to handle this all in the future, either… It seems more and more like he's going to be staying longer term. It's a very complicated situation.”
“I actually had an idea about that.” Spam squirmed slightly in the hug. “We could just say he's our oldest brother? But he got in an accident years ago and we never talk about him much for reasons we act too emotional to bring up? It's not that far from the truth.”
“What about the matching names?” Oakley cringed watching him struggle free. She ended the hug early.
“Well, juniors exist all the time? I don’t mind just being Spam when he's around, its already my nickname.” He was pretty sure neither of them would be willing to part with their name anyway. Spamton literally called himself his own name twice, maybe as a stage name, and Spam quietly agreed with the sentiment. He just wasn't sure about the legal part of Spamton's whole existence. Laws have never been his strong suit.
Spamton was back out of the room just moments later, seeming excited to show off his first choice. He wore off white pants, a black v-cut shirt, and a black shawl jacket with rolled up sleeves and a popped collar. He gave a dramatic spin. “HOW ABOUT THIS?! [[Win Pr1zes]]?”
“Very nice.”
“It fits you well!”
“Gives you a ‘bad boy’ aesthetic.”
He seemed to soak up the attention like a sponge. He tugged at the jacket and turned back to the room, “[Don't Touch That Dial, We'll Be Right Back With More!]” He semi-sing-songed as he left again.
It continued like that for a few more outfits. He stuck to the black-white theme for a bit until Oakley brought up the red dress shirt she left him. He seemed apprehensive despite having asked for red, but left back into the room for a while.Spam wondered if the other two could hear the faint sounds of glitching inside. The trio were starting to wonder what he was doing. He had been enthusiastic for the last few he showed off yet now it was like he didn't want to leave the room at all.
“It's been so long. Do you think Spamton is done yet?” Oakley asked some time after the conversation puttered out.
“I wouldn't know… He hasn't lived with us long.”
“Do you want me to go check on him?” Spam offered.
“Please?”
Spam knocked on the changing room's door, “Hey, Spamton?” He started before entering it immediately after. “Are you almost done getting dressed? It's been a whi—”
Some sort of gun pointed directly in his face. The end glowed hot white with power, specks of magic buzzing off it into the air as if the shaking device could barely hold onto the sheer energy it contained. What looked like a winged, gigantic, and garish robot crouched like a feral animal taking up almost the whole room. Its face was pale with white hair in a ponytail not dissimilar to his own style, and a red dress shirt hung off a frame far larger than the garment itself. Black pants-like shorts exposed its furry legs. In fact, outside what it wore, the entire thing was white fur and yellow joints. Spam wasn't even sure if it was really a puppet, or actually a robot due to the faint whirring noise Spam could faintly hear separate from the shaking of the arm cannon thing. The glowing yellow and pink panes making up the glasses on the creature were nearly the size of Spam's entire face.
“Holy shit.” Spam squeaked, his hand clutching the dressing room door like a lifeline.
It looked like… Spamton. What the fuck.
And it was moving somehow, the gun poking closer to Spam's face forced him back. He bumped against the door and it closed behind him. Then he realised how dark the room really was, watching as one of its wings scraped the ceiling right where a broken flood light was. What the hell was this thing? Was it Spamton? Why did it look like him? Should he run? Wait— Shit, shit, why did he just close the door?! Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Then.
It spoke.
“[Holy shit.]” It parroted.
What?
“[Holy shit.] [[Holy shit.]] [[Holy shit]]” It started to loop, a constant sound bite echoing in the room and growing faster. The spamton-robot-thing reared back from Spam, its gun knocking off his lens. The noise grew louder and louder still. Was it him or could he hear his siblings through the door? The gun was blindingly bright now and—
The last thing Spam remembered was his own echoing voice as the ceiling collapsed.
…
…
…
He bumped against the door and it closed behind him. Then, he realised how dark the room was, watched one of its wings scrape the ceiling, saw the broken flood light. What the hell was this thing? Is this really Spamton? It looked like him. Should he run? Wait, shit, why did he close the door? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Then.
It blinked rapidly and spoke, “Eht..." An odd noise squeaked out of its throat. "[E]"
Huh?
"...WhaT? WhERe..." The gun lost its glow as the giant fell back on its own tail. Spam could only gape at the thing.
Spamton A. Gradient wasn’t so sure he wanted to be a big shot anymore.
