The name was written elegantly on the envelope, in handwriting was too practiced to be unfamiliar. Written like it mattered.
He'd sat by the thing all night since he found it— lugged it along to every foodplace and rest stop until tonight. He couldn't help himself, his fingers trembling before he even touched the envelope. Urging his hands to try to carefully open the thing. It wasn't easy to do cleanly, as unsteady as he was. The envelope ended up unevenly tattered at the top. The letter was shimmied carefully out.
His jaw clenched.
Not "creature."
Not "rat."
Not "thing."
I don't know where to begin with this letter
Spamtons hands tightened around the paper, crumpling it at the edges. The only thing that stopped him from tearing it up and throwing it away right then and there were the scratched out words just beside it.
and I don't know if you're just going to burn it or throw it away, but I'm so sorry for everything I did to you!!
I couldn't bring myself to admit that you're you, and I kept pushing you away and hurting you over and over again!!
I hate myself for all of it, and I wouldn't be surprised if you hate me, too... Who wouldn't??
His hands trembled, face scrunched up in a glare so strong it gave him a headache. The words read pitiful. The words read staged. The words read a sobstory fit for television—the only thing his old friend had left to save his reputation. To save himself.
Spam's shoulders shook. He told himself it was rage.
There's nothing I can do to ever fix your life...
He scoffed... Damn right.
But I want to make it better if I can. I'm asking Mike to keep the door unlocked if you want to come in, take a bath, and sleep somewhere that isn't out there. You don't even have to see me if you don't want!
Spamton's breath hitched.
A bath.
A bed?
A place that wasn't static and hunger.
It was an invitation to use the sender, just like he was used. A way to help himself out of these terrible pits that had followed him across darkworlds.
To slip in, take was he needed, warm up, dry off, and leave before sunrise.
That's all this was or would ever be.
I feel so guilty for accusing you of stealing our pipis and calling you names and being the BIGGEST JERK to you!! I don't know how to make any of this better, but I hope you'll give me another chance!!
A chance… The puppets brows twitched fiercly.
No matter what you do with this letter, I'll always see you as my Number 1 Rated Salesman... even if you don't love TV anymore.
Spamton's shoulders dropped. His face slackened. The words read…halfway genuine.
He read the line again. And again. And again. Something in his greying heart soared at the scripture. This looked so… familiar. This hurt so much. This felt hopeful. This…
It was signed simply. No last name, no formality, no showmanship. Just him. Spamton would know who. Of course he would.
Raw emotion pricked at his throat. He hated him for writing this. What a dreadful note. He hated him for meaning it. For sounding so much like the man who once believed in him before contracts and cameras and the dark. He hated him.
Nothing would ever change. It couldn't, could it? Spamton's ending was written long ago, and Tenna had chosen not to be a part of that.
So, why would he want to now? Spamton wasn't going to be another publicity stunt, like the first time.
P.S. One of my Shuttahs helped me take this photo of our pipis.
He checked the envelope again. Sure enough, a laminated paper, more premium than his person was worth, with his… their sweet angel all dolled up in a woolen blanket nest and next to a plush of his likeness.
The plushie was a gift from one of my viewers. I think she really likes it... and I think she misses you, too.
That did it.
Spamton took a sleeve to his eyes, but it didn't really stop the tears this time.
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