Mr. [MAILMAN] Mail Me a Man [BUM BUM BUM BUM]
Spamton's on his last string, and tries out something new in a bid of desperation. It works. He meets his celebrity crush. That works too. --- An au where Spamton starts as a mailman.
(oh? more spamtenna? in this economy?)
Rated: G Warnings: spamton AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70208816 (note: you must be signed in to read my fics on Ao3) Length: 2500
Having a broken directive made one feel rather… well, aimless. Those with drive and purpose slotted right into the world. At least, that was what Spamton assumed. Not having a [STRONG REEL] towards anything left him floundering, unsure of himself and uncertain what to do. All the other Addisons knew what they were made to do, and did it [FIVE STARS].
Spamton was empty. Quite literally. White as an [BLANK SHEET] of paper, full of [ENDLESS POTENTIAL]! He could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it, like [BARBIE ©]!
That was what he told himself. Spamton knew that he was lying to himself, but that was the first step of making a [SALE SALE SALE] – being able to lie so well that even you believed it.
After another lousy week of failing to sell various knickknacks and trinkets, more piteous looks from the other Addisons, Spamton found that he was reaching a breaking point. He needed something mindless and [SOUL CRUSHING] to [RESET] himself; something that would not hurt when it failed to work out again. He would make it big, he promised himself, but he had to dig further down to find his way. An idea struck him as he stared at a [TRASH HEAP], and it festered and grew in his mind. While at first he was mildly uncomfortable with the notion, after some [HEMMING] and [HAWING], he promised himself a [ONE WEEK TRIAL PERIOD] to see if the scheme would work.
The next morning, spruced up and donned with a satchel, Spamton went door knocking. This time, he did not go to the usual suspects to sell them goods, no, he knocked on his fellow Addisons’ doors and offered his services.
Ad-delivery! They give him their ads, and he takes it around to every area in the Dark world. Surprisingly, he had a few takers, though he tried not to wonder if it was purely out of pity. Soon his satchel was full of [INCREDIBLE DEALS BUY NOW], and he went through the entire directory in record time. Since he agreed to a commission for most of the deliveries (though a few were kind enough to give him a down payment), Spamton tagged each mail piece he set out so that he and the shopkeeper could monitor the incoming [CLICK TRAFFIC] from the newly established mailman.
Seeing as the work was incredibly boring, Spamton set his glasses (he had made them himself, yearning for a [SPLASH OF COLOR] on his otherwise empty form) to stream the television waves while he made his rounds. While he did go through a variety of channels, he found himself continuously drawn back to TV Time, [STARRING] none other than Mr. Tenna – charming, bumbling, funny Tenna. It certainly helped keep a smile on Spamton’s face, which was an imperative part of his work. As the week came to a close, he found himself circling back to that [CATHODE] more and more, possibly due to the stress building in his chest. Was this it? Would he have been successful? Did he [FAILURE] miserably? Only [TICK TOCK TICK TOCK] would tell!
Bright and early in the morning, seven days after he made a promise to himself, Spamton pulled up his old tower computer, uploading the data of foot traffic and ad campaigns. He swayed on his seat as the information loaded into the system like a [PUPPET LOOSELY STRUNG] with the nerves.
Spamton’s eyes widened as he took in his revenue percentage.
[HOLY COW].
His jaw clicked open and he had to gently nudge it shut with the back of his hand, staring at a number that was far higher than any of his sales combined. While the work was droll and boring as hell, it gave Spamton [PLENY OFF TIME] to think, to listen to a book, or watch Tenna. Television. He meant television.
So he continued.
It was his first steady job, and while it was nowhere near a [BIG SHOT] level, his name did get around. He was praised as a great advertiser – unfortunately, not of his own goods. But hey, cash is cash. And [TECHNICALITY], his advertising was his goods. It was an art he excelled at. His database and areas of delivery expanded, as did his knowledge of byways and side roads for [YOU ARE NOW ON THE FASTEST ROUTE] through his demanded districts, all with the grinning presenter in the corner of his vision.
Soon he had a small base of operations and was making decent funds, allowing him to explore other paths that interested him in his spare time. He began refurbishing old devices, and collecting what other’s decided to be ‘junk’, but he saw sparks in them. Maybe he saw [REFLECTION] in them as well, and sometimes they altered him just as he fixed them. An incident while fixing a printer ended up with his hair dyed black – he found that the look was [HEADLINE] and kept it. His prized possession was an adorable dial-tone phone, which admittedly felt a little… off, but maybe it was [SPECIL].
It was a nice help, as the Operator seemed to bring Spamton luck – it always forwarded his calls to someone eager to accept his advertisement deliveries. Spamton’s newfound funds and free-time also allowed him to expand his services. Webmail! Hotmail! Coldmail! He did it all!
His favorite, though, was actual mail. People stopping by with a letter that they had painstakingly written just to tell a [FRIEND FOREVER] that they cared. Postcards of pretty places, sometimes of the Lightner’s world, or of locations Spamton never could have dreamed of. And of course, fan mail.
Fan mail made him smile, almost as consistently as TV Time’s fantastic host. There were a number of celebrities across the Dark world, and Spamton found the excited fans who dropped off their notes and letters to be a great source of alternative entertainment when he was trying to [CLEAR HEADED] of the aforementioned entertainer.
Even though a bulk of the letters he lugged about were to be delivered to Tenna’s studio. Usually he would stop there first so he could offload the massive amount of [LOVE LETTERS] the performer received, and then tune in to the channel as he made his rounds. It was a good system. He would make calls. Chat with the Operator. Prepare mailing lists. Test ads. Sleep. Gather all the outgoing mail, sort it, take it to its [DESTINY]. It was a [RISE AND GRIND] but a comfortable one. The growing might have been [SLOW GOING] but it certainly was going.
Spamton woke up to the phone ringing. His head pounded something awful. Stomach turning, he pushed himself out of bed and stumbled to the landline.
“Spamton service G. mailing Spamton,” Spamton mumbled, mixing up his words with a dizzy sense of nausea. “How can [WE GIVE YOU EXCEPTIONAL SERVICE] today?”
“Good morning, Spamton,” the Operator said, voice as strange as the first time Spamton had heard it. Spamton blinked in confusion, as the Operator never called him, uncharacteristically stunned into silence. “You are… late to work.”
“WHAT!?” Spamton yelped, spinning on his heel (and nearly falling over in the action) to face the old cuckoo clock he had repaired. Sure enough, it was a full hour later than he usually woke to start going about his work routine – making it half an hour since he should have been out the door. “Why didn’t you [CALL AND COMPLAIN] earlier!?”
The Operator had already hung up.
Spamton grumbled and weakly shoved the phone back into place. Two nights prior he had caught a bad stomach [99 VIRUSES SCAN NOW] and had nearly missed a work day – which he did manage to get through. Neither [SELECT WEATHER: SNOW, RAIN, HEAT, GLOOM OF NIGHT] stayed that courier from the swift completion of his appointed rounds – or [TUMBY ACHE :( ] for that matter. Now it bit him, and he had to rush to dress in his [SELF MADE] uniform, grab his satchel and some pop-up-ad tarts, and dash out the door. He was glad that he managed to haul together all the [OUTGOING MAIL] before he [A KNOCK OUT]ed last night.
Spamton wolfed down the pop-up-ad and skidded down an unused alley, knowing it was a shortcut to the TV head’s studio. While he darted to his rounds, he set up Tenna’s morning talk show, discussing how today was going to be a beautiful day across Dark World. Spamton surely hoped so, as even though he pushed through poor weather, it certainly was less fun than a [MR. BLUE SKY]. A block away from the studio, Tenna announced a feature length documentary, and let the ads play. Spamton was happy to see some of his own play out (even if it was not him they were advertising). He had to stop and catch his breath every so often as the virus [WAXED AND WANED], but eventually he managed to dash up to the entrance of the television mail room.
As he reached for the handle, he found himself pitching forward, the door opening right before him.
A strong metallic arm wrapped around his chest – broad and cushioned by an expensive suit that probably cost more than [ALL THE MONEY] Spamton had ever seen in his semi-digitized life – and steadied him upright. Spamton’s spinning vision lifted, and through the streaks cast onto his Dealmakers, he saw Tenna was even more beautiful in person.
“Whoa, there, mailman!” that showman purr trilled through Spamton, waking him better than any color coffee ever could. Spamton felt like he had just downed two [ENTIRE POT]s of their Technicolor special, whole world lit up by that brilliant smile. Spamton could only gawk, rendered entirely speechless for the second time that day. Holy [COW]. Holy [MOLY]. Holy [SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS]. He could still feel the ghost of Tenna’s arm braced around his chest. [Dam]. He was tall. He was handsome. But he deviated from the saying by being oh-so bright. Tenna’s grin was trained on him, expectant and curious. “I was hoping to meet you, one day. The fan-mail’s been great, thanks to your timely deliveries!”
“Oh, Spamton G. Spamton, [AT YOUR SERVICE]!” Spamton managed to pull his head out of the clouds, where his eyes were glued ([Dam] Tenna was tall) on the CRT’s face. He stuck out a hand, and the other pumped it so vigorously Spamton feared it might come loose of its ball joint. The monitor’s hand was warm, almost buzzing against the spam mailer’s. “I’m a [NUMERO UNO!!!] fan of your work, Mr. Tenna. I [TUNE IN] to it all the time.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you!” Tenna gushed. If Spamton liked his voice over the waves, it was [HEAVEN]ly in person. “Well, now I’m secretly a bit glad that Mike’s out sick. He’s got the latest virus that’s been going around, you know the one.”
Spamton barely managed to hide a grimace as he nodded, his stomach turning from more than just nerves. Definitely knew the one.
“You see, he usually brings in the mail,” Tenna continued, a broad hand coming to Spamton’s back. The other was so [XXL] compared to he that his hand nearly covered Spamton’s entire spine. It was [212°F]. Spamton was suddenly extremely [GRATEFUL TO OUR LORD AND SAVIOR] that he had a natural blush. “But since he’s not here, I got to get the mail! And I get to meet you! Come in, please!”
Surely no one could be so sincere.
But Spamton could only melt, smile softening.
“I’m [HAPPY TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE], too,” Spamton said, meaning it wholeheartedly. “It’s not every day one gets to meet a [ YOU’RE MY SUPER STAR]. But I [SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS] have to get on my way. I [MISSED ALARM] and I’m behind on my rounds.”
“Oh, that’s really too bad,” Tenna frowned. It felt like he meant it. Then he smiled, lighting up Spamton’s world yet again. “Some other time, then.”
“That… that would be nice.”
It was dark by the time Spamton had gotten home, and [DARKER YET DARKER] by the time he had gotten through the remainder of his work. Dinner was [TACO TUESDAY]. Eventually, he was soaking in a tub, a content groan escaping him as the wood oil on the surface of the water seeped between his [SORE] joints. He pushed the Dealmakers up to rest in his hair, setting up a soft radio to play from the speakers nestled in the arms. Jazz [SMOOTH AS A BABY’S BUTT] emanated from the device, increasing his relaxation. Spamton soaked for a half hour, humming as he got out of the bath, not yet feeling [RIGHT AS RAIN] but certainly feeling better. His stomach was less pained and his joints were eased.
The phone rang as he stepped out of the bathroom. He typically did not answer after work hours, but curiosity nudged him to the device.
“Call for you, Spamton,” the Operator needlessly stated. Spamton rolled his eyes. “Should I put it through?”
“Who is it?” Spamton asked. The Operator answered, almost teasingly, “A surprise.”
Spamton’s jaw knit, but he took a deep breath and let out the strain of air.
“You can be a real [SMART BOTTOM], you know?” Spamton remarked. No response – they were probably smiling on their end. Spamton sighed, rolling his eyes. “Sure. Why not.”
There was a pause, a click.
“Hello, Spamton!” Tenna’s voice boomed as soon as they were connected. “I realized that I hadn’t gotten your number when you left, but then one of the other anchors pointed out to me that your phone number was listed on your ads!”
“Oh! I’m-” a whole host of words fluttered through Spamton’s mind. Flattered, surprised, a little horrified. Spamton settled on the easiest. “I [APPRECIATE IT]….”
“I think you’ve got a lot of spunk, Spam- is it okay if I call you Spam?- and I admire that a ton,” Tenna went on. “Everyone knows you as a rising star. And hey! I’ve actually been looking around for a co-host, y’know, to spice things up with TV Time.”
“Are you- are you [BUYING MY TIME]?” Spamton gawked, eyes wide as saucers behind his glasses. Tenna answered, “If you’d put it that way, yes! I’m asking if you’d like to be that co-host. Something tells me you’re made for this show biz.”
“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” Spamton breathed, then huffed a laugh, fingers tight around the phone’s cord. “It’s a bit [TOO MUCH TOO FAST], you know…?”
“Oh, take your time! I still have to run it by the producers,” Tenna replied, and Spamton could practically feel his bright beam. “I’ll leave you to your thinking, now. My bedtime routine awaits!”
Spamton was left holding a quiet line.
“Did you know that he’d [OFFER OF A LIFETIME] me?” Spamton whispered, hands trembling.
“Take it,” the Operator hummed. “It’s your chance at being, how did you so quaintly put it? A big shot.”
Spamton called Tenna back the next morning.
