Chapter Text
The studio was busy as usual. Couple shadowguys practicing for their next performance near the entrance to the stage. A zapper talking with a pippins next to one of the vending machines. The obnoxious amount of TV screens constantly flickering between channels. The short addison had gotten lost in this world more times than he'd like to admit. That is also one of the reasons why he would always rather give the mail to Mike than search around the maze of sets and rooms the TV studio's built upon to find the little chamber they've dedicated to receiving fan mail.
Unfortunately for him, Mike was nowhere to be found today. He'd already asked a group of pippins for his whereabouts, but didn't exactly get a straight answer. Actually, he didn't get any answer at all. They just walked right past him without a second thought! Now he was just regretting not asking for directions to the mail room instead.
The addison let out a frustrated groan. It felt like he'd been walking for several hours and yet there was still no sign of the damn room. Then, as if right on cue, he caught a glimpse of a door with a golden envelope symbol at the end of the hallway.
'Finally!' Spamton thought as he hurried forward.
But any further thoughts were cut short as he crashed into some large piece of metal covered in fabric.
Annoyed at the intrusion, he took a step back and looked up... and up... and up.... before meeting the confused and slightly irritated screen of the of the boss of this establishment. Suddenly, all his frustration turned into sheer horror.
"Ooooh no, I'm so sorry!" he quickly apologized, feeling smaller by the second. Now the sweat on his temples appeared for a whole different reason. Delivering mail to TV World was the greatest deal he's ever struck! He can't lose it now after bumping into some crappy CEO. At that moment, it finally caught onto him that he might've been staring so he quickly averted his gaze to anywhere but the giant CRT still standing quietly in front of him and turned to walk around him. The sooner he's done with this, the better, for sure.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Spamton stopped in his tracks as he finally heard the TV speak. The tone of his voice was more confused than angry. Still, the mailman turned around slowly, still unsure of what to expect.
"Delivering mail...?" He gestured to the heavy bag over his shoulder that weighted him down this whole time.
He watched the other man's face visibly light up as he apparently just now realized why the addison was here in the first place. "Oh! That explains why I haven't seen you here before!"
Spamton finally released the breath he had been holding all this time in a relieved sigh: "Yeah. Just here to deliver the email. The name's Spamton G. Spam-" He almost jumped when a big gloved hand reached for the bag. Before he could react, the bag was already sitting in the gloved hands of the CRT.
"Yes! The words of the audience are always the most important, after all!" He performed a little twirl with a wide white smile shining on his otherwise darkened screen. It didn't seem like he registered Spamton's last comment.
"Now, let's see what my wonderful fans have to say about the latest shows!" He opened the bag somehow still in his hands and started going through almost every letter, his grin glowing brighter with each one he opened.
Now he was juts costing Spamton the precious time he could spend doing literally anything else.
"Hey so... Can I leave the emails with you, or would you rather have them delivered to the mail room?" He pointed at the door just couple steps ahead. Well, couple steps for Spamton, the big guy could probably cover that length in a single stride with his current height.
"Oh, of course! No need to worry," the host replied, not actually looking up from the letter he was reading.
"—Alright! Just gonna need you to sign here..." Spamton pulled out the form and pen as he usually does. When he looked at the taller man again though, he wasn't smiling anymore, stuck in rereading the same letter over and over again.
"What... what is this?"
Spamton had no idea what he was talking about, until he saw the edge of one of his own advertisements on the back of the card. Must've been one of his spam emails.
"Well that's just one of my own letters to you mister! Gotta bring my products on the table somehow," he tried to put on the salesman face he'd been practicing for so long.
"Dark Candy Juice! So good it will make you want to cry!" the TV darkner read out loud, "Side effects include... vomiting?! Why does a juice even have side effects?"
Right... that one. Spamton had already accepted that this wasn't one of his best ads some time ago. He didn't have to rub it in his face like that, though. And what else was he even supposed to do with the leftover motor oil and coolant from his makeshift workshop? It's not like anyone who drank this hasn't already ruined their taste buds with battery acid! Plus he doubted an non card kingdom darkners would know the taste of Dark Candy. He sure didn't. So he decided to try a different way of persuading the giant robot.
"It tastes like motor oil if you squint."
"Dark Candy tastes like motor oil?"
"... Yes?" Spamton was, in fact, a terrible liar. Although he did make Mr. Tenna pause for a moment before he shrugged it off and continued.
"Well, either way I still don't know what this Junk is doing right next to the show's Wonderful fan mail!" he said accusingly, using a couple of his flashy flavor texts.
"We're addisons, all we do is advertise!" Spamton recited the well-known addison motto as he showed off the typical addison pose. The pose in which all of his kind stand in front of their shops, all shiny and successful, while he has to work his ass off delivering mail and convincing people to buy whatever cheap junk he can afford to sell, "And I'm the spam email man. I still have to make money to eat, don't you think?"
"Then go make it somewhere away from my studio! I don't want any of your faulty addison products in my world." The show host really made sure to put as much disgust into the word 'addison' as he could while holding the letter far away from himself as if it contained a virus.
"You may not want 'em, but you sure could need 'em!" Now the guy was really getting on Spamton's nerves. What the hell did he mean by that?! But he can't lose his cool while talking with the literal ruler of this dark world. Thankfully, he managed to say the line with a strained smile. After this, people usually either close the door on him or buy one of his products out of pure pity.
This proved to be the former case, as the overgrown TV simply crumpled the paper in his hand and dropped it to the white addison's feet.
Spamton grit his teeth even harder, about to say something that probably wouldn't sound very polite, when he was interrupted by a green pippins appearing from one of the many doors in the hallway.
"Mr. Tenna, you're on in ten minutes," he said, not looking up from his notepad.
"Right, right! Turn up all the whatzits and dozits, I'll be there in five." The CRT waved his hand in a motion to dismiss the pippins.
The green guy nodded in response, then turned and used the same door he came in through earlier.
"Now, back to you, spammy... mailman." The TV didn't seem quite sure what exactly the addison called himself few moments ago.
"Actually, it's spam emai—" Spamton tried to correct him before being interrupted once again, this time by Mr. Tenna himself.
"The contract, of course!" The CRT quickly swapped the bag with the form and pen Spamton was holding. He signed the paper while humming one of his jingles and put it on top of the letters in Spamton's hands.
'Sheesh, even the writing is flashy.' He thought as he made sure the paper was filled out properly.
"There! And if I see any more addison junk inside of my fan mail, I will reconsider whatever deal Mike has made with you regarding deliveries. So if I were you, I'd remove any other ads hidden in that bag of yours." The giant TV head put his hand to his mouth as if he was telling a secret to the audience of one of his stupid shows while saying the last sentence.
"Anyways, show's calling. Don't forget to tune in on the greatest cowboy series you've ever seen!" he said before waltzing away, leaving Spamton alone in the halls of the studio once more.
Thankfully it took Spamton less time to walk his way back to the main Green Room than to find the mail room, despite how long he spent taking away all his ads from the delivered mail. It'll bring less sales, but he cannot really afford to lose this gig.
Now, as he was about to leave this damned studio with his significantly lighter bag of unsuccessful ads, he heard a low-pitched voice call out for him. It came from no other than the Green Room's bartender.
"Don't worry about the ads, luv. Keep 'em in next time. It's not like Mike doesn't go through all the mail before letting Mr. Tenna read it."
Spamton didn't exactly know where the guy got that information, but he probably knew more than Spamton about this place and there wasn't any apparent reason why he would lie about this matter, so he nodded in acknowledgement. Makes his work easier at least.
"And how about a drink, luv? On the house, for your troubles," the plugboy offered with a smile.
"I'll pass," Spamton replied before leaving the Green Room, heading for the nearest exit from the studio. Normally he wouldn't pass up an offer for anything free of charge, but right now his main goal was to out of this place as quickly as possible. Nor was he much of a drinker, anyway. And even if he was thirsty, he could see what the Cyber Grill's menu had to offer later in the evening.
He can't wait to tell the other addisons about all that's happened to him on his trip today.