A/N: i wrote this on an impulse at 9 am
this bad boy can fit so many headcanons that i will not explain

just a warning: essentially, there's a paragraph-long section that goes into detail on what spamton would like to do to some people. he's a tiny hate-filled man that's okay with killing, take it as you will

-FNN A/N: I meant to upload this here a long, long time ago, but never did because CH2 characters weren't in the characters list, which is sort of a problem when this is centered around one lol. thankfully, we now have a spamtong tag? just him? nobody else from CH2 from what i saw in my quick glance? weird

Spamton couldn't move.

He didn't know what time it was, he couldn't tell. The only important senses he had left were his sight and hearing, allowing him to see a faint glow from some sign peaking through the lid of his shelter, and the sounds of faint strips of traffic passing by.

Spamton couldn't make a sound.

He was a colossal failure. The mansion had kicked him out. He wasn't getting the money he needed to live there anymore. Any pity or extra time to pack he could've gotten from them evaporated when he found NEO.
Sweet, holy NEO, whose light burned through the dark, allowing a view of a greater world...

Spamton's arms and legs lay sprawled out around him, unresponsive and unmoving. One leg buried under a rubbery bag, one arm stuck in a crevice. His other arm was wrapped in his sleeve, and his other leg raised in the air with his knee digging into something wet.

The doctor had stopped calling him. Spamton begged and screamed for him to pick up, leaving voice messages that could be played for hours on end, but he never called back. He had abandoned Spamton, abandoned him, just like the others, like everyone else, like–

Spamton's jaw hung slightly agape, any moisture in his mouth long gone. The trash under him kept it from being fully open, flooding his numbed sense of smell with rot. If he could puke, he would've.

He was in the trash. He was thrown away. By everyone. Why? Why?! He'd done the best he could! He was at the top of his game, set to usurp Queen at this rate, but they went and tossed him out! Over what, a stupid Lighter's dream? Well, what about his dreams?!

Spamton's body stung. Warped bits of plastic on his back itched like a beast had sunken its claws in him. The acid had long since been flushed out of him, but the burning never left.

He remembered wandering until he couldn't anymore, far away from the mansion, far away from the streets with all those traitors on them. It was raining and the acid dripping from the sky reopened his wounds, sending him in a haze of a frenzy that ended up with him and his pride in a dumpster. Him, in a trash-filled dumpster as his only shelter.

Spamton's eyes wouldn't even move. They were fixated in one spot, strained from his inability to blink. His feed kept corrupting, distorting the small bits of the light he was allowed to have, while the darkness burned into his eyes just wouldn't leave and kept swallowing the rest of it up. He couldn't shift his head and look out at the swirling neon, he just had to exist with this blindness.
His contacts were confiscated with his belongings, as were his bulky old glasses tucked away in a drawer. Even then, he wasn't sure if they'd even help with these glitches. They were worse than anything he'd got before.

As he sat in the trash, he screamed and pulled at his hair so harshly he'd nearly torn it all out. Dye was left staining his fingers, leaving grubby little marks everywhere as he shifted around. How dare they leave him like this. How dare they, all of them. Letting him rot in this filth. The filth that stained his burnt, melted, and torn suit, once a perfect fit, barely clinging to him unless he readjusted it every few seconds. Ruby red burned into an ugly sludge-brown, sequins reduced to clumps merged with the fabric. The filth that dug into his skin, hardened and stripped of its softness, warped beyond his own recognition. It slipped through his segments and poked at his wires, little peels and rotting noodles wormed their way into his circuitry and fried themselves into being a part of him, no matter how many times he tore them out. Filth that would surely infect his pristine whiteness and remove its holy qualities within days, dying him with a repulsive yellow.

Any sounds Spamton sent to his speaker wouldn't go through. The most he got was a single, quiet pop from it. His screams were all but locked in his own head as it burned down.

He fell asleep clutching the one thing he retrieved from the piles of his confiscated things– a silky pillow he slept on every night since he moved into the mansion. It was the one thing he was able to get away with taking, before being picked up by the scruff like an angry tasque and tossed out. Like an animal. They thought of him as an animal. How could he be so beneath them, when he was their 'friend' just a day earlier?! How could he be just an animal when he was the only one who knew the truth and had a chance to get it and bring them into the light?! Absolute morons.

Spamton's head was twisted to the side, pushed up while his body was slanted down, like a beam split down the middle. It hurt his neck so much. He wanted to move and readjust, but his body wasn't responding. The pain ebbed away eventually, but the stiffness remained.

Ring-ring, went his precious phone. Spamton jumped on it in an instant, ecstatic to hear from his benefactor.
The good doctor's phone droned out of the receiver faster than it ever had before. "I BELIEVE, OUR CONTRACT IS AT AN END."

He didn't react at first. He just kept smiling cheek-to-cheek as it slowly sunk in. "Wh W# Wh-\w/hat...? Bo$s, i-!-1f th thi s is a j0ke, i"ts not [[STaND_UPc0medy]]..." He stammered into the receiver. His glitching was getting worse, but the doctor already told him that he should expect it, that it was fine. He could fix Spamton up whenever he broke. And Spamton couldn't go to a doctor himself because then they'd reverse all his progress and improvements, or worse, label him as a virus and scrap him. He didn't want to be scrapped, did he?
Spamton wasn't allowed an explanation from the doctor. He simply hung up on Spamton, right then and there. Leaving him to clutch the receiver to his head, silent and agape while staring at the walls in front of him for hours. Leaving him when he needed the doctor most. Leaving him to break and break and break and–

Rage bubbled under Spamton's skin, threatening to overheat him and boil the viscous liquid staining his surroundings. But his heating wouldn't turn on. Neither would his fans. Neither would his engine.

He had woken up like this. Atop this pile of trash, his pillow shoved off in the corner after he presumably slid off it. His body almost slipping out of his warped suit, one shoulder punched into a bag of trash, the other being twisted inside the hole with his neck.

Spamton couldn't move. His body wouldn't respond. His systems were all off except for his mind. It was honestly a miracle he was even conscious.

He would've blamed it on his glitches, the same accursed things that stole his voice and sight, but he knew why he couldn't move. He knew it and just thinking about it hurt more than the acid did.

His strings were stiff, unmoving like water unable to be touched by the wind. They were heavy on his body, like they had anvils sitting atop them. He was pinned down like an insect by his strings, the precious things the doctor used to take control of him just weeks prior. The precious things he was told were blessings, because they'd help him get it big. The doctor would help him get big with them. And he did.

But now Spamton wasn't being allowed to move. The doctor had disabled that feature before leaving, as if not explaining himself to Spamton and letting him break wasn't enough of a kick to his pride.

It was the icing on top of this !%$*show of a cake. When Spamton had been turned on by them, the folk at Rook, the mansion staff, and the doctor were all there for him. When $^&!ing Tenna and his god damn crew screwed him over and wrung him out to dry, the mansion staff and doctor had reassured him that he'd be alright. When the mansion staff started treating him like a stranger in their walls, ready to snap him in half at a moment's notice if he got even slightly too close to NEO, the good doctor told him things would be fine.

But now, here he was. Abandoned in the trash.

(Like a discarded toy.)

They all turned their backs to him, leaving him to be eaten by maice atop a throne of filth. And what did he ever do to deserve such a hell? What did he do? He listened, he did what he was told without question. He built himself up so far, but nobody wanted even a speck of his time. They'd all just left him to die whenever the trash was to be retrived and deleted, if the feral animals or dark web citizens didn't get to him first.

Spamton tried his damndest to force his body to move, for the thousandth time since he woke up. He didn't even feel his joints twitching, not even a single wire shift slightly with the rush of electricity. It was like he was powered off, even though he knew he was awake.

(Although, maybe this was all just a dream? That made more sense than a reality where he was abandoned by everyone, and slept in the trash after he was–

But the pain that rung through him was still very real. You weren't supposed to feel pain in dreams. He knew that much.)

Damn them, damn them all. He'd show them. He'd get out of this hell somehow, get NEO, and give them a taste of their own medicine. That would be rich! Watching Swatch, Tenna, and Click fret over the trash they'd be pounded in. Watching Banner, Pay, and Vid beg for mercy beneath his heel as he pushed down. Watching Tasque Manager cry as he popped Queen's screen out with his thumb, before doing the work for the trash compactor. Twisting his former colleagues into little ribbons of plastic and wires, squeezed of oil and stripped of any recognizable color, used as decorations for his suit. Making sure every television in the city was flattened into little specks of glass. Hunting down Jevil and finally giving him a taste of his own medicine, silencing that damned clown for good. It'd be so funny, Jevil had been pestering him about getting a stress ball for so long. He'd pay good money to see the look on his face when Spamton finally caught him and did as he pleased.

(He'd spare Mike, the one man he had left. Mike would never hurt him. Mike would never abandon him. He told Spamton so himself, before Tenna grabbed Spamton and threw him out.)

Spamton would be the ultimate salesman, the one who dared bargain with the devil and came out standing strong, the one who'd challenged god and won. He'd take the golden throne for himself, sit atop his kingdom, and rain hellfire down on all who wronged him. It wasn't like he was lacking with ammo either, considering all the knives twisted in his back, pinning him down.

Pinning him. Keeping him still, just like his strings. Stiff and motionless, unaffected by reality. Burning holes into his joints that only he could see.

"You're an $ who only cares about I'm sorry but your time here has we trusted you we believed in you and you just treat us like stand back from that machine or I swear in her grace's name I will AT AN END stop talking never speak to us again rotten little thief I hope you just you're just a pawn at the end of his gambit just give up and go back to your simple life as an email salesman, bein' up with the bigwigs ain't your style, Spams."
Words from voices he knew were all separate people blended together in his mind as he replayed the smudged memories and fumed. Everyone would pay. Everyone would pay for what they've done to him, he'd make sure of it.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and cry and beg for mercy, but there was no god to hear him. They'd made sure to let him know they didn't care about him a long time ago. After all, they hung up on him directly.

He wanted to burn the trash below him with his rage. He wanted to scream and punch and bite and fight it until it was dust. He wanted to roar at the skies, beckoning that same god closer to him just so he could skin the damn thing alive and wear its pelt as a bathrobe. He wanted to climb the ladder it would leave behind and get out of this hell, to the blue skies and white puffs heaven had waiting for him. Leaving the others behind to rot as he flourished and got higher than he could ever before, ascending above even the doctor to be the biggest shot he was always meant to be.

But he couldn't.
Because Spamton couldn't move.

A/N: yes the addisons are named, don't worry it's not important

i find it interesting that spamton is so worried about his strings when really the only time we see him get affected by them is when he's talking about the knight, he doesn't really seem like he's being controlled to the extent kris /

i also think it's fun to think he has some bitterness towards gaster because of that. its on brand with him being abandoned by everyone except mike, too

anyway spamton has an ego the size of jupiter and its fun to write