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“So, Spamton...” Bitwise clapped his hands to bring down the disjointed conversations of the group and to get the attention of the other Addisons surrounding him. He made a quick glance around the booth, making sure that everyone was ready to focus their attention on the man of the moment—Overlay was still swigging down a margatini, but his attention was had. Bitwise finally directed himself toward Spamton. “I heard through the grapevine that you raked in some cash today,” Bitwise said the last word with a twinge of hopeful elation. “How much was it?”
Spamton loved attention, but this was the first of—well, any of their meetups he got to boast about his accomplishments. Maybe accomplishment was a strong word, but it was better than how he usually did. Still, this was a bit nerve-racking, but there was no time for nervousness. He had to put on his A-game!
“You know what?” Spamton grabbed his margatini and took a sip. He continued talking with a flourish of his hand. “I’ll let you guys have a go at those numbers. Go ahead, guess!”
“I mean, you said ‘those numbers’ so,” Payatt paused to sip his margatini. “I’m not going any higher than two digits.” Spamton responded with an irritated huff, but Payatt continued onward. “I don’t know…$90?”
Payatt’s halfhearted guess caused Spamton to lose a bit of his glimmer—Spamton didn't too much appreciate his competitiveness. Still, he trudged on. “Overlay, Yammer? How ‘bout you two have a go.”
Overlay was in the midst of gulping down another of his drinks, so Yammer answered first. “Yo, I'ma be generous—I'm holding out. Yep, I'm holding out. We're not gon’ be Debbie Downers ‘bout this. So what if you're a lil’ unlucky?” Ouch, that stung. “Maybe that'll flip, and you'll be out there flippin' domains and shit, runnin' the whole shebang and all that. Who can say? So let me say, with the generosity in my heart, $300. That’s my hat in the ring, $300.” Overlay was still in the midst of chugging his drink, but he motioned toward Yammer in affirmation.
Spamton tried not to choke on his drink when Yammer had said $300. "You, uh, flatter me. Bitwise?"
Bitwise passed on the opportunity to guess. “No, no. I just want to hear!”
No escaping the inevitable, they were all waiting for an answer. Chin up. “Yammer, you got one thing right. There is a three somewhere in my revenues. I guess I can see where $300 sounds like $13 if you squish a vowel or—”
Payatt balked. “You only made $13?” Payatt’s exclamation drew the attention of the other patrons in the bar, and Bitwise had to shoo away the unwanted spectators.
“Hey!” Spamton volleyed in response. “I’m surprised too! I think the stars are starting to align. It’s more than I made last—”
“Which was zero. Zilch. C’mon, Spamton. You’ve been on this empty streak for—gosh, I can’t even count the weeks.” Payatt's face was primed with discontent. “That’s bad.”
Spamton drummed his fingers against the table. Payatt was always like this. He said ambitious, Spamton said pushy. And all because his business ventures were top tier. “Sorry I don’t do as well as your Relation-Shoes, but I’m glad you still have faith in me anyways,” said Spamton in a biting tone. Payatt scoffed. Before it could escalate, Bitwise squashed the tiff and gave them both a sideways glance.
“Spamton, I have to agree with Payatt,” Bitwise continued hesitantly. It was obvious to anyone who knew Spamton that this was a sore subject, so he tried to put it as nicely as possible. “Thirteen dollars…that’s not even enough to recoup your losses. Spamton you know you can ask us fo—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Spamton cut him off. “You mean ask you , first of all. Just this morning I asked Overlay for a tissue, and he said ‘$2.99.’ And I said, ‘For the whole box?’ No! '$2.99 per tissue!'” Spamton wasn’t entirely put off by the stunt, but he wasn’t any more entertained by Overlay’s smirk behind his glass. Spamton continued, “But, hell, I’d do the same. Second off, I’m not turning myself into a charity case. No thank you.”
Overlay finally put a pause on his drinking and set down his empty glass with a racket. “Because he’s gonna be a big shot one day, watch out!”
Spamton took the facetious remark in stride. “You know that's right! I’ll be living it large! Joyrides all day and night! Even a room in the Queen's Mansion, yes sir! And our little get-togethers like this,” he pointed down at the table for emphasis and then around at all of them. “All day, every day! You can bet your bottom dollar!” Spamton’s boisterous declarations were drawing the attention of the other patrons, again. Bitwise shooed them away, again. He had finished his speech, so Spamton slunk into the booth seat and gestured dryly.
“Cheers, I’ll drink to that,” chimed Yammer in a chipper tune. Overlay, equipped with a refreshed glass of margatini, toasted toward Spamton. Though it was a bit aloof, Payatt expressed some agreement; with a noncommittal shrug, he joined in.
Bitwise gave a soft half-smile. “You know, we hope to see it. That would be great.” And, with that, attention turned to other matters. Bitwise started up a new line of conversation, something about moving to a busier block of Cyber City. He said that would give him more opportunities to do shoe samplings, and that brought along a comment from Overlay, who said that “they weren’t that tasty”; which prompted a response from Payatt, something along the lines of that not being the point of the samples; a response corroborated by Bitwise, who said, “The point is that they get a sample, walk into my store—wait you’re eating them?”
Spamton hurriedly tried to bring the conversation back to himself. “H-honestly, just you all wait! I’ll invite all of you, and you’ll love it! Don’t worry, I’ll be the one footing the tab!” His gesture was nice, and they all toasted him accordingly. But they moved the conversation back along, back to shoe samplings and now, new tea flavors. All away from Spamton.
“Psst, Spamton,” Overlay whispered over to Spamton. “You’d do the same—the $2.99 per tissue?”
Spamton stared at his drink. They were all so ready to move the conversation along—to talk about other things. Did they not care? The conversation ended too fast, and they left him so high and dry. He had been on an empty streak, he’d give Payatt that. But what else did they want? Do they think I can’t do this? Was he not enough for them? Thirteen dollars should mean something more than a half-hearted “cheers.” Did they want him to cut his losses? He wasn’t going to do that. I can do this, right? Big shots don’t do that! That $13 was his first sign that becoming a big shot was right in his grasp! And big shots definitely don’t give in.
“Spamton? Spam—?”
“I'd make it $4.99, personally.”
“So, Bitwise…” Spamton ran a hand across his pompadour. Today was supposed to be the day, they planned it all in advance too. There was a lot of talking on Spamton’s part, but he was sure they agreed. Now, it was clocking-off time, and he was leaving his glitzy office building—it was one of the nicer ones, with lots of open-floor planning and big, glossy windows—to go meet up with his fellow Addisons for some drinks. But instead of their usual—and because of all the dough he was making—he was gonna treat them to the nicest bar with the nicest drinks. Or so he thought. What he was hearing from the speaker was leaving him miffed and standing in the middle of the doorway. “Let me get this straight: We’re not on for tonight?”
Bitwise was on the other end, and his voice carried with a weary buzz. “Spamton. We’d love to come with, but…you've…your success, um…” Bitwise was trying to put this as nicely as possible. “Spamton, you’re pulling us thin.”
“So, because I'm doing well, you don’t want to meet up?” Spamton leaned himself against the doorway.
“Not what I’m saying, Spamton.”
“That's what I’m hearing.”
Bitwise sighed. “Spamton, no. It’s great you’re doing well, but—” Bitwise suddenly cut off, and Spamton could hear him mumble with someone in the background, saying, “Yes, he’s on the phone.” Suddenly, Bitwise was audible again. “I’m handing the phone to Yammer.”
“Yo, Spamton.”
On the other hand, Jevil was quite enjoying himself in Cyber World. Ah, it was splendid the sights, sounds, and colors even the most insubstantial of worlds could produce. Oh, and the tastes! He was sat at the patio of a cybercafé and in the middle of eating a pillowy treat that tasted just like a ripe Dark Candy—and was that Spamton? It seemed as if he were catching him just as he was dismissing himself from work. How convenient! Though, convenience seemed to only be sharing itself with Jevil. Spamton, who was only a ways in front of him, appeared agitated and hunched over in a doorway. His face, even, was going flush.
“Hi Yammer.”
“Bit’s bish-boshing ‘round the point—” Spamton could immediately hear a displeased “Hey!” in the background. “So, here’s how it is: your monopoly—'cause that’s 'bout what it is—your cars, your appliances, all that jazz—well, it’s been sucking our pockets dry, frankly. Payatt’s lucky his Relation-Shoes have been doing good, 'cause—well, damn it wouldn’t be pretty. And I’m just saying, 'cause…” And what about Payatt? So what if Payatt had that one venture that was so standout? God, it was all they talked about. Either way, Yammer was still talking, and he ought to pay some attention. Yammer had to be making a point soon.
“...own sales—a catastrophe, a train wreck! My profit margin has gone tits up! We have to work ten times as hard to make half of what we used to! And even then—” Yammer was suddenly cut off, and, while the air was dead, Spamton walked out onto the sidewalk. It was busy, but Spamton didn’t care. His mind wasn’t on the other passersby.
Oh, he was on the phone, was he? Jevil considered the difficulty of the phone call. It must be a taxing one for Spamton to be emanating such ire.
“I think,” Bitwise was now back on the line, but that did much of nothing to change Spamton's mood, “Yammer made it clear enough. We just don’t have the time.” Yeah, that was clear enough. They really think I can’t do it. All that planning, and for what? What a waste.
“You’ll have fun though, righ—“ What was interrupted would have been a nice goodbye, a quick and chipper message of reassurance. A goodbye that never reached Spamton.
Spamton had ended the call.
Jevil supposed convenience was beginning to share itself fairly.
“SPAMMY.” Jevil threw his voice outward, and it wound its way toward Spamton. It tickled Jevil to watch Spamton look around for the source of his voice. But there was no time to just sit back and do japery. He could float and do japery! Jevil made his way to pop up next to Spamton. Sticking true to his penchant for mischief, Jevil maintained his occultation even with his oh-so-close proximity. It tickled Jevil even more seeing him still searching for the source of the sound. Well, time to make him aware.
“SPAMMY, IT’S ME VISITING, VISITING!” As one does when snuck up upon, Spamton shot back a few steps, dropping his phone in the stream of pedestrians. “UEE HEE HEE! YOUR REACTIONS NEVER TIRE!”
“And I’ll never get how you,” Spamton bent down to fish his phone from the sidewalk and got back up, phone in hand, “appear from the ether like that.” Looking at Spamton's phone, Jevil segued into what he was meaning to ask.
“I TAKE IT YOU'VE BEEN SUNK IN AN OFFENSE OF WORDS?”
Spamton’s face momentarily dropped. “You heard that?”
“COMPLETELY, NOT.”
Spamton smoothed down his pompadour, again, and then shot his hands in the air in frustration. “They all flaked on me! Every single one of them!” Then, he stomped his way down the sidewalk with Jevil promptly tagging along. He did not want to miss Spamton’s exposition. Spamton tiraded about a failed meetup and unfulfilled promises as they walked down the sidewalk and toward a parking lot. Intently, Jevil listened to how “Bitwise” dropped the ball and how it was probably “Payatt” behind it anyway, as he was never one to vouch for Spamton. Spamton even continued his grumbling about his money and success as the two neared his car. Jevil was always impressed by such a beast of a vehicle; it was a great, red, convertible lowrider. As the two reached the car doors, Jevil thought it proper to deliver some advice.
“WHY SHOULDN’T YOU PARTAKE IN YOUR OWN ENJOYMENT, AS THEY DENY WHAT YOU OFFER? BREAK, BREAK THE BINDING CHAINS.”
Spamton stood at the driver-side door considering what Jevil was saying. With the change of plans, what else did he have to do? He wasn’t going to drink by himself, how sad would that be? He wasn’t going to sit alone and wallow. Maybe he could hit the Infobahn for a while and burn some rubber to get his mind situated. Why the hell not?
“Jevil, hop in.”
“SURELY.”
Spamton idly drew at the steering wheel as they waited at the stop-timer. This street of Cyber City had some of the slowest stop-timers. But it's not like the two had anywhere specific to be. It was slow, but it was convenient the time it gave you to talk.
“What did you mean by ‘binding chains?’”
“DO YOU TRAP MAICE TO HAVE THEM SCURRY?”
“I don’t get how that relates to me.”
“THE RELATION IS NOT LATE. YOUR AUDIENCE IS A NO-SHOW.” Spamton nodded along. “THIS TRAPS AND CAPTIVATES YOU, A BINDING FORCE.” As Jevil spoke, pedestrians walked up and down the crosswalk. Not anything abnormal was abound, until a particularly excited pedestrian bounded toward the driver-side door.
“By the Queen’s grace! Spamton G. Spamton, I’m such a huge fan of your work!”
Spamton turned his head to the left. A fan. Spamton motioned for Jevil to hold for a moment. Time for his A-game!
“HOW ARE YOU DOING [Hot Shot]? I’M FINE, I’M SURE YOU’RE [A-OK, Peachy Keen]. SO, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?” Spamton wasn’t expecting a meet-and-greet anytime soon, so he tried to hurry it along. “AUTOGRAPH? DON’T WORRY, THEY’RE FREE.”
The particularly excited fan fumbled for a marker. “Your acquisition of the header-space for Cyber World Enterprises, that was a masterful buyout!” The praise was nice, but Spamton was in the middle of a conversation. He wanted to get a few more words in before they had to drive off. The fan finally pulled a marker from their pocket, so Spamton, patient as always, grabbed it and just autographed the guy’s forehead before the stop-timer completely ran out.
“THERE YOU GO! ALREADY LOOKING JUST LIKE A [BIGSHOT]!”
Jevil, who had been sat and observant the entire time, thought Spamton had done an indignation against the fan with how they froze. But no. The fan exclaimed in glee and profusely thanked Spamton. They walked from the vehicle, and, as they did, they swore that they would have it tattooed as it was rendered. And Spamton grinned the entire time. Being witness to this, Jevil was keen to make his observations known.
“YOU RELISH THIS PATH OF YOURS.”
“Relish? You bet!” The stop-timer was almost up. Spamton shifted the gear and readied the car for take-off. “This is my life, gotta keep it chugging!”
“AND, FOR THAT, CAPTIVITY BODES POORLY.” The stop-timer finally ran out, and the two drove off.
Those long stop-timers weren’t always so convenient.
Out of the view of his driver-side mirror, Spamton could eye out another person walking up to his car. Another fan, and, hm, green pants. That's a statement. Again, meet-and-greets weren’t on his agenda, so he needed to shut them down before they got their hopes up. Spamton turned his head to address the guy.
“SORRY, [We’re fresh out of] MORE AUTOGRAPH—” That was Payatt. And Payatt was walking. Walking directly to his car. Payatt was walking directly to his car. Spamton reversed in his seat and mashed the button to engage the convertible roof. Much to his distress, the roof only inched, and Payatt was still walking as fast as he wanted to. Christ, could the roof go any slower? Worst of all, the stop-timer was just dragging along. It was only when Payatt passed the tail of the car did the roof close, and Spamton hastily rolled up the windows—in Payatt’s face, to be exact. Again, to Spamton’s distress, Payatt didn’t ease up and started knocking on the window. Repeatedly. Without pause. Damn the Cyber City traffic rules! Spamton yanked the steering wheel and mashed the gas. He bobbed and weaved through the traffic going across the road, only shyly missing trunks and car lights, and he sped off.
Now, that was very peculiar. Jevil could attest to that. “DO FANS PANIC, DO THEY FRIGHTEN YOU SO?” Jevil dolloped another of his observations.
Spamton huffed and disengaged the car roof. “That wasn’t a fan. Never was one anyways.”
“AND YOU MEAN?” By now, the two had reached the Infobahn. It was just lanes as far as the eye could see, and billboards if you looked up. Spamton’s branding was on a lot of them.
“That was Payatt. I-I think he just doesn’t like me. He’s known me since I was in the gutter, but who’d like an Addison like that? It’s ‘bout the same for the other Addisons, too.”
“THAT SEEMS UN-SO. EVEN HE WANTED TO SPEAK TO YOU.”
“Yeah? I don’t want to speak to him.”
“AND THE OTHERS, TOO, I ASSUME.”
Spamton hummed in affirmation, and the conversation died for a few. Jevil took it as an opportunity to take in the scenery. Such minusculity produced such a beauty, it was intriguing. These expansive, vivid worlds, all trivialities. It was a testament to the exuberance of futility, a cacophony of suits and circuits screaming, “Look at me, and see!” As much of a cacophony as that could be, one similar sprung up as a sharp ringing. The ringing caught Jevil's attention, but Spamton ignored his own ringtone the entire way through, even as the last ring went faint.
“But I don’t even think that matters!” Jevil turned his attention toward Spamton's exclamation. “You see those billboards up there?” Jevil made a languid look upward. “All mine! ‘Bout every single one you can see, mine!” Spamton shot his hands up in a flourish, taking his hands off the wheel. “They have nothing like that!” Still ignoring the road, Spamton looked over to gauge Jevil’s reaction.
“AND BOUND YOU REMAIN.”
Spamton huffed, again. “What?”
“YOU FLAUNT YOUR POSITION IN DESPERATION. YET, YOU WORRY YOURSELF OVER THOSE NOT CONDUCIVE TO YOUR GOALS.”
“But I’m a big shot.” Spamton worked his hands onto the steering wheel and loosely grasped it.
“ACCURATELY. THOUGH, THEY DRIFT, DRIFT FROM YOUR PATH WITH PURPOSE. AND YOU CLOUD YOURSELF STILL. A DISSONANCE. THEY INDULGE YOU NOT. MAKE YOUR OWN FUN.”
Spamton leaned into the upcoming curve, and the car swerved unexpectedly in its lane. Make his own fun? Was he not fun enough? Did he not have enough fun? He could be fun.
“YOUR COMPLEXION IS TINGED WITH PERPLEXION, SO LET ME REWORD: BE AS FREE AS CAN BE.” Jevil progressed gingerly. “YOUR OWN ENJOYMENT, UNHINDERED. ANYWAY, ANYWAY, THIS WILL ALL END THE SAME.”
“...You know when I said that they all flaked?” Jevil nodded because he did remember. “I was on the phone with Bitwise—he’s another one of them, and there’s Yammer and Overlay too—” Spamton cut himself off and slumped into his seat. The car made a bigger, more unexpected swerve into the neighboring lane, and a lot of horns sounded off in return. “Bitwise was telling me that they couldn’t make it, that they were overworked and blah, blah, blah. But tell me on the day of?” Spamton flailed his arms in frustration. “Are they serious?”
“DIFFERENCES, DIFFERENCES.” Spamton wondered where Jevil was going with this. “BUT IN THE GRAND SCHEME, ALL THE SAME.”
“Exactly! I’m on a one-way track to stardom, with or without them. They want a ride in this Cungadero? Too late! They can’t even get a seat in the car, hah!” Jevil could only placidly stare as Spamton stubbornly continued. He watched while Spamton ranted and raved while the car skidded and skipped as other drivers stopped and swerved to get out of the way.
“YOU ARE STILL DOING IT.” Jevil was unsure Spamton had heard him, but whether he did or not did not matter. Spamton was still barreling forward talking about the Addisons.
“...and he only has Relation-Shoes to his name. Oh! You see that billboard we just passed—that tissue brand? Mine!”
“CERTAINLY, BUT WHY DO YOU STILL—”
“They can’t even get in the market if they wanted to. They’ll either price too low, and they can’t go higher than me! I’ve got it locked at a nice $4.99—and per tissue, too! No beating tha—!”
“SPAMTON.” Jevil’s voice reverberated and echoed around Spamton and made him come to a halt. Though, not the car; that beast was still barreling down the Infobahn. Spamton, on the other hand, was quiet. Jevil turned his whole body to face Spamton, and, in turn, Spamton turned his head to face Jevil.
“AS WAS BESTOWED ONTO ME, LET ME BESTOW UPON YOU THIS TRUTH: WE ARE ALL SO TRIVIAL.” Spamton struck a sour face. “AND TO THIS DO NOT BE AILED, IT IS A TRUTH WE ARE INSCRIBED IN. AND TO THIS DO NOT BE AILED, FOR IT IS A PANACEA WHOSE SIDE EFFECT IS FREEDOM. TRUE, UNFETTERED FREEDOM IS A GOAL WE SHOULD COVET,” Jevil reigned himself in. Spamton was but a fledgling to this matter, so it was no use laying the entire scope of their worlds upon him. “AND SO, THAT SLIVER OF WHAT WE HAVE SHOULD BE MADE THE MOST.” Spamton’s interest was piqued; he was doing the motions of keeping the car on the road, but that was it. The neighboring lanes and cars began to curve and turn, respectively, but Spamton’s car continued speeding straight and forward.
Jevil continued. “THEY STILL WONT ADVANCE YOUR PLOT, WHETHER INTENTIONAL OR NOT. IT WEIGHS YOU DOWN.” What Jevil was saying was strange—very strange, but not without merit. Spamton saw himself agreeing. “SPAMTON, YOU ARE WEDGED FIRMLY IN THIS STORY. EXTRACT YOURSELF FROM THE NARRATIVE. THE SCOPE OF THIS COSMOS IS SO GRAND, GRAND INDEED. AND THIS TRIFLE IS NOT EVEN A DROP IN THE BUCKET. EVEN SUCH WETS YOU SO.” Cars to the left and right continuously blared their horns, but the beast of a vehicle bolted forward anyway. “SHAKE THE CLOUD. DRY YOURSELF. LET THE WIND TAKE AHOLD AND SPREAD YOUR WINGS.” Jevil turned back forward in his seat, and, in turn, Spamton turned away from Jevil. And he blanched. They were driving straight into a roundabout. There was no turning away, they were going too fast. Spamton gripped the wheel.
“FLY.”
The two of them were shot up like a rocket. Luckily enough, their seatbelts kept them from shooting out of the car like a rocket. The two were frozen in that moment of weightlessness for an eternity; Spamton was struck with petrification and Jevil, a frenzied rapture. It seemed to Spamton as if the eternity would last forever, him soaring through the air, the wind whipping across his face. But the eternity only lasted for a second. All four wheels hit the ground at once, and the car landed in a steaming, sputtering heap. The impact flung Jevil’s springy neck forward and back, and Spamton jerked forward in his seat—he was flush with shock, his hands were shaking, and his head was spinning. He slumped forward and turned toward Jevil, who had just got his head on straight. And Spamton started giggling. Jevil wasted no time following suit. The two started howling in laughter. Jevil was cackling incessantly, and Spamton was not shy of splitting his sides either. The car was definitely totaled. They were going to need a tow.
Now the car was a great, red, convertible mess. Spamton rebuffed the approaching Ambyu-Lances as he walked to the tow truck he had called earlier. Spamton offered to have Jevil towed back to the Queen’s Mansion, but he declined. Jevil had his own ways of getting back, he said, and he disappeared back into the ether. Spamton slunk into the passenger of the tow; his convertible was suspended by a hook on the back of the truck. Before the tow-truck driver could even speak, Spamton asked him to drive to the Queen’s Mansion and slipped him an autographed $50 for some silence. He’d deal with the other damages later, but, right now, he needed a rest. Eventually, Spamton would tumble out of the tow and slip into the ever-exciting Queen’s Mansion. It was never a dull day there—people were always in and out, there was always some type of booming music, and plenty of entertainment could be found—but Spamton wasn’t in the mood. Trudging over staircases and through winding hallways, he rushed into his room, threw off his suit jacket, and flopped onto his bed. He was about close to dozing off.
Or, he would have if his phone didn’t start ringing. The person calling wasn’t a stranger, Spamton already knew who it was. He answered this time.
“Spamton? Oh, you answered! You okay?” Bitwise was on the other side of the line.
“Mhm.” It was a very unenthusiastic response, a response that didn’t care about what Bitwise was asking or why.
“Okay, that's good. Uhm, the call earlier—what happened?”
“Nothing. Service went bad.”
There was a moment of hesitation—an inkling of suspicion and concern—but Bitwise didn't press the answer. Although, he did mention the accident on the Infobahn, and that annoyed Spamton. “It was all on the news,” and with good reason. The crash caused a bunch of lanes to close for maintenance, and there was a significant slowdown in Internet traffic in the surrounding area. But Spamton was as concerned with that crash as he was with this call—which was not at all. Instead of listening to whatever Bitwise was saying, Spamton let his mind wander, wondering about what Jevil dished out to him earlier. This was trifling, and where was his own unhindered enjoyment? He didn’t find any of that in this phone call, and he never had it before. Only now, this one time in his life, was it nearly in his grasp! He wasn’t going to let it slip.
“…and I called you before, but you didn’t pick up. You did now, so—!”
“Bitwise. I’m fine.” Spamton’s response was curt, and it chilled the call. Still, he was listening. Bitwise had to be making a point soon.
“So, uhm…” Bitwise broke the silence. “Payatt saw you earlier.”
“And?”
“He was trying to talk to you! But you just rolled the roof and windows up in his face—and then you ran the stop-timer too, he said!” Spamton turned it over in his head. What was Payatt going to tell him that would be worth anything? Would he give him a song and dance about his Relation-Shoes and hold that over his head forever? Would he put Spamton beneath him with a callous $90? And the others. Yammer—all bark but could barely bite. Would he embarrass him again with a “generous” $300? Overlay—dopey as always. Would he just drink and eat himself silly, neglecting Spamton’s accomplishments? And Bitwise. Him and his incessant dotings. Was Spamton broken, was he not strong enough to withstand even another guess at his revenue? None of it pushed his plot forward. And he just let them weigh him down this entire time?
“...Spamton, is this because we couldn’t make it? We just didn’t have the time, sorry. We should reschedule. We can talk about—”
“I’m still going to be a big shot whether you want me to or not.” A-game time.
“...Huh?” Spamton could hear Bitwise’s audible shock. But why was he shocked? Wasn't he was one of four keeping him grounded?
“Not just you, you all. I see it now. You all just want to keep me down! I only had $13, and you kept me down then. And you’re still keeping me down now! Am I this sick, little charity case for you all to prod at? You want to pinion me like a bird!” He wasn’t going to give in. He was going to…
“I’m getting bigger, and I am a big shot. And I’m going to get bigger than ever before!”
Fly.
“I don’t need you.” There was a venom to his words, a pent-up ichor of inadequacy vomited in a nasty spew. A venom that never reached Bitwise.
Bitwise had ended the call.
Spamton took the phone from the side of his head and sat and stared. He was teeming with lousy, stress-stricken heaving—he was flush with shock, his hands were shaking, and his head was spinning.
The wind felt harsh across his face.
Spamton eyed the receiver on the wall of his room. He shuffled toward it and dialed down to the Color Cafe. A Swatchling on the other side of the receiver picked up and gave the usual pleasantries one would expect of a butler.
“Hey, yeah, do you know what a margatini is? Yeah? Okay, well, get some mixed and keep them flowing.”
The Swatchling who answered inquired about how he would be paying. Spamton ran a hand across his pompadour.
“The way this night’s going, I’ll get it tomorrow."
The phone line mumbled back.
"Yeah, don't sweat the tab," Spamton sighed. "I got it.”