Chapter Text
You slammed your fists against your thigh, let out an audible groan, and rolled your head back to look up at the fabric taxi roof. The traffic in Cyber City was terrible at all hours, but you didn't expect the car to come to a complete standstill.
"Listen, pal," the taxi driver turned to look at you, "the address you gave me ain't far from 'ere, if you take this road and keep walkin' straight you'll get'ere." You took a deep breath and nodded.
"I guess that would be the best option–" the man cut you off before you could finish.
"I also don't want to keep hearin' you groanin' and sighin'. Yer startin to annoy me." He held out his hand and made a motion for you to pay up. You were about to sigh again but cut it off by inhaling deeply. No use annoying him any further.
You pull out your wallet and take out twenty five dark dollars. The man scoffs and shakes his head, "Imma be stuck in traffic for hours," he makes another grabbing motion with his hand, "you better pay that full price." He grinned, and you scowled. Muttering under your breath, you gave him the rest of your cash and hopped out of the car before he could ask for your debit card number.
It wouldn't be a far walk back home, but after a long day of work the last thing you wanted to do was walk. Especially not in the ever present darkness of Cyber City. Especially not down an even darker alleyway. The taxi behind you honked, startling you. You flipped off the sleazy driver before walking down the alleyway.
It wasn't awful, honestly.
...
Okay, it was really, really bad. Horrible, even. You could hear the scurrying of little maice and it made your blood run cold. Every shadow was twisting and waiting for the moment you turned your back to strike.
You suddenly heard a bang from the dumpster next to you. Before you could turn around, a loud and obnoxiously raspy voice filled the alleyway. "HEY hEy HEy hey—"
You whipped around and swung before whoever it was could get the jump on you.
When you finally get a look at whoever or whatever it was that you just hit, you see a small, pasty man with an awful receding hairline. He was holding onto the side of the dumpster he was in with one hand while the other cradled his cheek.
"WO WOW WOW! hot shot! YOU CAN C3RTANLY KNOW HOW TO strike out!!" The man grinned and looked up at you. His speech pattern was all over the place, with some of his words seeming out of place with the rest of the sentence–varying in tone and volume. He suddenly broke into a loud coughing fit that somehow managed to sound like laughter.
The guilt of punching a seemingly defenseless old man made you hover over him as he coughed. "Sir, are you okay?! I am so sorry, you came out of nowhere!" The man waved his hand and you took notice of the three different watches on them.
He then sprung up, causing you to move back, "DON'T YOU WORRY hot shot!! IT TAKES MORE THAN THAT TO knockout Spamton G. Spamton Number 1 Rated Salesman1997!" He grinned at you. His teeth are stained yellow with one of his teeth on his right missing and one of the left ones was chipped.
You tilted your head as you fully took him in. Not only was his hairline receding, but his greying hair was slicked back, making his forehead bigger than it seemed. You honestly couldn't tell if it was sweat, grime, or oil keeping his hair so shiny. His face was just as shiny, probably from sweat, with wrinkles under his eyes, forehead, and cheeks. The five o'clock shadow was not doing him any favors, as he seemed to have small cuts on his face from where he tried to shave it down. His nose was crooked, it seemed to have been broken and never fixed correctly.Most interesting of all were the sunglasses resting on his crooked nose. They were pink and yellow, visibly clean and had a small crack on the yellow side. They blocked your view of his eyes but they seemed dark-ish. You noticed that they didn't ever seem to stop on you for longer than a few seconds before they jerked away.
Your eyes moved down and you noticed he was wearing a blazer, blazer. The sleeves were too small for him, showing off his six watches–three on each arm–and his rings which ranged from multilayered gold to gemstones. His shirt was also not just a dress shirt. It was obviously dirty, but it looked more like a tank top that was too big for him, with some of his chest hair peeking out. He was wearing a gold cross necklace and, as you looked back up, matching gold earrings.
The man looked so familiar, but you just couldn't put your finger on why. He was like someone you had passed once, or maybe someone who had stolen some cash from you. Maybe if he was younger, you'd be able to place that feeling of familiarity building in your chest. Maybe the air wouldn't feel so thick to inhale- but that was probably just the rancid smell of rotting food and poo. He looked like… huh, he looked like an Addison. If the Addisons were washed up and lacked all form of self care.
He hacked again and spit up to the side of the dumpster. "CHECKING OUT MY dress to impress Babey?!" The strange dumpster man half-shouted as he adjusted his blazer and slicked back his hair. "FOR JUST THE LOW low LOw LOW PRICE OF nineteen hundred kromer YOU TOO C-C-C-COULD LOO K LIKE me."
You made a face of disgust, and he waved his hands to stop you from leaving. "NO NO NO BETTER, I COULD MAKE YOU hyperlink blocked."
Before you could stop yourself, you blurted, "Why do you talk like that?" You covered your mouth quickly. That was so rude, you can't just ask people why they talk like that. However, the strange garbage man seemed to find that hilarious as he let out shrill, shrieking laughter and low, gravelly hacking up all at once.
"NEXT YOU'RE ASK ME HOW I BECAME bigger, better, bolder THAN THAT WASHED UP CRT," he wagged his finger, "but I don't give out those details for free, hot shot." His sudden calm and intense voice sent shivers down your spine. You should get out of here, you thought, glancing around. The end of the alleyway wasn't far if you could just–
The man–was it Samuel? Steven? Whatever- jumped out of the dumpster with surprising agility for someone his age. He was now standing in front of you and he looked much shorter than he did inside the dumpster. He was probably around 5”2, but he was hunched over, rubbing his hands together in an almost mischievous manner. "LISTEN B-BABEY," he stuttered, but it sounded more like a glitch in his throat, "I HAVE the deal of a lifetime JUST FOR YOU. YOU CAN SCRATCH MY BACK AND I'LL scratch that itch!!!"
You did not want to touch him.
"Uhh...sir–"
"Spamton G. Spamton Number 1 Rated Salesman1997."
"Right. Yeah. Uh–Spamton, sir, I don't really want to, uh, make a deal...." you trailed off, looking back to the dumpster where you saw a pillow. Before he could cut you off you pointed at it. "...do you live here?"
He laughed, and the hairs on the back of your neck rose. It somehow sounded more genuine than anything else you've heard all day–the drone of everyday life, the city noise, the taxi driver, everything was monotonous nonsense but this man stood out so starkly. He was so...odd. Captivatingly so. Someone you were unable to pull your eyes away from.
"DO I live love laugh HERE? DO nectar sucking flies LIVE IN FLOWERS?" The man–Spamton- waved his hand in front of your face, "I'M JUST COLLECTING sweet goods FOR MY booming business!" You nodded slowly and, somehow, Spamton's grin widened. You felt something gnawing in your gut as you stared at the grimy pillow. You held onto your work bag tighter and felt the crinkle of your uneaten lunch bag.
"NOW NOW look, don't touch!" He shut the lid of the garbage in your face and you could feel the trashy air wafting straight into your nostrils. It took all your self control to not gag or punch him again. You took a step back and Spamton followed you. His head twitched. You held up your hand to stop him and when you took another step back he stayed there. Looking at him from father away you could see just how skinny he was. His clothes could only hide how sunken in his cheekbones and how thin his arms were. The jewelry you noticed earlier hung off of him and you were surprised you hadn't noticed how often his watches shifted or how he had to adjust his rings.
You shifted and felt your bag crinkle again. Opening up your work bag, you took out the plastic takeout bag that held your lunch. You looked back at the trash man for a moment and held it up to him. “I'm, uh, sure there's not that much food around here…” you hesitated. What in the world were you doing? “And I, uh, didn't eat my lunch…” The man took another step towards you and with jittery hands took the bag from you. He looked shocked, and you could see his eyes widen from behind the mismatched glasses.
When was the last time anyone had looked at him without a trace of disgust or pity? You definitely were disgusted, he could tell, but not by him. Spamton felt his ears ringing with that all familiar piercing telephone ring and he jolted.
“DON’T EXPECT three for one special TREATMENT, MY DEALS ARE non-negotiable.” You laughed and shook your head.
“Honestly, you’re doing me a favor. I probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway,” You waved your hand and turned around, taking another step toward the end of the alleyway. Spamton stayed frozen in place and watched you leave.
“Let me know if you like it,” you spoke absentmindedly. As you walked away you turned back to him and held open all ten fingers, closing them and opening them rapidly, “I hope you’ll give me a ten outta ten!” You laughed again and turned back around, and with a final wave you were gone.
Spamton looked down at the bag, and for the first time in years, all he heard was silence. He chuckled to himself, a soft smile on his face, “S-S-SUCKER.” He felt his throat closing in on itself and he hacked again, “I NEED A come to where the flavor is.”
…
As you opened the door to your empty apartment, you shivered at how cold it seemed in there. “I need a cigarette.”
You shuffled in your bag and pulled out the cheapest Queen™ branded cigarettes on the market before shoving them into your pocket and throwing your bag down by the door. You tossed off your too-tight shoes and sighed in relief. Walking on the hardwood floor all the warmth and energy you had accumulated from walking around town was quickly zapped from you. You walked over to your fridge and groaned at how empty it seemed. Almost rotten vegetables, expired yogurt, a half drank bottle of Queen branded whiskey, and eggs. You took out the whiskey and opted to grab one of the plastic cups sitting on your counter. Opening the freezer, you took out three ice cubes and dropped them into your pathetic plastic cup.
You walked across the empty living room to the slightly more decorated balcony. Three plastic chairs and one sloppily put together table. You remember when you first moved in, it was the one thing left by the previous owners. You pulled it out from behind some boxes and it completely fell apart. You spent that whole afternoon using any loose screws and nails you had to put it back together. It was still falling apart, but nothing a little glue and tape couldn’t fix. Plus, it was a great ashtray.
You flopped onto one of the chairs and it shook under your weight. You put the cup down on your table and it wobbled a bit. Twisting off the whiskey cap you poured about two shots worth into your cup and swapped the bottle for it. You lingered on the picture of Queen on the bottle and shook your head. No point dwelling on the past. You took out your cigarettes and refused to look down at her smiling face, throwing it onto the table face down. The bright blue lighter you always left on the table beckoned you as you grabbed it and lit your awful tasting cigarette. It never went down smooth and it always tasted awful. Beggars can't be choosers, you suppose.
You thought back to the homeless man, Spamton. He looked so familiar, it itched at you, you wish you had asked what the G. in his name stood for. Maybe Gaddison, you chucked to yourself.
Taking a long drag of your cigarette, you smacked your lips at how awful it tasted. Taking a sip of the whiskey didn't help much. As you looked out over Cyber City, with lights so bright they rivaled the stars, you wondered what he thought of your food and how he was probably down in one of the hundreds of alleyways in this maze of a city having to fight a maus to keep it. How cold it must be for him to sleep in a metal tin.
Maybe…maybe you’d walk home from work tomorrow again, just to see what he rated your food.