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The thing is, Spamton wasn't actually stupid enough to trust the voice on the phone.
He wasn't stupid enough to trust anyone, really. It was rule number one of making it big; trust was for suckers. Get too close to the wrong person, and they'd rob you blind. Put too much faith in the wrong business venture, and you'd be the one left to pick up the pieces when it collapsed. Start feeling secure, and you'd get complacent, and then it was only a matter of time before the whole world overtook you, everybody else sauntering off to ever greater heights while you were stuck down in the dust.
Anyway, the voice on the phone didn't exactly inspire trust. Spamton, with his complete lack of talent for sales patter, chronically unmemorable face, and laugh that sounded like someone electrocuting a mad scientist, wasn't a charismatic guy, but at least the stupid things he said were made of actual words. The voice made sounds, and his mind interpreted those sounds as words, but there wasn't a clear link between those things, no path from A to B that he could call "talking".
Then, not only did this voice supposedly know the Prophecy - the Prophecy, with a capital P, the only prophecy that mattered, accept no substitutes - it was willing to share the advantages with him, provided he didn't tell anyone else. With him, specifically, Spamton the Email Guy, who slept better on couches than beds at this point, and would have seriously considered selling a kidney if he wasn't made of computer code.
It was a scam. Or, not a scam, exactly, because the offer itself seemed to be for real, but something with an ulterior motive. Definitely not an offer made out of the goodness of the voice's heart.
On the other hand, Spamton was Spamton. It didn't matter that he wasn't stupid. What mattered was that he was unlucky.
'Unlucky' might have been underselling it. Spamton was an expert card shark who couldn't draw a hand better than a six high. Spamton was a meteorologist who magnetically attracted lightning strikes. Spamton was an Addison in charge of the one kind of internet advertising that most people wouldn't even glance at.
He was tired, and he was desperate, and he had nothing better to do, and he had nothing left to lose. If someone wanted to con him out of all seventeen bucks of his liquid assets, the joke was on them.
Spamton took the deal.
"It worked."
"I mean, yeah, I kinda did doubt it. It's not exactly in my wheelhouse, you know?"
"You're serious about this?"
"Both parts, I guess. You're okay with these terms, and you're seriously offering them to me?"
"Okay, okay, sorry. It's just... it's a lot."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I will."
This was actually happening.
Spamton didn't know what was more satisfying; the rush of finally doing things right, being in the right place at the right time to get lucky, watching the numbers in his bank account steadily tick upwards until he could look at dream cars and expensive suits and see something tangible, or the feeling of keeping the secret, meeting the jealous looks with a smug poker face and a silent cry that "I know something you don't know!"
Even his wildest dreams of success hadn't featured 'prophetic insider trading' as his lucky break, but he'd sure as hell take it.
He was careful not to put too much faith in his benefactor. At the end of the day, they could still screw him over, either by giving him the wrong info or just by cutting him off. During the calls, Spamton kept his charm on maximum throttle and his fingers crossed behind his back, and reminded himself over and over that he didn't even know this person's name. He couldn't afford to believe in miracles.
Then again, he realised pretty quickly that, in hindsight, he hadn't ever really believed in himself, either. And yet, here he was, living out his empty boasts like it was nothing, and it was better than he ever could have imagined.
Maybe this could last after all.
"Worked like a dream, as usual."
"Thanks, pal. Couldn't'a done it without you."
"Yeah? Lay it on me, then."
"Hey, don't worry. You know I'm not dumb enough to screw this up."
Spamton wasn't sure what to make of TV World at first. There was a fine line between 'retro' and 'stuck in the past', and the studio was parked precariously right on top of it. It was undeniably charming, but there was a reason most of Cyber City didn't give it too much thought as an investment when the pathway between the worlds opened. Spamton himself probably wouldn't have considered it if his benefactor hadn't lightly suggested that a business meeting with the Dark World's leader would be worth his while.
When he met Tenna, his first thought was "God, it would be so easy to con this guy." Tenna wore his heart on his sleeve; Spamton had gone in assuming the overcaffeinated gameshow host personality was just the character he played on his broadcasts, but he was just as loud and cheesily passionate off the air. Any mention of a drop in ratings had him practically gnawing his antennas off with poorly hidden anxiety, and his way-too-quick acceptance of Spamton's proposed business partnership actually had the word 'wonderful' in it unironically. It wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting from someone the benefactor had singled out.
(Well, okay, that was his second thought. His actual first thought was "Holy shit, he's fifteen-foot with fangs the size of kitchen knives," but that wasn't relevant. The details of Spamton's taste in men were something he'd be taking to his grave.)
So it was weird, but he was good at rolling with weirdness at this point. The benefactor's judgement still seemed solid. Partnering up with Tenna wasn't all that risky, considering the guy had an entire Dark World at his beck and call.
And, hey, maybe his energy was just a little bit infectious.
"I'm still there, actually. Just finished up."
"He was pretty eager to, yeah. Guy seemed as desperate as you said."
"My impression?"
"Sure. I trust you on the investment side, and he's... weirdly likable, I guess."
"Nah, that'll be easy. He doesn't suspect a thing."
The benefactor wasn't usually the insistent type. They didn't need to repeat things for Spamton to listen to them. They'd already proven to him beyond a doubt that they knew way more than anyone was supposed to.
And yet, every time the topic of Tenna came up in the calls, the voice reminded him not to get too attached.
Spamton wasn't a kid. Not getting attached to your business partners was Big Shot 101. Through observation, deduction, and a whole lot of trial and error, he'd learned a thing or two about keeping people at arms' length. He wasn't really an affectionate kind of guy in the first place.
Sure, Tenna made his career off getting people emotionally invested, but Spamton was in the crew, not the audience. Sure, Tenna almost certainly wouldn't have the heart to throw Spamton under the bus, but that was just enough to promote him from 'business partner' to 'high-quality business partner', not enough on its own to call him a friend.
Spamton could avoid attachment. The only real problem was that Tenna didn't seem to be able to do the same.
As the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months (accounting for how weird the flow of time could be across different worlds, anyway), it became clear that, outside of the success of their partnership, Tenna genuinely seemed to like Spamton. He was only supposed to handle the ads, but Tenna took his comments about the other shows to heart, and had brought up the idea of bringing Spamton on for a segment or two more than once. Spamton had been the first to invite him out for a few drinks - that was traditional, a way to get a better idea of what he was like as a person - and Tenna had turned that into a regular thing, a way to wind down after a good broadcast day. Discussions in his office turned into casual conversations when the business talk was done, Tenna asking how his day had been, what life was like in Cyber City, what he did in his spare time, far past the point of just getting a feel for his personality.
Maybe, then, the benefactor had a point, because as much as he kept himself ready to cut and run, Spamton didn't discourage it. He kept giving out his opinions, kept accepting the invitations to the bar and chattering away in their spare time, kept seriously considering getting more closely involved in the studio. Yes, that was the status quo now; yes, it would have been suspicious if he'd tried to push Tenna away; but he couldn't deny that he'd let it get to this point. He'd let Tenna get attached to him.
It was somewhere around the point when they slept with each other that Spamton admitted to himself that he enjoyed it.
"It's fine, it's fine."
"Look, pal, I've said it a thousand times. I know how this stuff works, okay?"
"It doesn't mean anything. What, I'm not allowed to stay on good terms with my business partner now?"
"Hey, I'm not disagreeing, I'm just saying-"
"Okay, okay, I get it! Jeez, I'm being careful!"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"... yeah, I know. Sorry. Won't happen again."
Why did it matter so much, anyway?
On top of needing Spamton's help, Tenna was well-meaning, hopelessly naive, and terrible at hiding his anxieties. If Spamton held a gun to his head, he'd probably just shrink a few feet and ask what he'd done wrong. It didn't make a difference whether Spamton actually gave a damn about him or not, Tenna's opinion clearly wasn't going to change.
Who cared if he enjoyed himself on the side? If he considered Tenna an actual friend now, so what? If that friendship came with a few benefits - some pretty good benefits, possibly as more than a one-time thing if Tenna's enthusiasm was any indication - that wasn't anyone's business but his own.
It might have become a bigger deal to him than he'd intended, but there was no reason why it should matter to the benefactor. Spamton wasn't star-crossed here. There was no reason why a friendship-slash-fling with a good-natured, unfairly attractive partner would clash with his deal with the voice on the phone.
Spamton made up his mind to ask, next time they called. He didn't want to piss them off - he still remembered where he came from, after all - but it was a genuine question, and maybe the answer would be some decent motivation to dial this back. They were supposed to be giving him advice, after all.
Maybe, while he was at it, he'd ask why the benefactor never used Tenna's name. They did tend to phrase things strangely, but "Lord of Screens" seemed a bit overly dramatic.