[What If...?]

PART 5

The days following were... interesting. Or... well... a mixture of emotions. Some old, some new. But all of them were doing a number on Spamton's entire being.

First of all, after Spamton's last... incident with the phone and the basement, Swatch was a little bit too much worried about something else happening. So, against their better judgement and with the high risk of losing their job, they decided it was a good idea to take Spamton to the Café with them every day.

They were aware of not just the possibility of Queen finding out, but that Spamton may try to go into the basement again; but they were sure that if they kept him in with them and the Swatchlings, they could have all bases covered. And it gave Spamton something else to do besides wait for them to come home.

He would help the Swatchlings in the kitchen. Not actually cooking because they all know how that would end. He would pass ingredients, utensils, plates and talk to them. Sort of like before all this started.

Swatch missed having him there.

Now. Spamton.

On one hand, he was fighting the incessant urge to intercept every call that hit their apartment, thing that Swatch stop whenever they could. It did not annoy them, far from it. What it did do was preoccupied them whenever Spamton caught one of them. Fortunately, all calls until now have been from either the Swatchlings, a costumer or the Queen.

No mysterious callers bothered them. And Swatch hoped it stayed that way.

Part of them told them that it was over, that whatever bothered Spamton was no more out there to get him, but one can never be too careful. So, they still kept an eye on that matter.

Spamton did not know what to expect whenever he answered the phone. Was he hoping it would be them again? Of course, no. He was living the life with Swatch, and he knew that they would just ruin it, like the first time.

Then again, every time he heard the ringing sound, he knew a piece of himself did not belong to him. It was said piece that betrayed his mind and told him that they needed to find a way to be big again.

Did he still wanted to be big?

He was afraid of the answer.

Spamton knew, or thought, those days where long gone. Nobody was calling him again to help. There were no more deals, no more garbage noise at the receiver. There were no more miracles.

Why did that scare him? Why did that hurt? Why did he felt attached to that damn thing?!

When those thoughts invaded his mind everything else disappeared. He returned to those days, when he was still in his office, phone in hand, eyes full of static, green strings holding him, choking him. He hated that feeling. He loved that feeling. Sometimes, he craved it.

But then, he would look at his friend. He would look back on their reassuring words, on their little actions, on the way they seemed to care about Spamton.

It did not make it all go away; it did not cut the strings, but it was the lighthouse in the storm of ideas he was drowning. Even if Swatch didn't know it, they helped him in so many ways.

Spamton knew that Swatch didn't mind if he wasn't a big shot. It never mattered to them, even when he was living at the mansion. They would see him as company more than like another celebrity.

It was like an oasis for Spamton's mind whenever he thought of them. Even if they made him want to tear his heart out and give it to them whenever they looked at him with those eyes.

It was because of those feelings that Swatch has been dealing with Spamton's sudden change of moods. That part was not new, the salesman was known for jumping from one emotion to another.