A simple question—or so you’d think.

  “What are the cross roads?”

  That’s all I asked Orson. I just wanted to know which two roads intersected nearest the trailer park. A basic geographical inquiry. But apparently the universe decided geography was a luxury I didn’t deserve. Because, as it turned out, I only knew half of what I thought I did. Honestly, I think everyone only knows about half of what they think they know.

  “It’s on 7th Street and 7th Ave,” he said.

  I stared at him, waiting for the punchline, or for him to clarify how that was physically possible.

  “Oh no,” he said, “you’ve gone stupid again. I can tell by that confused look on your meaty little face.”

  “I’m not confused,” I replied. “And my face is as meaty as anyone else’s. It’s just that those two roads don’t cross. They’re parallel.”

  “And?”

  Either he didn’t understand what I meant or he was ignoring it on purpose. I was embarrassingly ignorant back then. Not as much as you, probably, but still.

  “Parallel things don’t intersect. That’s the definition.”

  “It’s a definition.”

  “…Is there another?”

  “The word has a few definitions,” he said. “One of which is simply ‘two similar things.’”

  “Well, the only things similar about 7th Street and 7th Avenue are the number seven and the fact they’re paved with asphalt.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” he sighed. “Okay, let me explain this in a way your slow, extra-meaty brain can understand,” he said, then proceeded to explain it to me like I spoke a different language; loud and slow, “You and I exist on different planes, right?”

  “Yeah, okay, I get it.” (I really did, like right away.)

  “And these planes are parallel. Not like two infinite lines, literally side-by side, but similar. Similar to the point that they are sometimes visible to others. Is this tracking?”

  “I already said I understand.”

  “Well, just in case you’re pretending to look smarter than you are: the trailer park exists between two planes of existence. Nearly identical. Except, in one plane, the one you know, the city has avenues to the west and streets to the east. And in the other plane, it’s flipped. That’s it. That’s the only difference. There are a lot of planes of existence where the difference is just that stupid and pointless.”

  “Is it going to be like this the entire time we live together?”

  “Like what?”

  “You being a dick about everything?”

  “Well, I didn’t have to shove a fry up that girl’s nose. I was kind of a dick when you met me, so I don’t know what you were expecting. I’m telling you—meat slows down the thought process. Not an insult. Just a fact.”

  In hindsight, he might have been right. What business does meat have doing all the thinking anyway? But that’s not the point.

  As we crossed 7th Avenue, I noticed something new. The city was vibrating. Subtle, but definitely vibrating. The most vibratey things were the street signs. The more we walked, the more vibratey everything became—roads, buildings, the whole world. My stomach was not a fan.

  “Almost there,” Orson said, “Don’t puke.”

  “I wasn’t gonna,” I lied. I was gonna. If the world didn’t settle down, I was going to puke all over it. All over both planes of existence.

  That’s when a building shimmered into view. Like a mirage in an old cartoon, but instead of fading into nothing, it was fading into something. Then, one more step, and BAM! There it was. A perfectly normal, albeit kinda shitty, trailer Park.

  I turned around. The city was still there—but now there were two of them. One familiar, one reversed. They overlapped like two pictures printed on a transparency sheet, flickering for dominance.

  This space.

  This flickering, contested space.

  Occupied by a kinda shitty trailer park.

  A trailer park not worth fighting over unless you’re broke.

  “Well, this is the place,” Orson said as he floated through the gate, toward the leasing office, “Let’s get you a key.”

  I still don’t know why a place wedged between two planes needs a gate. But trailer parks will trailer-park, I guess.

  The leasing office was probably the worst leasing office I’d ever seen. Granted, I hadn’t seen many, because poverty, but still. It was a double-wide, so it was technically larger than the others, but it looked like crap. Old off-white wallpaper with water stains. Fluorescent lights bright enough to sterilize a surgical suite. An eighties desk. Mismatched chairs. An A/C unit screaming in distress. A mostly empty vending machine. And the faint aroma of dusty air mixed with a fifteen-minute-old rotten-egg fart.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I was about ready to reconsider my life choices when Orson said, “Don’t worry. Mine is nicer.”

  It was then a man entered from a door behind the desk. He jumped when he saw us. He looked like he hadn’t slept, or bothered to groom himself, for the last week or so. This was clearly a man who had given up on giving a crap. Though I couldn’t be entirely sure he was a man at all, given the broader context of, well, everything. But I will say, he felt alive.

  “Oh shit!” he said with a laugh. “Orson! Who’s this?”

  “Me?” I asked. I couldn’t remember the last time a living person noticed me casually.

  “This is Amir,” Orson said. “He’s a bit slow, but he’s moving in with me, so he needs a key.”

  “Yeah, okay,” the man said. “I’ll need you to sign a couple forms.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but what’s going on? Do you see ghosts? What is this place? What forms?”

  “Well,” the man said, “yeah, I can see ghosts. Among other things. I’d be a terrible property manager if I couldn’t see my tenants. This is a trailer park. These are liability forms. Pretty standard.”

  The office door opened.

  A woman walked in.

  No, let me rephrase that, it was a beautiful woman.

  The odd thing, however, was that she had two small horns sticking out of her forehead, and a pointed tail floating behind her, like a cat. Her skin was pink, but not the usual kind of pink a person with pink skin might have. Hers was a sort of pepto-pink. Her eyes were solid black, with white pupils at their centers. She wore very tight jeans, short black heels, and a black tube top.

  You know, your standard “welcome to the neighborhood” look.

  “Oh, hey Dante,” she said. “Just dropping off my rent.”

  “Thanks, Calista,” Dante said.

  “And who’s this handsome fellow?” she asked, staring at me.

  “Handsome? That’s funny,” Orson said. “This is Amir.”

  “You’re a demon,” the words just came out. They came out of my mouth and immediately slapped me across the face for having said them.

  To my relief, she laughed.

  “You can see me? The real me?” she asked. She ran a finger across my chest.

  I jerked back. “Hey, you’re gonna rip my shirt.”

  “Dang,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Never works on mediums.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s a succubus, dummy,” Orson said, smacking the back of my head. “She was trying to hypnotize you and drain you dry.”

  “Oooooh,” I can’t imagine how stupid I must have sounded.

  “I’ll see you around, Amir,” she said, winking, then walking out. All of us watched her leave. Obviously.

  “Hold on,” I said to Dante, “do any humans live here? Are you even human, or are you, like, a werewolf?”

  “I’m human,” Dante said. “So is the groundskeeper. He’s… odd. Now, there’s you. You good with all this?”

  “Yeah, no, of course,” I tried to sound nonchalant about it, aware that I was being real chalant up until that point, “It’s whatever. I’ve seen my fair share. No big deal.”

  “Okay, good,” Dante said, “No let’s sign some papers and you’ll be all set.”

  We sat down. The chair felt gross. Not like sticky or anything, but more like the kind of gross you might feel if you sat in a chair you found in an abandoned psych ward. I just didn’t feel good sitting in it.

  Then, I just got this vibe from the entire office. It was a very boring room. Too boring, if you know what I mean. Like, a suspicious amount of boring. It was bugging me so, before I put ink to paper (I probably should have read the paper) I had to ask.

  “How does an ordinary guy like yourself come to manage a trailer park just outside of existence?”

  “It was given to me,” Dante said, looking about as disinterested as a house cat, “Now just sign right there at the bottom.”

  “Holy crap! You were given an entire trailer park? That’s amazing!” Seriously, I was amazed. That’s a big gift, even when it’s a kinda shitty trailer park. Like, that’s money for as long as you can keep the thing occupied and intact. Dante was given a lifetime of guaranteed employment.

  “It would be, if I could leave. I really don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Oh, well that blows,” I said, but I really wanted answers, “but I gotta know, who gave it to you and why?”

  “If I tell you, will you sign the papers and leave?”

  “Can we just get this over with?” Orson seemed to be regretting his decision already.

  Normally, I’m not one to fret over details. Normally, I couldn’t care less what’s going on around me so long as I’m not hungry or homeless. Normally, I’m not singing a lease agreement in between planes of existence.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “Fine,” he said with a huff, “I sold my soul. Now sign.”

  “Wait,” I said, unsatisfied, “You sold your soul to own and operate a trailer park outside of existence? That’s oddly specific.”

  “No,” Dante was getting annoyed, “Obviously not. Who would sell their soul for something so specifically stupid?”

  “Armi, probably,” Orson said with a chortle.

  “I sold my soul in exchange for infinite money. So, the devil gave me this trailer park and took my soul. Here,” Dante got up and gestured for me to follow him, “Take a look at this.”

  He led me into a small room with a box TV and an ancient computer. Then he opened a second door.

  Inside: piles of money.

  “See, money. Loads of money.”

  “Why haven’t you spent any of it?” I asked, “Looks like you could use a new computer and T.V.”

  “I can’t leave,” he replied, “I already told you this.”

  “Okay, but can’t the grounds keep get it for you? Or anyone else that lives here?”

  “The grounds keeper doesn’t believe in material possessions or money, he’s a bit of a religious fanatic, and if I give any of my money to my in-human tenants, it bursts into flames. Fine print.”

  “Okay, so why bother with the money at all? Why even charge rent?”

  “First, I am required to. Second, you know that vending machine by the front door?” He asked.

  “Yeah. The mostly empty one.”

  “It’s my only food source. It restocks daily with snacks I hate. I need money to eat.”

  “Why not just break the vending machine open?”

  “Holy crap!” Dante put his hands on his head, looking dumbfounded, “Why didn’t I think of that?” Then he slumped. “It’s unbreakable, dipshit.”

  It clicked: he was a moron. A moron who treated me like the moron.

  “So, you sold your soul and ended up living in your own little version of Hell?”

  Dante nodded, angrily.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “I’m human. So, if I agree to bring you things from the real world with the money you’ve got here, will you shave a hundred bucks off the rent?”

  “Deal!” Dante replied quick, took my hand, and shook it, adding “That’s binding. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, of course.” I felt like an idiot for not understanding his eagerness to make the deal and need to clarify it was binding, but Orson was quick to make me feel even more like an idiot.

  “You idiot,” he said, “You probably could have gotten a bigger discount.”

  “Shit.”

  It was the worst deal I ever made.

  Until I signed the paperwork.

  With all Dante’s talk of not reading the fine print, there I was not reading the fine print. And, if I’m being honest, it was normal sized print. I just didn’t read it. None of it.

  It just didn’t seem all that important at the time.

  Most things don’t.

  Not at the time.

  Amir claims he knows at least 60% of what he thinks he knows.

  Amir would like to point out that “my meaty brain isn’t that slow. Seriously, it’s the normal speed, and the normal amount of meaty.”

  It’s not a word. Amir wants it in the book because “they’ll know what I mean when I say vibratey”.

  Amir wanted to clarify he “didn’t touch the guy, not that that kind of felt.”

  Amir and I argued about this. He still refuses to accept that this is not a word.