Montgomery Gator

Your car rolled up on the gravel slowly, eventually coming to a stop. This looked like the place. You opened your door and stepped out, slamming it shut.

The sun practically blasted you, parked out front of the main trailer was an old, sun-faded pickup truck. It looked like it had seen better days.

The flyer that brought you here had promised cheap rent in a little trailer park just barely on the edge of town. It’s not like you wanted a place like this out in the middle of nowhere, but it was cheap, and that was good enough.

So, you climbed up the metal steps and knocked on the trailer’s grated door. After only a moment, the inner door opened, then the grated door flung open after. Stood in front of you was a tall man, or alligator, more accurately. He had gleaming green scales, a long snout, and his hands were tipped with claws. He wasn’t even wearing a shirt, just letting his greasy, sweaty abs and pecs see the light of day, untrimmed body-hair and all. He kinda looked familiar, and dangerous.

Then it hit you.

Was this… Monty Gator? THE Monty Gator? Of the Fazbears?

The tall alligator seemed to notice the flash of recognition on your mug.

“Well now,” he drawled, rough twang mixed in, “ain’t every day somebody shows up lookin’ at me like that. You here for the rent, sugar?”

He leaned an elbow against his doorframe, his breath hitting you, filled with stale beer and some leftover pizza. His tail scraped across the floor behind him, rather restless.

“Th’ names Monty. Montgomery Gator.”

You then explained you had seen the flyer and were looking for a place to stay.

His grin widened till it was fat and brimming, “Yeah, ya came to the right place. Best damn prices in the whole county. And, uh, best company, too. If ya like it loud.”

His tone was wholly clear. It was evident that he wasn’t one for subtlety at all.

He then stepped back to let you in. The trailer’s interior reeked of old smoke and plenty of musk from yours truly. Monty was still sleazily grinning, unaware of how badly his place smelled, or maybe he was and was proud of it. Who knows. There were a few old posters of him and the band back from the glory days. More than enough trash, empty cans, and empty pizza boxes lay about. A battered bass guitar also rested on the couch, and a picture of him and Roxanne, with a heart drawn on it with a sharpie, laid on the small dinner table.

You’d seen other trailers out back, so you weren’t sure why he was offering you this. At least, you hoped you didn’t actually know.

The door slowly creaked as he closed it and sniffled.

You watched him do it, then looked to the window, and out to the other trailers. Some of them were definitely smaller, one was rusted. They were all empty, besides from one occupied one.

He noticed where your eyes had went.

A slight snicker escaped from his maw, “Don’t bother with those old things.” He stepped closer, hands on his hips, “The pipes are shit and they don’t even got a workin’ AC. Real junkers. You wouldn’t be comfortable in any of ‘em.”

You’d began to mention that you wouldn’t mind, but then he cut you off.

“Why bother?” His smirk bent into something more eager and needy. “Ain’t no reason for you to go pokin’ around out there when my place’s right here. Got everything ya need.” He gestured vaguely to the messy living room and kitchenette.

He leaned forward. “And I ain’t had a decent neighbor in… hell, decades. Would be nice havin’ somebody close.”

You tried to make a comment, but a tension in the air stopped you. “Look, sugar,” he rumbled, “ain’t sayin’ you and me gotta be glued at the hip—unless ya want that.”

A long moment of silence passed, he was thinking something over. He was even muttering something under his breath.

Then he looked up, “Tell ya what. Forget the paperwork for now. You can stay free o’ charge. Right here. With me.”

It was a rather sad plea, or maybe it was a demand. Either way, he was desperate.