The Tralfamadorian informs me that the town we were in was named Roswell, and when I question him about it, he repeatedly, and quite excitedly, dubs it a "shithole" during our trip.

I did not know what he meant by that, but I assumed it was a good thing. Roswell was absolutely breathtaking as it sat under a bright blue sky, the blistering heat falling on paved earth. There was scarcely any foliage for what seemed like miles, but the resident aliens had placed banners and colorful signs along the buildings as if celebrating a large ritual event.

"So, what's with the outfit and purple makeup, kid? You look like hell." The driver tells me from over his shoulder, "I probably shouldn't even bother asking. I drive around dozens of you guys when that freaky little space convention rolls around every year."

I have my face pressed to the glass so that I don't miss anything important, but I turn when he questions me about the lavender color of my skin. Every alien on this planet that I had seen up until this point did not even remotely resemble me, so I was surprised to learn that dozens of other species came to this planet and converged every rotation.

"Do you mean to tell me that Tralfamadore hosts a large-scale intergalactic event?" I gasp.

"Tralfa--what?" The driver replies, visibly contorting his expression in pain, "Yeah? I guess so. We get a lot of freaks who come down here thinking they're going to see E.T. when they turn the corner. But we don't got much to look at out here except dirt and Buffalo Wild Wings."

I shift my focus back to the window when we begin to slow down, and astonishment takes over my whole being when I see the imperial residence for the first time.

It was a medium-sized structure, square, and had multiple dark windows. Some of these windows had signs posted on them of tasty-looking items, possibly hung up to taunt the general public during times of crisis and food shortages. There were no guards at the fortress either, so I assumed that the King of Burr-Garr must have been either very cunning or very conceited.

"Well, here we are, kid," The driver informs me and stops in front of the palace. "I take cash if you don't got a card to pay."

I ogle him from the backseat, unsure of what he means by cash and cards. He seemed to be requesting something from me before I went to meet the king. And then I realized how entirely thoughtless I had been when I took a ride in his moving metal death trap. This man was obviously feeling slighted by my lack of manners.

"Hey," he says, "are you even listening to me? What's it going to be? Cash or--"

I reach over and slap him as hard as I can, his cheeks wobbling under the force of my smack.

"Thank you for the journey, kind Tralfamadorian. May the stars align in your favor," I tell him happily when he gasps in shock, and then I move to open my door and get out, eager to make what was wrong right again.

I limp my way towards the palace as carefully as I can at this point, still in quite a bit of pain and a little dizzy but wanting to appear brave and strong for this meeting. If everything went well, then it was entirely possible I could find a home here to live out the rest of my rotations in peace.

When I do go inside, the palace isn't at all what I expect. 

A marble floor leads up to a large counter, and there are sitting arrangements to my left. Tralfamadorians are seated, with even smaller Tralfamadorians at their sides, consuming large amounts of food as quickly as they can. Some of them even mock the king by wearing paper crowns on their heads, and I'm shocked...absolutely floored by what I was seeing.

"Welcome to Burger King. Can I take your order or what?" A bored-looking male asks me from behind the counter when he sees me standing there gawking.

I quickly walk over, trying not to tremble too much. "Ah, yes," I reply breathlessly. "I've traveled from a faraway planet and am here to meet the King of Burr-Garr. You see, earlier I destroyed someone's home, and I thought it was best to explain myself to your superior. I don't want problems, war, or anything like that."

The pimply Tralfamadorian stares down at me and blinks twice, very slowly. 

"So do you want a Whopper or what?" He asks me, "My manager's kind of busy right now."

"Manager?" I reply, my brain beginning to pound, "I just want to see the king and his advisor! Roswell is quite the shithole, and I would love to live out the rest of my rotations in peace here."

"Are you fucking serious right now?" The male glares at me. 

The doors crash open as I'm arguing with the male behind the counter, and I whirl around in time to see the driver from earlier storming in, his face bright red with a noticeable four-fingered handprint slapped across his cheek. "You think you can get away with slapping me? You little shit!" He snarls, "I'm about to sue your little ass if you don't pay up!"

"Ahh!" I squeal in pain when he grabs my upper arm and squeezes as hard as he can. "Let go of me! I have done nothing to harm you or your kind!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" He spits out and shakes me harder. "I'm calling the cops!"

It was too much to handle. Between the insistent beeping from the machines behind the counter, the crowd that had gathered to watch the scene, and everyone glaring at me, I could not keep myself sane any longer. Instead, I find myself dissolving into tears on the spot while the Tralfamadorian driver man continues to shout obscenities at me.

"Get the hell off of him!"

There's another shout as I'm shielding my face and sobbing into my hands, and the next thing I know, the driver's being ripped off of me, and the creature named Alan comes into view.

I did not know many things about this planet.

But when Alan punches the driver in the face, it is like watching the finest warrior go into battle. The muscles on his arms protrude from under a white covering tight on his torso; his body is broad and strong, capable of causing much damage to his victim. He had the darkest hair cut short around his head, and I had only ever seen such a color when looking up at the night sky.

The driver goes flying across the floor and crumples in a heap near a table. One female screams and stands up, and smaller Tralfamadorians begin to wail in terror.

I look up when Alan quietly grabs me by the shoulders and begins to steer me towards the exit. "Are you okay?" He asks and then seems to think about it. "Shit. You probably can't understand a word I'm saying. I can't believe this is fucking happening. I'm actually talking to a real-life alien from space."

I stare down at his large arm around my shoulders, and my freckles begin to glow in response.

"It took me forever to track you down." Alan says when we emerge into the sunlight, and his arm, unfortunately, falls from my shoulder as soon as we're outside. "Anyway, don't worry about those guys bothering you again. I'm taking you to my apartment so we can get you bandaged and cleaned up. You're still bleeding in a couple of spots."

I gaze up at the babbling Alan when we come to a stop in front of a black metal object, similar to the cab drivers earlier. It boasted the word Impala on the side, and it was amazingly shiny and sleek.

"My name's Alan, by the way," Alan says, and he touches his chest, sounding out the word so that I may understand despite having my translator. "Can you understand anything I'm saying?"

I thought it best not to respond, unsure of whether or not to trust him at this point.