By late afternoon, both Phil and Jean had managed to successfully defeat one more opponent each in the underground dueling arena, bringing their records to a nice score of 2-0 each. Such was the general busyness of the arena that four games in total were all they could manage, while allowing all the other duelists to spend their time in the battle box as well.

  Furthermore, with every cent they had to their name bet on the results of their games, a tidy sum of black and blue chips had been pushed across the betting table toward him by a silent yakuza with close-cropped hair and several scars once Phil finally decided to withdraw for the day.

  19 black chips and five blues. In terms of ‘Murican money, it was a cool $1950 all in one day’s work.

  Taking the mildewy elevator back upstairs (with Jean kissing Tilla goodbye, muttering solemn promises to meet later), their next stop was the chips counter. There was no doubt about it – finding a halfway decent place to live free of the elements was of the utmost priority, not just for their safety, but also so that Jean’s new girlfriend wouldn’t be disappointed. That, in fact, was of the greatest priority.

  A brief discussion between the two concluded that a sum of 15 black chips would doubtlessly be more than enough for one month’s rent if they kept their wits about them. Meaning after the parlor took its cut, they would have 112,000 yen (~$750) to work with. Then the remaining four black chips and five blue chips could be leveraged into more games when they came back the next day.

  Once the chips were exchanged, they wasted no more time in the parlor, stepping back outside into the snowy wonderland to begin their apartment search. The wind was brutal, every lash of it against their faces feeling like it was not actually wind, but instead a collection of flying blades laying into them to carve deep gouges in their faces.

  Yet, Phil and Jean powered on. Buying cheap long coats at a clothing store to conceal their otherwise threadbare clothes, they tramped from place to place, stopping at every building that had a sign detailing a room for rent. Apartment blocks, houses with owners looking to use up extra space, and more. No stone went unturned, no location was too inconvenient, and no landlord was too shady.

  Each visit came to the same conclusion. Phil and Jean would politely greet the landlord. They would be shown around, prices and lease terms would be mentioned, and deals would be mentioned. But, then the problem would arise.

  Every time.

  Every damned time.

  Without fail, the person showing the pair around the prospective rental would ask certain questions. Suspicious eyes would fall on Jean, the obvious foreigner. No one ever wished to directly rent to a foreigner. Foreigners couldn’t be trusted or relied on, after all. Then those eyes would move over to Phil, who at first glance looked like an average, albeit rugged Japanese man in his mid-to-late 20s. Those eyes would carefully regard Phil, taking in his entire appearance (no matter how vigorously Phil had cleaned himself up in a sink in a public restroom). Then their mouth would open. One word, phrased like a question, would always fall from their lips.

  “Papers?”

  Each time that question was asked, Phil was forced to shake his head. He had no papers nor identification. Nor was this something he could gloss over or lie about, as verifying his papers would be pretty damn easy. No landlord would accept a tenant without one or the other, and the presence of a foreigner did not help in the slightest.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  That problem, so simple in its nature, but so impossible to overcome, was what found the homeless duo slumped against the outside wall of a supermarket, taking cover from the snow under an awning of sturdy green canvas.

  “Fuckin’ hell.” Phil grumbled, rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to shake off the cold. The wind still howled like a wounded animal, busily stripping away every scrap of warmth in their body as it rushed around them. In the corner of his eye, Phil could see the inside of the supermarket, bustling with shoppers enjoying the warmth of the building. They too had once been among those shoppers, at least until security tossed them out.

  Jean silently withdrew a matchbook from his pocket, striking one of the few matches left in the book to light up the crumpled cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. Taking a deep drag of the cig, Jean turned his eyes toward the awning and the heavens above, and let out a steady, yet large cloud of smoke from his mouth.

  “Even if you go alone, the results are the same. No papers, no rental.” Jean sighed.

  Phil had no answer to that. His mind whirred, like a great machine filled with all sorts of interlocking gears as it tried to reach some solution, any solution. What could be done about this? What there anything? Anything?

  The answer came to him as Lumina slipped into view, looking at him with a tinge of exasperation in her eyes as she sipped away from her always-present thermos of tea.

  “Solomon!” Phil said with a snap of his fingers. “He might know someone. Worst case, he could point us in the right direction.”

  It was no longer a question of charity now that they had money available to offer up as rent. It was, in essence, a way both men could ask for a hand up from their situation while still keeping their pride intact.

  “Allons-y,” Jean shrugged, throwing his cigarette on the ground and putting it out with a turn of his heel. “Lead the way, my friend.”

  Lumina, meanwhile, shot two thumbs up toward Phil, sarcasm oozing from every inch of the gesture.

  “Finally he does something smart and asks for help.” Lumina grumbled, “Come back next time when pigs learn to fly.”

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  The soft tingle of a bell heralded Phil’s arrival at the shop as he opened the door. This time the shop was nowhere near as full, and the tables that had once been crowded by all manner of duelists had been folded up and stacked against a side wall.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I told you once, twice, even thrice! I’m not sel-“ An irritated shout answered the bell as a grey-haired man came into view, his words cutting off mid-sentence once he saw Phil.

  “Oh! Ohohoho! My apologies, Phil, I thought you were someone else.” Solomon Muto bowed apologetically. “Tell me friend, what do you know?”

  “Well,” Phil said almost automatically, “Some frogs can jump over 20 times their own body length. That’s a frog fact for ya’.”

  The old man, short enough that the top of his head barely reached Phil’s chin, stroked his short grey beard and nodded wisely.

  “Hm… a frog fact well said. Well said indeed! Now, how may I help you? Are you here for a rematch, or are you searching for something in particular?"

  Phil sucked in his breath between his teeth. “I wouldn’t mind a rematch later, but I’m actually hoping you might have some info on a place that’s renting out and isn’t too picky on documents. Also, who did you think I was?”

  The last question was made only out of mild curiosity, but Solomon shook his head sadly.

  “Ah, this boy showed up yesterday offering to purchase my Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Got awfully persistent about it, that’s for certain, even after I told him that under no circumstances would I sell it. And wouldn’t you believe it, but the next day that kid tried to steal it! If it hadn’t been for my grandson’s quick thinking, it may have been lost forever. Kids these days.” Solomon ended with a weary shake of his head.

  Phil let out a hum of understanding, while Jean cast a curious eye around the shop.

  “Oh, uh, this is my brother from another mother, Jean Dubois.” Phil belatedly introduced.

  “A formidable duelist as well, from the looks of him," Solomon said, looking over Jean from head to toe.

  Jean, having understood enough of those words to get the gist, let out a fierce grin. “Mon ami, it is a pleasure to meet you. Phil tells me you thrashed him quite thoroughly in a duel.”

  “Ohoho!” Solomon laughed, waving a hand through the air, “It was a well-fought game! If not for the heart of the cards, I would have lost most horribly! Now, about your housing question…”

  The old man continued to stroke his beard in thought, heading back to the glass countertop to begin piecing together a cardboard display that was lying facedown. Phil moved forward, grabbing a piece with Jean to start helping.

  “Hm… no papers would cause a problem indeed…” Solomon muttered. Phil slotted the cardboard in place, spreading it out to create the stand that the display would be leaning against. Then Solomon raised his piece of cardboard. Shaped and painted to resemble Dark Magician, the display was about four feet tall.

  “Oho!” Solomon abruptly stopped and smacked his fist into his hand as soon as the display was complete. “I seem to remember a good friend of mine, Arthur Hawkins, who retired here to Japan a few months ago. We used to travel the world together. All sorts of adventures, far and wide! From the jungles of the Amazon to the Pyramids of Egypt! If I recall correctly, in his house is an upstairs set of rooms that are cut off from the main area. He was planning on renting those out, I believe? Please, wait a tick. I shall return!”

  Before Phil or Jean could respond, Solomon hurried toward the back of the room and disappeared up a flight of stairs, returning shortly with Yugi Muto. The boy was still wearing his school uniform of a blue jacket, and an extravagant golden pendant in the shape of an upside-down pyramid hung from his neck.

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  “Here, allow me the privilege of taking you over to introduce you two to my friend. Yugi, could you mind the shop while I am away?”

  Yugi nodded with a smile, and Solomon threw a heavy coat around himself and wound a thick woolen scarf around his neck.

  “Future king of games,” Phil whispered to Jean, pointing toward Yugi. Jean raised an eyebrow but glanced over at the boy with a gleam of interest in his eyes.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  The quest took the three men two blocks away from Kame Game to a small unassuming house wedged between an old-fashioned traditional sweets store and a vibrant-colored pachinko parlor. The house was two stories and built in some strange fusion between the traditional Japanese style and the more modern European fashion. To the side of the house, sprouting up from the ground in a tiny alleyway was a metal staircase, which led up to the second floor of the house – doubtlessly this was the upstairs area mentioned by Solomon.

  The door was answered by an American man after Solomon’s second knock. An elderly gentleman wearing a stiff tan suit with a red bowtie, the man excitedly greeted Solomon with a firm handshake and many ‘Ohohohos’, which were echoed between the two men. Soon they were invited inside to get out of the snow, and Solomon made the introductions.

  “A predicament indeed!” Arthur Hawkins agreed, his mustache twitching in delight as he savored the aroma of the cup of tea in his hands. Each man held a cup, filled to the brim with the fragrant brew.

  “Well, no matter! If Solomon has faith in you, then so shall I! Upstairs is a rather interesting domicile. It was originally one room, perhaps around 200 square feet. A number of years ago, before I purchased this house, the previous owner split that room up into two much smaller rooms, and built a small kitchen, perhaps no more than 60 square feet, along the side. This left the top floor with two very small rooms and a kitchen large enough for one person to move around in. Sadly, the size of it all made the upstairs difficult to rent out. But it is insulated from the cold, and each room has enough space to lay a futon down, at least. The water is hooked up, though I fear it may take a few days to get the electricity turned on. Would that be something you lads would be interested in?”

  Phil and Jean nodded eagerly as one, and then Phil produced a wad of bills.

  “We don’t need much room at all. I hope you don’t need any papers. How much would we owe you per month?”

  Arthur shook his head and began to speak, but a glance from Solomon stilled his voice. The two elderly men shared an unspoken conversation lasting no more than a few seconds, and then Arthur gestured toward the stack of cash.

  “Considering how small and humble the upstairs is, I should think 30,000 a month should do just fine. As for papers, if Solomon has trust in you, then I do as well.”

  In other words, ~$200. In Phil’s time, that wouldn’t have been enough to rent anything better than a hovel in the smallest, most rural town. But then his mind shifted gears. This was, after all, the mid-90s. At this point in time, even in America that would be standard rent.

  “Deal.” Phil said with no further thoughts on the matter, shaking Arthur’s hand with Jean and handing the man the first month’s rent. A key was pressed into his palm in return, and Arthur promised to stop by the locksmith to order a second key for Jean’s use.

  Several more ‘Ohohohohohohos’ were exchanged between the two elderly gentlemen, and once the tea ran dry, Phil, Jean, and Solomon excused themselves.

  “That wasn’t bad at all.” Jean muttered to Phil.

  “Aye.” Then Phil raised his voice. “We owe you one, Mr. Muto. Seriously. You need anything, just drop us a line.”

  Solomon waved off Phil’s words. “It is the pleasure of the elderly to help the youthful, I do say. You are a good man. Your friend appears much the same. I know that for a fact after our duel. A duel is, after all, a window into the heart of a man.”

  Then Solomon grew silent for a moment, looking off into the snowy sky before speaking in a solemn voice.

  “Perhaps by providing a helping hand even one time, this good turn can be paid forward to someone else in need in the future. That, my friends, is a way to better the world itself – a good turn, paid forward to another, who then does the same, forming the most wonderful loop.”

  Nodding his head at his own wisdom, Solomon bid Phil goodbye and moseyed on back to Kame Game. Phil tossed the key in his hands a few times and then motioned toward the upstairs rooms.

  “Shall we?”

  “Onwards!” Jean cheered.

  The metal stairs were covered in fluffy snow drifts, but the steps were sturdy enough. At the top of the steps was a wooden door painted a bright sky-blue color, one that opened up into the small apartment Arthur had described earlier.

  Truly it was a humble place. There was no furniture, the doors were old yet reliable, and the stove was an old wood-burning contraption made of cast iron, one that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a picture in a history book covering the early 1800s. The floor was entirely wooden, worn with age but still possessing a polished sheen.

  It was humble. But it was theirs and it was leagues better than living under a bridge. Here the walls could keep out the wind. Here Lumina would not have to stand guard to make sure none of the others under the bridge decided to stab Phil for his coat. Here they could find warmth, far removed from a barrel fire belching out toxic smoke.

  “Look!” Jean cried out in joy next to the kitchen sink, which was a faucet (tarnished with age) hovering over a tin tub that was around the size of Phil’s head. “Running water! And it’s clean!”

  Phil whooped with joy, poking his head into both of the rooms. As Arthur had said, the rooms were tiny, being just large enough to fit a futon on the floor and not much else. That was not all, however. One thing Arthur had failed to mention was that there technically was still a living/dining room in the place, a space right next to the kitchen of about five feet in size. Moreover, there was also a small window that peered out over a simple backyard, with neatly trimmed grass and a tree stump in the middle. Next to the tree stump was a large stack of uncut firewood lined up neatly in a pile.

  “Figure we rustle up a length of wood, prop it up on some boxes? Then an axe for firewood… a pot, too. Two futons… guess we can use our coats until we find something affordable. Good thing Arthur settled on $200 a month. Leaves us some breathing room to get small stuff like that. Then, so long as we keep up the win streak, we’re rockin’ and rollin’.”

  Phil, of course, left the obvious unsaid. As their wins piled up, the odds would not be as drastic toward them, meaning less money could be made betting on their victory. Their opponents would begin running counter strategies or become stronger overall. To continue making a living like this was possible, but it would be difficult to sustain long-term. Phil knew that. He also had a pretty good idea that Jean knew as well. But that was a conundrum for later. Future Phil and Future Jean could handle it.

  “Perfect!” Jean shouted, enthusiasm coloring his voice, “I cannot wait to tell Tilla that the ‘remodeling’ is done and she can visit!”

  Lumina doubled over in laughter midway through a sip of her tea, causing her to choke and sputter.

  “You know this is a stereotypical bachelor pad, right?” She joked.

  “Yes, but it’s our bachelor pad, so it's automatically cooler than a normal one," Phil replied with a wag of his finger. "And it's paid for by underground duels of dubious legality.”

  For some reason those words caused Lumina to erupt into another fit of uproarious laughter.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  Buoyed by the four walls and a roof protecting them from the elements, Phil and Jean leaped into the next day with gusto. A sturdy axe and decent bedding were quickly located at a thrift store, and the dumpster behind a grocery store down the street provided a bounty of several wooden crates, of which to stack a door (that Phil, using a screwdriver, ‘liberated’ from a construction site several miles away) to use as a rudimentary table.

  Then to top it off, Jean managed to score a wobbly lamp set out on a curb with a sign inscribed with the word ‘Free’ on it. A quick inspection was all Phil needed to determine the problem, a handful of loose screws near the base that he was able to tighten with his trusty, yet rusty screwdriver. The lamp was bright, glowing with enough light to illuminate most of the apartment.

  All of this was done at the lowest price possible, as both Phil and Jean knew their source of money could dry up at any moment. Or, as Phil quoted to Jean, they needed to heed Murphy's Law: 'Anything that can go wrong will go wrong'. Often so at the worst possible time.

  Then, finally, it was time for the most important task of all. Jean left on his own to find Tilla. Judging correctly that she would be back in the underground dueling arena, he was back with her within the hour, arm-in-arm to give her a tour of ye olde bachelor pad. As soon as Jean escorted her up the stairs, Tilla went from room to room in the small apartment, her smile growing with each room, to the point that she began to giggle.

  To answer both Phil and Jean’s confusion over her laughter, Tilla could only spread her arms wide to gesture at the place.

  “It’s just like all the stories I’ve heard,” Tilla explained with no shortage of mirth in her voice, “Folding lawn chairs as furniture, a dining table made from a door propped up on wooden crates, no decorations to be seen, and are those curtains, or sheets? I think those are sheets!” Then she doubled over in laughter. “Jean, cute as you are, I don’t think I have to worry that you might have been cheating on me, because this apartment hasn’t seen a lady’s touch since it was first built!”

  Jean placed a hand over his forehead with a wounded, yet comical look over his face. Phil, meanwhile, sunk to his knees, acting as if Tilla’s words had pierced him right through his heart.

  “Mon amour, such biting words!”

  Tilla smiled, the shadows cast by the lamp in the corner of the room causing the expression to look slightly monster-like, as if she was a vampire studying her prey.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Like a whirlwind, Tilla departed, and as she closed the door behind her, Phil narrowed his eyes.

  “Did she have a skip in her step, or was that just me?”

  “Tilla’s beauty is such that the world itself dances when graced by her presence!” Jean crowed.

  Tilla, regardless of any skips in her steps, was not gone long. Within the hour she returned, two bags clutched in her hands. From one bag she withdrew a set of simple white curtains and curtain rods to match, which she bundled into Phil’s hands with strict orders to replace the sheets in the windows.

  The second bag was next, pulled apart to reveal several framed pictures. One was of the Eiffel Tower, drawn in a soulful watercolor art style to depict the famous landmark at night. Another was of Tokyo Tower, sketched out in pencil with a blazing sun hanging overhead. The third and final framed picture was vastly different than the first two. Portraying a grim armored vampire, the monster stared out at all three people in the room with a barely disguised bloodlust rippling through its eyes. One crimson wing reached out from behind its back, and a head of green hair stood out like a clump of spikey moss on top of a dark purple boulder. Each of the colors was striking, painted vividly so the monster looked real enough to practically leap out of the frame to take a bite out of the viewer.

  “Vampire’s Curse!” Tilla happily explained, “A portrait of my most powerful monster to be a vengeful guardian over this household!”

  Jean laughed long and loud with joy, grabbing Phil’s screwdriver and reversing it in his palm so that the butt end of it was sticking out. Then, grabbing a handful of only slightly bent nails ‘acquired’ from the same construction site as the table, he began to hang up the three pictures using the screwdriver as a hammer, with Vampire’s Curse taking the place of honor in the middle.

  “There,” Tilla said, brushing her palms together as she admired her handiwork. Then, striking as quickly as a viper, she gave Jean a quick peck on the cheek. “No, no need to repay me, think of this as insurance. If any lady visits your apartment from now on, they’ll know Mr. French over here is already taken and that there will be a… problem if they still try to make any moves.”

  Tilla smiled at that, the expression managing to be both dark and joyful on her face at the same time. Phil and Jean, however, could think of no words to say toward that declaration. Eventually Jean shrugged, wordlessly concluding that if the lady was happy, he was happy.

  Keeping his amusement under wraps, Phil grabbed the axe and left to split a few pieces of firewood from the backyard, while Jean rustled around the kitchen to find out where in tarnation they’d left the kettle and tea bags.

  In its own way, Phil realized as he chopped away with the axe, it was their little housewarming party. The three of them, four if he counted Lumina, which he did indeed. Even though she had yet to reveal herself to Jean, she was as much of a resident of their tiny apartment as anyone else was.

  Subdued and relaxed, but a housewarming party nonetheless. And sitting back in the apartment, rapidly warmed by the roaring wood-burning stove, the cold whipping winds outside were banished to fleeting memory.

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