Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(44)

“You guys up north are behind the times! AWFul clubs are all the rage around here!”

AWFul, he explained, stood for “Anachronistic Wish Fulfillment.” Everyone here—except, of course, for the unsavories—were employees. Even all the Billies and Betties. Their job was to accept whatever the unsavory customers dished out. They would lose fights, allow food to be hurled at them, let their dates be stolen, and Greyson assumed that was just for starters.

“These places are great,” Zax told him. “All the things we wish we could do out there but can’t get away with, we’re allowed to do in here!”

“Yeah, but it’s not real,” Greyson pointed out.

Zax shrugged. “It’s real enough.” ?Then he stuck out his foot and tripped a bookish kid walking by. The kid stumbled a bit too much for it to be genuine.

“Hey, what gives?” the bookish kid said.

“Your sister gives,” Zax said. “Now get lost before I go looking for her.” ?The kid gave him a dirty look, but toddled off, accepting the intimidation.

Even before his new shake came, Greyson excused himself to go to the bathroom, although he didn’t really have to go. He just wanted to get away from Zax.

In the bathroom, Greyson encountered the All-Merican Billy in the letter sweater, who had been beaten up a few minutes ago. His name wasn’t Billy, though. It was Davey. He was looking at his puffy, swollen eye in the mirror, and Greyson couldn’t help but be curious about this “job” of his.

“So . . . this happens to you every day?” Greyson asked.

“Three or four times, actually.”

“And the Thunderhead allows it?”

Davey shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it? It’s not hurting anyone.”

Greyson pointed to Davey’s swollen eye. “Sure looks like it’s hurting you.”

“What, this? Naah, my pain-killing nanites are set at maximum—I barely feel it.” ?Then he grinned. “Hey—watch this.” He turned back to the mirror, took a deep breath, and concentrated on his reflection. Right before Greyson’s eyes, the bruised, swollen eye deflated and returned to normal. “My healing nanites are set to manual,” he told Greyson. “That way I can look all beat up as long as I need to. ?Y’know, for maximum effect.”

“Uh . . . right.”

“Of course, if one of our unsavory guests goes too far and makes one of us deadish, that person’s gotta pay for our revival, and gets banned from the club. I mean, there’s gotta be some rules, right? Doesn’t happen much, though. I mean, not even the worst of unsavories actually wants to make someone deadish. No one’s been that violent since the Age of Mortality. Mostly employees here get deadish from accidents. Someone hitting their head on a table or something like that.”

Davey ran his fingers through his hair to make sure he was looking his best for whatever the next round brought his way.

“Wouldn’t you rather be at a job you like?” Greyson asked. After all, the world being what it was, no one ever had to do anything they didn’t want to.

Davey smirked. “Who says I don’t like it?”

The concept that someone might enjoy getting beaten up—and that the Thunderhead, realizing this, would find a way to pair the beaters with the beatees in a closed, and somewhat wholesome, environment—left Greyson stunned.

Davey must have read Greyson’s look of astonishment, because he laughed. “You’re a new U, aren’t you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yes—and that’s not a good thing, because the career unsavories will eat you alive. You got a name?”

“Slayd,” Greyson said. “With a Y.”

“Well, Slayd, looks like you need to enter the unsavory community with a bang. I’ll help you.”

And so a few minutes later, once Greyson managed to brush Zax off, Slayd approached Davey, who was now sitting with a couple of other strong-looking All-Merican types, eating burgers. Greyson didn’t exactly know how to start this, so he just stared for a moment. Davey took the lead.

“What are you looking at?” Davey grumbled.

“Your burgers,” Greyson said. “They look good. I think I’ll take yours.”

Then he grabbed Davey’s burger and took a shark-size bite.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Davey threatened. “I’m gonna knock you into next Tuesday,” which must have been one of his favorite anachronistic expressions. He got out of the booth and put up his fists, ready to fight.

Then Greyson did something he had never done before. He hit someone. He punched Davey in the face, and Davey reeled. He took his own swing at Greyson, but missed. Greyson punched him again.

“Harder,” whispered Davey, and so Greyson did. He threw full-force punches again, and again. Right, left, jab, uppercut, until Davey was on the ground, groaning, his face beginning to swell.

Greyson looked around to see a few other unsavories watching, some nodding their approval.

It took all of Greyson’s inner strength not to apologize and help Davey up. Instead, Greyson looked to the others at the table. “Who’s next?”

The other two looked at each other, and one said, “Hey, buddy, we don’t want any trouble,” and they pushed their burgers in Greyson’s direction.