Junkyard Roadhouse by Faith Hunter

of what constituted a weapon. Pocketknives with blades five centimeters or longer were considered weapons. Box cutters were considered weapons. Toenail clippers were not considered weapons, but employing them in the roadhouse was considered a breach of good manners. Second Rule of Entry was: No fighting. Fighting was considered anything that broke furniture, spilled drinks, knocked out teeth, or drew blood. Arm wrestling was not considered fighting. Disagreements that required fists were relegated to the fighting ring in the parking lot and overseen by Mateo. The punishment for breaking the second rule was severe. The Rules of Entry was long, and all the repercussions for breaking them were ruthless. Biker clubs tended to be legalistic these days. Not that most made-men would read the rules. “Company, Shining Sugah,” Jolene said into my comms earpiece. “Where?” I asked the AI. “My scanners indicate something heading in from the west, down Pond Fork Road, so I activated more ARVACs. There’s one rider on a scooter heading this way. Fully electric. No detectable weapons. Rider’s a little person.” “Like a dwarf or a midget?” Amos called from the open roadhouse door. “Shush,” Cupcake said, snapping a dishcloth at him. “What’d I do?” “No, Amos, darlin’,” Jolene said. “Like a child.” ARVACs—Auto Remote Viewing Air Craft—were flying drones with better-than-standard artificial intelligence and real time viewing, part of the junkyard’s defense system. We kept one aloft at all times now