YoTS: Lord January ~ 26!

CHAPTER 26

A pavilion was being raised in the center of the plaza, and something about it reached a part of him that was still lost in childish things. With nowhere better to go, Grant went over to take a look. There was a crew pulling on cables and erecting a tent that resembled a fairytale castle; its walls bright vertical stripes of yellow and pink dyed cloth.

Grant waved at a worker, who was puffing and attempting to erect a wide banquet table. “What’s going on here?”

The busy man ignored him at first, but after realizing Grant wasn’t going away, he turned around and cast a wary eye. “I’m pretty busy, as you can see… sir. M’lord. Abyss.”

He added the last bit after noticing that he was talking to a Noble of House Monday. Grant only smiled calmly. “You hiring help?”

Grant’s words made the man blink and sputter. It was audacious to think that a Noble needed to do such menial labor. Nobles were the ruling class, they didn’t help anyone. “I’ll get a beating if my Lord discovers a Noble such as yourself helping me.”

“I… understand.” Grant didn’t really understand, and he didn’t want to do so. The class structure and the divide between rich and poor confused him. The Lords and Ladies of the Houses bled just like the lowest peasant - he knew that for a fact. In January, due to the overwhelming abundance of food, no one starved; not even the poorest of the poor. Why all this pageantry? “Could you at least explain to me what’s going on? I just got into town.”

A small bit of recognition appeared in the man's eyes, and he hastily turned his eyes away from Grant's very ordinary clothing. “This afternoon, there will be a contest right here in the plaza. Every week this month, we hold a culinary contest.”

“Culinary?”

“Cooking related.” The worker looked at him, confused that Grant didn’t understand the common term. “Last week there was a bacon eating contest, and this week is ice cream.”

“Ice cream. Cool.” Grant chuckled, though the worker wasn’t amused.

“I really have to get on with this, sir. If you want to take part, the competition starts at four this afternoon, and will go on until the last participant remains. If you don’t mind me saying… you’re a bit on the skinny side to really compete. The competition will be fierce; peasants and Nobles alike participate from all across January. Everyone is equal during the competition. Entry fee is one Day.”

“One day? Then… there is a prize?”

The man nodded, slipping into his normal customer-service mode. “But of course! Ten Days, plus a quarter of the total entrance fees. This week's competition is sponsored by House Friday, so come early if you want a seat. The competition always draws a crowd!”

The men nodded at each other and parted ways. Grant decided to head back to Derek’s, his mind whirling with all of the new information he had gained in the last few short hours. “Ten Days… more than enough to get a set of armor.”

He shook his head in frustration. The fact of the matter was that he was no closer to coming up with the Days. “It's a shame I don’t have a… bigger appetite. Hmm.”

Grant finished his long walk and rejoined his new friends. He sat down with a light sigh beside his heavy friends; who nodded, greeting him through mouthfuls of bacon and eggs. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, so they didn’t bother speaking. Once they were done, Red wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then deposited the load onto his pants, “So, did you get what you were looking for? Armor, wasn’t it?”

“No. Turns out proper armor is too expensive for my meagre budget.” Grant looked over at Skinny, who had cleared his plate and was eagerly shoveling a second or perhaps tenth helping into his bottomless stomach. Grant stared for longer than he scared to admit; it was hypnotizing and impressive in equal measures. He decided that now was his chance, so he cleared his throat and poked the other man. “Hey, Skinny. Skinny!”

“Hmm,” Skinny growled mid-bite. He was completely focused on devouring the heaped plate of food in the most efficient manner. “I’m busy, Grant. What?”

Grant gave him a moment to clear his plate before continuing. “I've a proposition for you-”

“Sorry, Grant. Not my type. Need more cushion-”

Red and Fergus couldn’t contain their laughter, spitting out lumps of scrambled egg as Grant furiously backpedaled. “Skinny! That’s not what I meant! I-!”

“Say it in simple words then! I've no extra room in my head. If I did, I would fill it with this bacon! What is this brand, C. Dean?”

“Turkey bacon?” Fergus looked down in disgust. “It's not Thorn?”

Grant ignored the strange conversation on branding and pressed forward with Skinny, “Do you like ice cream?”

Skinny paused to think it over, “Ice cream aids the digestion, clearing the old digestive track. I could go for some ice cream. Why did you have to bring it up? Now I'm going to be thinking about it all day! Speaking of clearing the system…”

“Time to make some room.” There was a rumble like a miniature earthquake, followed by a noxious smell. “I've just demonstrated the impressive workings of my digestive system.”

A few conversational backfires later, Grant gave up on decorum and simply spat out what he wanted to say. “This afternoon there is a competition, all you can eat ice cream! Do you want to participate? I’ll pay the entrance fee.”

Skinny stared at him in confusion. “I’m up for it, but what’s it in for you? What’s the catch?”

Grant leaned forward with gleaming eyes.“No catch. I’ll foot the entry fee, you just make sure to win. We split the prize money. I need the Time to buy a set of armor, you can do what you want with your share.”

“Hmm…”

“I need your talents, Skinny. There’s no one better suited to winning this competition than you!” Grant pleaded with the obstinate man.

“Well… when you put it that way…” Skinny allowed a grin to spread across his face, and his chest puffed out in pride. “I’m in! Since you’ve publicly announced how impressed you are with my talents, I'll do you a solid. When I win, you can even keep the prize money. I eat for love, not money!”

Breakfast was finished in a flash, and the rest of the morning was spent strategizing for the big event of the day. Skinny skipped snack time, high tea, pre-lunch, lunch, after lunch snacks, and even early afternoon tea in preparation for the competition. By the time they were walking to the stage, he was nearly falling over from lightheadedness.

Grant, Red, and Fergus got Skinny into his seat, paid the fees - bringing Grant down to a total of only four Hour and eighteen Minute coins - and found a seat on the packed benches lining the square. Grant had squeezed in his usual training session since they had a morning to kill, and even managed to get the bonus twenty percent cultivation for both weapon and physical cultivation.

After a stern warning from their boss, his fanclub at the steelworks had left him in peace to train, but he had enjoyed their cheering and clamoring as he performed feats of physicality that they had never seen before. It was a strange, strange confidence boost. Grant shook himself out of his reverie; the competition was about to begin. It was time to learn if he had thrown his Time onto the table, or if he had bet on a winner.

“Have I missed anything?” Derek squeezed in alongside them, still sooty from the smeltery.

“Nothing.” Red slapped him on the side, “Glad you could make it.”

“I never miss it. These events are the highlight of the week, here in Mid January. Food warriors battling it out? Nail-biting stuff. You might think the biggest guy will always win, but that isn’t always the case. This is the one place where anyone can truly showcase the talents that they have!”

“Look, there he is.” Fergus elbowed Grant excitedly. The huge bulk of Skinny walked onto the stage, pumping his fists. The crowd went wild, cheering and shouting from their seated position at the newcomer, as getting up posed a challenge for the spectators and tended to be frowned upon. At a glance, everyone can see that the incumbent champion was in for some serious competition.

The competitors lined up behind a massive bench. Peasants wearing stained clothes sat next to nearly perfectly-round Nobles in voluminous silk shirts and stretchy pants. There was even a soot-covered steelworker who must have come straight here after his shift. Grant pointed him out, making Derek narrow his eyes and mutter something savagely.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer on stage screamed into an amplifying horn so that all could hear, “sit tight and enjoy this afternoon's entertainment. Ample refreshments will of course be provided, courtesy of this week’s sponsors; House Friday. Remember folks, if you need a man hunted, a villain punished, a scoundrel brought to justice… go no further than House Friday!”

He paused for the obligatory cheering, “Porta potties are located under your bench. Remember, all you have to do is flip the switch to use the facilities! You won’t miss any of the exciting developments!”

The crowd laughed and cheered, sharing knowing glances. Not everyone remembered to flip the switch in time. There was always one, and it made for almost as good of entertainment as the competition itself. Grant flipped the switch on the side of his seat out of curiosity. The bottom of the bench swung open, and he had to grab on to Red and Fergus to avoid joining the fecal matter already churning below. “That is disgusting.”

<Yes.> Sarge’s word followed Grant's thoughts exactly.

“Don't knock it till you try it. This is the latest technological advancement! No one ever wants to miss out on the show, after all.” Derek called to the struggling Grant. “Also, be careful. The seats are made for the average Mid January frame, not a small toosh like yours.”

“I didn't know what would happen when I flipped the switch!” Seat closed and crisis averted, the group waited for the event to begin.

“You could have asked, you know.” Red chortled as Grant blushed in shame.

“Mohawk is in for a real challenge today!” The announcer shouted, dragging their attention back to the competition itself. “These twenty brave competitors will be challenging Mohawk for the weekly crown! Three to one odds are on the newcomer, Skinny, make sure your bets are placed!”

The crowd tittered upon hearing his ironic name. As soon as they calmed down, the announcer dropped his hand theatrically. “Begin!”

Huge tubs of ice cream opened at the gesture, and the contestants eagerly dug into theirs. Grant could hear Skinny moan as his day-long starvation was alleviated. Up and down the silver spoons flashed, and the seconds turned into long minutes. It didn’t take long before some started to struggle lifting their spoons, and ice cream of all flavors dribbled down rough cotton shirts and silk alike.

“Brain freeze! Ha! This is what sets the Nobles apart from the rest of those contestants, they know how to pace themselves properly!” There was an exclamation from the crowd as a contestant passed out and slumped forward into the ice cream tub. The helpers rushed forward, and it took several workers to save and drag the fallen man off stage.

“One valiant food warrior down! Who will be next, ladies and gentlemen?” Tub after tub of fresh ice cream replaced empty containers.

<Can a sword vomit? I want to vomit.> Sarge muttered a stream of consciousness into Grant’s mind.

“Look at Skinny,” Grant whispered to Fergus, his awe reaching his voice. “How does he manage it?”

“Skinny is a professional. Food is his life!” Fergus didn’t bother to whisper, he was proud of his friend at this moment. After two hours of entertainment, the contest had worn down to two finalists. Unsurprisingly Skinny and the equally imposing Mohawk. Neither contestant looked ready to give in. Mohawk, sweat beading on his brow, glanced over at Skinny.

Skinny, who had brought his own wooden spoon, was oblivious to the staring. For him, there was nothing else, only the ice cream. He methodically took scoop after scoop. Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry… it didn’t matter to Skinny, and each was equally delicious and deserving of his attention. The only time he paused the entire time was to ‘flip the switch’, getting a roar of approval every time he did so.

“Ugh! Brain freeze!” Mohawk held his head and moaned in agony before finally conceding defeat by throwing his spoon in a half empty tub.

<There is no brain involved in this, no thinking person would ever do this to themselves intentionally.> Sarge's words, normally caustic, were practically despondent. <Would they?>

Skinny kept eating, and had to have his hand grabbed to stop him. Though, his spoon-wielding hand continued to mechanically scoop through the air. “We have a winner, folks!”

<Does anyone win when this is how you show prowess?>

“Oh, hush, Sarge.” Grant was cheering as loudly as anyone else in the stands.

It finally dawned on Skinny that it was over. “I won?”

“Yes! Additionally, our sponsor was so impressed by your cream eating skills that you have been awarded a bonus prize! All the ice cream you can eat… for the next year!”

Skinny's jaw dropped, and he couldn't find the words to speak as he teared up in pure joy. The announcer saw this, and smiled kindly at him, “Do you have any words for the crowd who have been cheering on, Skinny?”

“Thank you, everyone. Uh… hunger is the loss of a meal, and a missed opportunity to eat. If you want to be able to compete on my same level, remember these words!” The crowd oohed and ahhed, glad that Skinny was imparting this important lesson, one that would help them perhaps one day reach his heady heights.

Mohawk, having recovered from his brain freeze, waddled over to Skinny and shook his hand to show his very real respect. Grant was attempting to figure out how he should react in the situation. On one hand, he had spent his entire life learning that eating enormously vast quantities was the highest privilege. On the other hand, by following Sarge's words, he had never felt better in his entire life, and he wanted to share that with other people. Even so, Grant couldn’t hold back his admiration. “That… was oddly amazing!”