Old Dogs, New Tricks

‘Best bar in Tokyo’

‘Best bar for Americans in Tokyo’

‘BEST BAR FOR OLD WHITE WRESTLER IN TOKYO’

Those were the three search terms Wolf had entered into his Android, trying to figure out the best place to visit for a night out in this town. It was his own fault for not having a good haunt already picked out and doing this last minute, he had to admit. Back home, he’d been a fairly regular patron at some of the best bars in a fifty miles radius of his home. He didn’t visit them as often as he did before Cheyenne was born, but they were good places for him to go when his head needed a good cleaning, needed to get some of the world’s weight off his shoulders, and that was what he sorely needed at this very moment.

Just a few hours ago, Wolf had suffered his first defeat in Tension. He knew that shouldn’t have bothered him. It was a clean loss, Natsu was a fireball and she just overwhelmed. It was a good match, the girl had a great future. He should’ve applauded talent like that. He did. Emphatically.

But it was just not the way he pictured things going when he came to Japan with his daughter. Setting an example, helping her ease in, getting the training wheels off. It had all seemed so simple on the other side of the Pacific, but here, now…

Things were different. Difficult. Weird.

It was why he found himself in this place, Ribera Steakhouse. That, and the fact that it was a wrestling themed bar that gave actual wrestlers half off on everything. He would be coming here again, oh yes.

With a mug of beer in one hand, he leaned up against the back of his booth, giving it the occasional sip and nodding at the occasional passerby. He was drawing attention, no doubt. It wasn’t every day that you saw a giant Native American with red hair, denim jeans, and cowboy boots in the middle of a Japanese bar, so he was the sore thumb, no way around it.

He did his best to ignore that for now, as he awaited the one thing he was missing in all this: Someone to drink with. If the man he’d sent out a text to decided to take him up on the offer, that problem would be getting solved any minute now.

"Oooph!!!"

The occasional Japanese pedestrian, whose dull-eyed attention would be transfixed squarely upon the bewitching smartphone in their hand, would wind up becoming jarred free from their spellbound stupor by not making enough room for the hulking figure power-walking towards his destination and nudging shoulders along the way. Those who were pleading for forgiveness were scarcely offered a sideways glance as the bowl-cutted gentleman marched onward towards a rendezvous he'd eventually accepted after having his secretary shuffle around several meetings and appointments in his day-planner to offer his compatriot the honor of being afforded time with the Almighty Dasher Inoba~...or so he told Wolf. The solemn truth of the matter was that Dasher's schedule was vast with blank nothingness outside of his routinely duties as headmaster of his training gym. A lamentable microcosm of neglecting to accept Tension's offer for more television time since his heralded Dasher Challenge always caught the eyes and lowered the remotes of wrestling fans the world over.

Except it was naught but a farce. For his undefeated streak was already tainted from the abysmal conclusion of that accursed Elimination Chamber Match, wherein the wrestling brute was summarily pinned and defeated by the combined efforts of three of its participants. Well...four, if you count the one lady who was eliminated beforehand and thus unable to dog-pile upon the kayoed puroresu champion along with the rest. His manly honor having been besmirched that day, and since than he was at a crossroads in terms of how to proceed with his Tension career and how best to imbue his wrestling philosophy upon this wrestling league. For now though, a strong brew with an old rival who may understand his plight could be just what the wrestling doctor ordered. Dasher entering the establishment with his commanding presence drawing attention from the majority of inhabitants. He'd straighten out his crimson red tie and the lapel of his pitch-black business suit with a scowling harrumph, noticing his old adversary from afar and starting to march towards his booth.

"HMPH!!! AND HERE I THOUGHT THIS WAS AN ESTABLISHMENT MEANT TO SERVICE ACTUAL WRESTLERS, NOT WEAK-KNEED AMATEURS WHO WOULDN'T KNOW A WRISTLOCK FROM A WRISTWATCH!!! WHO LET THIS NOODLE ARMED SUNNOVA BITCH IN HERE!!??" Dasher bellowed while marching up to Wolf, rearing his hand back for what some in the bar were afraid was an opening strike against two people they'd have a hell of a time trying to pull apart should they get to brawling.

Wolf knew who had entered the building before he even said a word. He didn’t have to turn around, didn’t have to look over his shoulder, didn’t even have to perk up. It was obvious from just the sound of the people around him, the reactions he was receiving, the way they were whispering and the sound of feet quickly scampering out of the way. There was only one man he knew that could inspire that sort of reaction, and since it was the same man he’d invited to drink with him tonight, it was a safe bet that he was right on the money.

The voice confirmed it. Loud, boisterous, and loud as ever. ”Dasher.” He popped out of his seat and spun about, planting his foot and down and creating thunder. ”You son of a bitch!”

The people around them were right - they would have a hard time pulling him and Dasher apart. Thankfully, though, that wouldn’t be necessary. Wolf reeled back and threw his arm out, but when the two met, it was for an embrace. A hearty, hard slap of a handshake that shook the room and left their muscles quivering.

Wolf’s grin widened as he took a trip back into a time machine, squeezing hard and reliving a dozen memories at once. He and this man had locked horns more than a handful of times back in their day, tearing the roof down each time. Sometimes he swore he could still feel the chops on his chest, even over a decade later, and that arm hadn’t grown any weaker since then. If anything, he’d added some more muscle to it.

”You’re looking good for a fossil.” He started to put some real force into the handshake, gritting his teeth as he tried to push Dasher back. Just getting a feel for his rival, seeing if he was as sturdy as he looked. ”Except for that haircut of yours, but that’s standard.”

Those within the vicinity were either jostled out of their seats or had to catch their napkins and scarcely prevented their drinks from tipping over after a residual shockwave reverberated throughout the bar. As if a gust of tempestuous wind whirled from the epicenter of what was as manly a greeting they'd ever seen in all of their days...which said a lot considering the testosterone laced profession of theirs. Dasher expecting nothing less from the man he'd gone to war with all throughout the world, from main-eventing at Wrestle-World right here in Japan or stealing the show at Lucha-Lunacy in Mexico. Golden-stars showered whatever matches contained these two grappling titans butting heads and locking horns, except even in the most tumultuous of rivalries, a bud of respect can still begin to grow. That seed having grown into a mighty oak tree and was on muscle-fueled display at the moment.

"Heh...The offer is still on the table for my personal barbers to finally give you a proper haircut, and this style may just work better in hiding those spots of male pattern baldness up there..." Dasher remarked with a smirking gleam, never relenting one iota in the handshake turned test of strength. The fabric on the sleeve of his suit began being stretched and tightened by the flexing bicep underneath. Matching eyes with his Native American rival and searching for any sign of weakness. Still none to be seen and this was just was how he preferred it as he stayed firm and steadfast. "Getting tired already, Hawkfield? Looks like those American leagues have made you grow soft in your old age..." Though words of smirking confidence were spoke, a small drop of sweat trailed down the side of Dasher's head. Captivated onlookers flickering their eyes between the two to see who would admit defeat first...

For just an instant, Wolf felt like a young man again. Traveling the world, sleeping in whatever second-rate hotels he could find. Putting on some of the best matches of his life in front of millions. He was fast, he could wrestler for hours, and goddamn, he was so strong in those days. He thought there wasn’t a human being on the planet he couldn’t sling around the ring back then, and while that was certainly not true, he would’ve been gutsy enough to try.

It was just a moment. A fleeting moment. He loved it, though.

He came back to reality, the one that had him locked up with Dasher, testing their aging arms against each other. They’d both stayed active in their waning years and it showed, their muscles swelling and threatening to rip free of their confines. ”Really? Thanks for the offer, might just take you up on the style change. Lord knows it’d look better on my head than that ugly mug of yours.”

He would’ve loved to stay like this all day, and he was sorely tempted to try - but they’d demanded enough of this place’s attention, no need to get crazy. Besides, he was using his beer-drinking arm for this, and it was starting to go numb. ’All right, all right, all right!” He broke off with a hearty laugh and jerked forward, slapping shoulders with Dasher before he backed off. ”Come on, sit down before we have a hardcore match right here. Those American leagues damn sure don’t pay me enough to fix this place up.”

Pride, honor, and indeed pure pig-headed obstinacy were what kept Dasher from paying any mind to what his strained muscles were beginning to hammer into his head with escalating urgency. Memories of his spry youth instead being at the forefront of his mind, back when he was a strapping young lad that wrestling magazines heralded as the next generation of talented newcomers to the industry. Why, after matches he could scarcely step out of his dressing room hallway without getting swarmed by wrestling groupies clamoring for his autograph or whispering their hotel accommodations with a sultry wink~...or at least that's how Dasher chose to remember it, as often times it was Wolf who'd be surrounded by starstruck fans having stampeded past a spitefully envious bowl-cutted man.

"Haha, a worthy effort, my friend..." Dasher bellowed out once Wolf acquiesced, patting his compatriot on the shoulder as well with a congenial smile as he began motioning them both to their booth. Stealthily jostling his arm about to loosen it back up and attempt to not let it be known just how much of a taxing toll that greeting was taking on him. He'll be needing to use his other arm to do any heavy lifting, or lifting in general for the rest of the night. "Bah, you should have taken my offer to join the Japanese league long ago. Pay is superb and it toughens you up!!! Maybe if you had, you wouldn't be getting pinned by our schoolgirls, eh~..." Some lighthearted ribbing came with Dasher signaling to the waitress for his typical drink before turning back to face Wolf. "I spied Cheyenne ringside for that match, how goes my goddaughter, eh? That young whipper-snapper..."

Wolf had a long, wistful sigh as Dasher led him, coming down to a sit at the booth and taking a quick time machine back to their younger days. He had given him that offer to stay in Japan an age, and a small part of him wished he had taken him up on the idea. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t have been such a fish out of water, would’ve been more at home in Tension. But, then again, he wasn’t too sure that was a good thing, yet.

”One schoolgirl, Singular. One schoolgirl pinned me.” He straightened, head held high, trying to look dignified as he waved off the jab. ”And I’m fairly sure she’s in her twenties. But point taken.”

As much as his feelings were mixed about that bout, he couldn't fault Dasher for bringing it up - the opportunity was too good to miss, especially given how successful his old rival had been in the company. He just hoped the big goof hadn’t seen the debut match with PDSM.

Luckily, the topic was quick to change to something he was more or less willing to speak on: his daughter.

”Whipper-snapper? You can update your language every now and then, Dash. It won’t hurt you, I ro.” He chuckled and sat back, easing into the seat as much as he could with his frame. ”She’s a free spirit.” It was the nicest way he could think up to say she was stubborn. ”Like her mother, for better or worse. Trying to show her the right way to do things, but she’s got her own rhythm. Slow process.”

Wolf leaned forward and planted an elbow on the table, propping up his head. ”Speaking of, how’s Katsuo doing?” He reached into his pocket, whipped out his wallet, and waffled through it. ”Go on, bust out the photos, I know you’ve got some new ones on you.”

Upon hearing of his colleague's arrival within the hallowed shores of his native land, Dasher indeed only thought it would be appropriate to keep himself abreast of Wolf's and Cheyenne's wrestling career. To see if his old chum still had the wrestling chops that made him one of Dasher's most skilled rivals and even tag-team ally at times. Plus to see how little the apple fell from it's tree in terms of his rambunctious teenage daughter. However upon beginning to peruse Wolf's initial tag-team debut, Dasher opted to promptly stop and erase the match on his DVR once it started to become too...sinful, for his liking. A man's honor was about to be besmirched and he wanted to bear witness to none of that. Especially when he could simply peruse the results within the weekly wrestling newsletter. Luckily for both him and Dasher, Wolf's match with that schoolgirl was an exceedingly more respectable bout to discuss between men...but he did still lose. Indeed worth a manly ribbing.

"Heh, Cheyenne always did know how to run you ragged. Grown men the size of small tanks couldn't worry you more than that girl could. But that boy of mine is a regular chip off the old Inoba block. Not that his mother is particularly fond of that..." Dasher remarked while scratching the side of his cheek, his favorite bottle of Sake being placed beside him on the table along with his serving choko cup which was filled up before the waitress left. "Katsuo worships the very feet I walk on. I suppose like most sons tend to do when they have a wrestler for a Father. He keeps insisting that he should enroll at my training gym, but I don't want him treated any differently by the other students just because he's the son of THE Dasher Inoba." Dasher merrily obliged his friend by fishing through his wallet for pictures. He plucked out the first one he happened across and shared it with Wolf. "Plus I worry I'll end up showing favoritism towards him, or going easing on him during fitness runs."

Katsuo:

Ah, that was right, Dasher was divorced. To be honest, Wolf had forgotten that little details of his friend’s life, and it was a good thing that the conversation led him to remember without asking. Somehow, he got the strong impression that was one landmind he didn’t want to step on.

”Can definitely relate with that. Cheyenne’s mother keeps trying to drag her off on these Greenpeace missions with her and her limp noodle of a boyfriend.” Wolf’s eyes rolled to the ceiling as he shook his head, seeing a few shades of red at the mere thought of the man. What was his name, again? Keith? Something douchey like that. ”She hates the guy.” He sounded proud about that, but he wasn’t sure why. “Much as I wish Cheyenne would hook up with a respectable organization, this is a damn sight better than having her hang out with him and his treehugger buddies.”

When Dasher forked over the photo, Wolf took a moment to reach into his pocket and pull out his glasses. After getting them set right on his nose - always a small challenge - he got a good look at the next generation of Inoba, scanning the boy up from head to toe. ”Got a nice look to him, good smile. Apple far from the tree on that one.” He wagged the photo Dasher’s way and tsked, before going back to looking it over. The kid had sprung up quite well from what he could recall - not rivaling his Dad’s size, few could, but with a lean body. A cruiserweight, if he had to guess

”I’d trade for your problems in a heartbeat. Girls are tough. Cheyenne’s just determined to try anything and everything always in a rush.. She’s got the energy for it, she’s got great talent, but the discipline, the respect...” He waved it off and leaned back in the booth, sinking into the cushions. ”He had his first match, yet?”

Irreconcilable differences was the official reasoning written down upon the divorce papers to his first wife, and thankfully that legal definition was all the reasoning required because Katsuo's mother would have assuredly written an essay's worth of reasons to end their marriage before it had gotten any rockier than it already was becoming. Dasher's archaic mindset when it comes to women and thick-headed stubbornness no doubt headlining that essay, although dedicating himself intently to his grappling profession more than his family was perhaps the prickly needle that broke the camel's back. Now that one needle was costing him a fortune in alimony checks. "Yes, Yes...he's had his first matches. Under a different name to avoid publicity and in minor leagues here and there. Victories all around, although he seems to have adapted more of cruiserweight/striker style. Heh, but one day the Inoba genes will kick in and he'll be capable of growing muscles just like his old man~..."

Dasher bellowed with a hearty pounding of his fist against his puffed out chest, afterward motioning with a push of his hand for Wolf to keep the picture of Katsuo. "Ah, keep it. My wallet is fit to bursting of pictures already." Afterward he'd lean back in his chair and cross his arms in judgmental ponderment. "Hmph...I'm not so sure I can agree, old chum. Some manner of Peace Corps may have suited her better than strapping on wrestling boots and grappling with men twice her size and strength. In spite of the flagrant vilification I have suffered through upon expressing my sage opinion on the matter, I stand firm in my belief that women should not wrestle with men. It is heresy, I say. Medical science dictates that in terms of musculature and stamina, men are genetically superior. And they only risk injuring themselves or worse by trying to fight against the natural order of things." Dasher ended his harangue with a harrumph before beginning to pour himself his drink.