Beneath the echoing cheers of the Tokyo Dome, a hidden sanctuary thrived in the shadows. Known only to the privileged few, "Suplex Sunrise" was a speakeasy that seemed to exist out of time. During the pandemic, it was a sanctuary for people willing to risk their health and enjoy company and cocktails with those they worked and competed with. Its entrance was a discreet doorway beneath the crowd's roar, leading down a narrow staircase that spiraled into the heart of history itself.
As patrons descended the speakeasy, they were enveloped by an atmosphere of vintage charm and modern secrecy. The lighting was intentionally dim, casting a warm, inviting glow across the room. Antique lamps hung from the low ceiling, their light diffusing through amber glass shades, casting soft pools of illumination over the polished mahogany bar and the intimate booths tucked into shadowed alcoves. Each booth was a private nook, lined with velvet cushions and framed by heavy curtains that whispered secrets of a bygone era.
The walls of Suplex Sunrise were adorned with memorabilia from the golden age of wrestling—black and white photos of grizzled legends and vibrant posters of historic matches. These artifacts of combat and glory lent the bar an air of nostalgic reverence, a homage to the heroes who had grappled and triumphed.
Behind the bar stood Joey Talladega, the speakeasy's charismatic proprietor and rumored vampire. His presence was as much a part of the establishment's allure as the collection of rare spirits he poured with an expert hand. Joey was a figure plucked from another century, with slicked-back hair and a meticulously groomed mustache that curled at the ends with theatrical flair. He wore a sharp waistcoat over a crisp shirt, his attire impeccable, a nod to the speakeasy's prohibition-era inspirations.
But it was Joey's eyes that most hinted at the truth of the rumors about his nature. They were a striking shade of black, dark and penetrating, gleaming with an ageless wisdom and a mischievous twinkle that suggested he found the world amusing and humans even more so.
He moved with an almost otherworldly grace, his hands performing the art of mixology with the deftness of a magician. Glasses and bottles danced between his fingers as he concocted libations that were as much a spectacle as they were a pleasure to the palate.
An uncanny depth of understanding marked Joey's interactions with his guests. He listened intently, leaning forward slightly as if every story shared across the bar was a gift he treasured. When they came, his replies were thoughtful, laced with an old-world charm and an eloquence that belied his supposed years.
As the night deepened, "Suplex Sunrise" filled with the quiet clink of glasses and the low murmur of conversations, the air thick with the aroma of fine tobacco and aged whiskey. It was a place where wrestlers and crew could shed their public personas and bask in the glow of camaraderie and the soothing presence of a bartender who might just be immortal.
In this hidden corner of Tokyo, amidst the echoes of past battles and the anticipation of future glories, the patrons of Suplex Sunrise found a rare kind of peace—a momentary escape from the relentless demands of their world.
Riko Matsumoto suddenly entered the speakeasy, her demeanor a blend of streetwise toughness and casual defiance, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She approached the bar with a confident swagger, eyeing the unusual bartender with curiosity and a smirk. Talladega noticed Riko's entrance and greeted her with a grin upon arriving at his bar.
Joey Talladega: Ah, if it isn't the infamous 'Streetwise Riko'! What an honor to have you grace my humble establishment. What can I get you tonight, my dear trickster?
Riko slid onto the bar stool and exhaled a plum of smoke into the air before smiling back at Joey. Riko wore a tight red tank top with a warn flannel shirt over it and distressed blue jeans. Her hair was slightly curled, and it was clear she'd put on some makeup in hopes of attracting some company after having been trapped in her small, cramped apartment in the slums of Tokyo during the initial weeks of the pandemic.
Riko: I'll take a whiskey, neat. Make it a double, Joey. I hear you're the guy to know around here.
Riko looked around, her gaze sharp and assessing as she brought her eyes back to Joey across the bar. Joey poured her a drink with flair while leaning in toward her.
Joey: That's right, Riko. This place is a sanctuary for those who battle in the ring, and from what I've heard, you don't shy away from a little... unorthodox combat.
As Riko accepted the drink, her smirk deepened.
Riko: Unorthodox, huh? I like that... You could say I take what the streets taught me and bring it into the ring. If that means bending the rules to snatch victory, so be it.
She took a long sip of whisky, her eye never leaving Joey's. Talladega nodded in amusement and approval. It was clear that the two, in some ways, shared a kindred spirit.
Joey: A philosophy after my own heart. But tell me, Riko, does it ever weigh on you? This trickster path you've chosen?
Riko paused for a moment, the question striking a chord. She stared into her glass as her expression hardened with every second that went by.
Riko: It's not about the weight, Joey. It's about survival. In the ring, like on the streets, you use every tool. If you don't, you're the one left in the dirt.
Joy listened intently while offering a knowing smile as he twirled his mustache.
Joey: Wise words! What about your upcoming match? Are you concerned about teaming up with someone you barely know?
Riko gritted her teeth slightly. Clearly, she wasn't happy with the partner she was assigned for the tag team tournament starting the next Saturday Night Showdown.
Riko: It's not ideal. I don't like unknowns, but I adapt fast, Joey. I'll watch my back... and maybe teach him something about my streetwise wrestling style.
Riko laughed out loud, chuckling dryly, before taking another long sip of her smooth Japanese whisky. The alcohol generated heat in her cheeks, turning them ever so slightly rosy as the taste of woodsy flavors and sweet whispers of Vanilla and honey danced over her palate. Joey raised his glass in a toast and winked at her.
Joey: To adaptation! And the cunning it breeds! May your foes be unprepared and your victories be memorable!
Riko raised her glass in return as her resolve firmed up.
Riko: To victory, no matter the cost.
Joey: Just remember, Riko, this speakeasy is a place of peace. But should you ever need to talk, strategize, or simply unwind... the door's always open, and the drinks are always ready.
Riko nodded and gave a rare smile that broke through her rugged street image exterior.
Riko: Thanks, Joey. Might take you up on that. For now, let's keep the drinks coming.
Joey watched as Riko settled more comfortably into her seat, the glow from the low-hanging lights casting shadows that danced playfully across her determined features. He polished a glass thoughtfully before leaning closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
Joey: Speaking of the upcoming match, have you researched your Russian opponents or perhaps watched their first tussle with the blundering behemoths, the Twilight Titans?
Riko raised an eyebrow, her smirk briefly returning as she shook her head, a plume of smoke swirling upwards.
Riko: Research? I prefer to surprise myself. Keeps the instincts sharp. But I caught that match. Those Russians are a sturdy bunch. Why? Got any juicy tidbits for me, Joey?
Joey's lips curled into a mischievous grin as he leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to barely a murmur, blending with the soft jazz playing in the background.
Joey: Oh, more than just tidbits, my dear Riko. Let's just say I know a thing or two about the occult... and that Svetlana? She's a witch, my dear, with a heart colder than the Siberian land she calls home. Be wary of her tricks and spells.
Riko blinked, unsure what to make of Joey's strange statements, yet intrigued. She tapped ashes into the tray, leaning forward.
Riko: A witch, you say? That's a new one. Here, I thought I'd heard all the wrestling gimmicks.
Joey chuckled, the sound rich and knowing, before continuing.
Joey: Oh, it's no gimmick, I assure you. And as for Mordokrov—Mikhail, that is—be extra cautious around him. He's much more than he seems. His nickname, 'Chernyy Kostyor,' means 'Black Inferno.' Quite fitting, considering his temper, and, well, let's just say his ability to ignite fear is... legendary.
Riko's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, her mind racing to piece together this new information. Joey straightened, offering a shrug that seemed both casual and laden with meaning.
Joey: Just a friendly word of advice—keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and maybe carry a little salt over your shoulder, just in case. Who knows? It might come in handy against a witch.
Riko laughed, the sound mingling with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation around them. She raised her glass to Joey, appreciating his advice's blend of humor and sincerity.
Riko: Joey, you're a strange one, but I like your style. Thanks for the heads-up. I'll keep my eyes open—and maybe throw in a little garlic and a wooden stake for good measure.
Joey: Atta girl. Remember, Riko, in this bar, you're never just sharing a drink; you're sharing tales and maybe picking up a few tricks along the way.
They shared a knowing look, the connection made over more than just drinks. Riko felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the vampire bartender, his lore-filled advice adding an unexpected layer to her preparation for the match. As Joey moved away to attend to another customer, Riko settled back, her mind buzzing with strategies and the mystical warnings of her enigmatic new friend, ready to face whatever the ring—and her opponents—had in store.