Loud bass from a club down the road thumped into the street as the cold desert wind blew through the Golden District. Beautiful young men and women wearing the best in fashion design down the wide streets filled with clubs on one side and “eccentric” eateries on the other. There was hundreds of people here up late, even now at the hour of 1:00am, with energy to spare. At the very end of the street, and I mean the far end and around the corner where there was a dead end street, was a long bus like building without the wheels. One side was pressed firmly against the back of a different kind of restaurant. The other side was a door where the owner/staff walked in and out of and a long, very long, window. From the hours of 11:45pm until 4:20am the very small handful of people who knew about this bar could sneak their way down to the end away from the hustle and bustle of life and sink into the depravity that was a food truck dive bar.
It was a little bit of the Underground that had somehow managed to stick its cancerous self where all the people with money like to party. It didn’t have a name and the people who frequented this Fight Club esq bar were exactly the kind of people you’d expect. Mad men, Famous Underground fighters, thugs who just got paid and wanted to celebrate, mob bosses, hustlers, Black Market tradesmen, and the list went on. If you were a bad person with a lot of money but didn’t like the chaos of home this is where you went. At the end of this street in the large alley where there is trash by day and a bar by night anything goes; so long as you can pay for it. It was a little bit of the best of both worlds. Often it was the kind of place the rich kids for at least the last two generations would dare each other to go to get a hold of illicit substances to commit illegal extracurricular activates with. The owner, or rather owners, was a mysterious man who sat behind the bar and served drinks. He never revealed his face. For nearly sixty years it had been the same man, the same voice, and the same bargain and deals. This was “Iwa” and he was replaced by a look-a-like every twenty years. The real people who ran it was the same reason no one could get it removed - no one could find them. No matter how many people switch through the desks at ANBU, no matter how good the new generation of shinobi are, not even the Kazekage themselves is able to get this bar closed down; though all three have tried. The right people just seems to always know when to not be there and, even in the middle of the night, when someone with a badge or high position of office comes anywhere near the place it vanishes.
Like a Narnia for criminals.
Sitting on a high bar stool next to the bus-like home there sat a man with messy brown hair, a lab coat that was splattered with blood and viscera but with clothes underneath that were not, and a multi-layered red drink in his hand. His face was the expression one would reserve generally for the end of a sexual act as his mouth latched onto a straw, slurping up the red colored drink of questionable nature. The mad scientist removed his mouth away from the straw long enough to take a long breath and let out a loud profanity before returning to his beverage and consuming it with gusto. His knuckles rapped against the counter rapidly to let “Iwa” know he wanted another. A large Lurch-esq hand wrapped around the glass making it look like it was made for a child and pulled it slowly back into the dimly lit bar behind the tinted glass window that was lifted open for the time being. Behind this man enjoying his beverage perhaps a bit too much the place was running at a very low capacity. There was a couple of people in the corner of the dead end street at a table with their heads all hunched over something on the raised platform they gathered around, a pricey prostitute on break a few stools away from Tama, and a scattering of regulars.
“This is a limited time drink? Are you crazy? You could easily make this your go-to beverage Iwa! The freaking kids would go nuts! You know how old I am, and, hey! Look at me! This is goooood!” The bartender kept his back turned and made the mysterious drink again before turning back and sliding its frosty red goodness over to Mr. Ryuu who happily grabbed it and wasted no time putting more of it in his body. It had been a long night and the first time in forever since he had worked in the hospital, hence his coat, but he had managed to not cuss out a fellow doctor tonight and that was cause for a celebration. At least in his book.
It was a little bit of the Underground that had somehow managed to stick its cancerous self where all the people with money like to party. It didn’t have a name and the people who frequented this Fight Club esq bar were exactly the kind of people you’d expect. Mad men, Famous Underground fighters, thugs who just got paid and wanted to celebrate, mob bosses, hustlers, Black Market tradesmen, and the list went on. If you were a bad person with a lot of money but didn’t like the chaos of home this is where you went. At the end of this street in the large alley where there is trash by day and a bar by night anything goes; so long as you can pay for it. It was a little bit of the best of both worlds. Often it was the kind of place the rich kids for at least the last two generations would dare each other to go to get a hold of illicit substances to commit illegal extracurricular activates with. The owner, or rather owners, was a mysterious man who sat behind the bar and served drinks. He never revealed his face. For nearly sixty years it had been the same man, the same voice, and the same bargain and deals. This was “Iwa” and he was replaced by a look-a-like every twenty years. The real people who ran it was the same reason no one could get it removed - no one could find them. No matter how many people switch through the desks at ANBU, no matter how good the new generation of shinobi are, not even the Kazekage themselves is able to get this bar closed down; though all three have tried. The right people just seems to always know when to not be there and, even in the middle of the night, when someone with a badge or high position of office comes anywhere near the place it vanishes.
Like a Narnia for criminals.
Sitting on a high bar stool next to the bus-like home there sat a man with messy brown hair, a lab coat that was splattered with blood and viscera but with clothes underneath that were not, and a multi-layered red drink in his hand. His face was the expression one would reserve generally for the end of a sexual act as his mouth latched onto a straw, slurping up the red colored drink of questionable nature. The mad scientist removed his mouth away from the straw long enough to take a long breath and let out a loud profanity before returning to his beverage and consuming it with gusto. His knuckles rapped against the counter rapidly to let “Iwa” know he wanted another. A large Lurch-esq hand wrapped around the glass making it look like it was made for a child and pulled it slowly back into the dimly lit bar behind the tinted glass window that was lifted open for the time being. Behind this man enjoying his beverage perhaps a bit too much the place was running at a very low capacity. There was a couple of people in the corner of the dead end street at a table with their heads all hunched over something on the raised platform they gathered around, a pricey prostitute on break a few stools away from Tama, and a scattering of regulars.“This is a limited time drink? Are you crazy? You could easily make this your go-to beverage Iwa! The freaking kids would go nuts! You know how old I am, and, hey! Look at me! This is goooood!” The bartender kept his back turned and made the mysterious drink again before turning back and sliding its frosty red goodness over to Mr. Ryuu who happily grabbed it and wasted no time putting more of it in his body. It had been a long night and the first time in forever since he had worked in the hospital, hence his coat, but he had managed to not cuss out a fellow doctor tonight and that was cause for a celebration. At least in his book.