Prologue
Tony walked straight to the counter and sat on a stool. The Jukebox in the corner played a soft Jazz. The lighting was dim and the bar almost empty. Of course, at 9 a.m., most people would be at work, not drinking. Only the wealthy, the lazy or those who have seen the other side would come here at this hour.
He lit a cigarette and signalled to the bartender. The Japanese bartender looked at him, looked at the sword attached to his waist and gave him a Blue Cherry Old Fashion, the drink most warriors preferred.
“Shanks . Long time no see,” Tony said, offering him a cigarette.
The guy next to him was also drinking a beer. He was slightly larger than him. He was wearing a long black coat, like the ones Spanish Admirals wore, draped over him. Under that he was wearing plain black pants and a long-sleeved shirt, his right sleeve rolled up. His left sleeve was empty. He had an old scar over his left eye and a scruffy beard the same colour as his red hair.
“Tony,” Shanks replied in a gravelly voice., accepting the cigarette.
The bartender quickly came over with an ashtray. A glowing red dot which emanated heat was fixed in the middle of the face.
“How long are you in town for?” Tony was always self-conscious around Shanks. His voice was notably higher.
“I don’t know. Until I’m finished, I guess.”
Tony raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Finished with what?” Tony asked.
“Some stuff,” Shanks replied, infuriating Tony.
“Ah,” Tony replied. He drank his Old Fashion, as good as ever. Shanks never gave much details and he wasn’t trying to be infuriating. He was just one of those “super-cool” bad boy types, which got to him because Shanks was older than him by a good bit.
“Want to have a sparring match?” Shanks asked.
“Against you?”
“Yes, but also against someone else.”
“Sure. Tell me when.”
“I’ll send details.”
He had one arm but he was still one of the strongest men in the world. A fight against him was by and for an event many warriors only dreamed of.
Tony paid his tab and walked out of the bar, “I look forward to the match.” He raised his hand, a white scar spanning the whole length of the back of his hand.
“You two do not get along, Mr Shanks?” the bartender asked.
Shanks let out a gravelly laugh. “Of course we do. He’s my student after all.”
“Oh! My apologize, Mr. Shanks. Here in Japan the relationship between teacher and student are very different, I would have never guessed!”
“Oh, the boy knows when to act as a student,” Shanks said, running his fingers around the edge of the glass. Suddenly his voice turned very serious, as did his facial expression, and all the emotions in his eyes. “However, when you’ve faced life and death together many times, the relationship becomes far more than just teacher and student.”
“I see. Well in that case, I think I understand,” the bartender said.
