Chili and Chill

Spoiler:

"Listen, Yagami, it's an easy job," Goro explained as he thumbed through last month's revenue sheets. "It's just a bit of harmless corporate espionage. I have a buddy who is in the chili business—"

"Excuse me," Yasahiro said, the amusement clear on his face. "Chili? Goro, is this some kind of joke?"

"No joke, I promise," three even creases appeared on Goro's forehead as they so often did when he was interrupted. "My friend works for the Yokohama Chili Emporium and he has it on good authority that the head chef for one of his company's major rivals, The Tamari Chili Conglomerate, passed away just yesterday."

"Ok, and what does that have to do with anything?"

"Patience, I'm getting there," Yasahiro's employer put aside his erstwhile reading material and gave the samurai his full attention. "All you'll need to do is retrieve the recipe that this man had in his possession so that my buddy can pass it along to his higher-ups and take the next step up the corporate latter."

"Seems easy enough, what's the catch?"

"The catch is that the late chef never wrote down the recipe, the paranoid guy thought someone would steal it," Goro shrugged. "Instead of writing it down he passed the recipe down to his son in a continuation of an oral tradition. All you have to do is get his son, Kenchi, to pass on the information to you. I don't much care what method you use, but try not to make it too obvious. Easy job, right?"

"Right," the exile agreed, this job would be anything but easy.

"Great, my buddy tells me that Kenchi has a room at Rosy's, best of luck!"
A nod was all Goro would get in response. Typically, Yasahiro wouldn’t accept such missions, but in this case, both Asahi and himself need all the funds they could if they intended to leave after the New Year. Plus, the idea of a bit of corporate espionage didn’t seem all that degrading. Sure, it would involve deceiving a grieving son, but that could probably be done without bloodshed. Violence would only attract unwanted attention both to him and Goro, something both men wanted to avoid if at all possible.

Donning his black kosode and matching hakama, the samurai eschewed his sword for the evening in favor of a pipe borrowed from his cousin, Asahi; where he was going he wouldn’t need a sword. What he would need, however, was the fortified liver he had been developing since the age of sixteen. Rosy’s was notorious for its no-nonsense drinking scene—one went there to forget, something Yasahiro was all too familiar with.

The plan was simple: drink the late chef’s son under the table and get him to reveal the recipe in a compromised state. The only difficult part would be getting drunk slower than Kenchi, and even that wouldn’t be all that hard. The late nights drinking with Asahi had long since conditioned him for whatever it was that any bartender might throw at him, but there was always the off chance that Kenchi had an iron liver.

Surely a chef's assistant wouldn’t have a drinking problem.

The wall of neon that passed for the storefront of Rosy’s was always offputting and standing outside it once again neared on overwhelming. At some point long ago the building was supposedly a tea house of some renown, but the owners figured it would be better for business to shift into alcohol and entertainment. Given that, one could sometimes catch glimpses of the building’s classical architecture if they knew where to look. If not, well, then all you would see was a wall of neon signs promising cheap swill and covert rendezvous.

Swallowing any qualms he had about the place, the exile stepped through the flashing green and red archway that led into the main floor of Rosy’s. The entire place smelled of stale alcohol, sweat, and something else the samurai couldn’t quite place—maybe it was cooked pork of some kind? And then there were the sounds that only a bustling bar could have; clinking glasses, sloshing drinks, and the undecipherable din of conversation. This was the kind of place that Asahi thrived in and one Yasahiro shied away from; tonight he would have to channel his younger cousin.

Sidling up the central wraparound bar, he took a seat between a couple who were clearly out on their first date and a massive bear of a man who smelled vaguely of dried blood. Not an ideal position to be in, but it would give him access to the fount of knowledge that was the bartender, they always knew where to find their regulars and single out any newcomers.

“Bottle of sake and whatever your special is for dinner,” he tapped the bar with ryo in hand, it was always best to lead with an open wallet when it came to sweet-talking bartenders.

“Sake and our katsu burger it is,” the petite woman with pink hair and a pale complexion behind the bar chirped over the din. “Did you want slaw or fries with that burger?”

“Let’s go with the slaw.”

“Gotcha’, that’ll be about twenty minutes,” the barkeep said, her gaze wandering around the room as she spoke already looking for the next patron. “In the meantime, here’s that sake you wanted, just holler if you need anything else.”

Taking the bottle offered to him, Yasahiro poured out the first of what he suspected would be many cups for the evening. As he drank, his gaze remained fixed above the bar with its colorful array of bottles and on the mirror that sat there. The idea to affix the mirror above the bar had probably been some overpaid designers, but it also served as an excellent tool with which to see the entire main floor so the exile couldn’t complain too much even if watching the room through such an inverted lens hurt his eyes more than he cared to admit.

A couple of hours passed and at least two bottles of sake.

“Minatsuki,” the samurai called the bartender's name. “Minatsuki, another bottle please.”

The main level of the bar had long since started to clear out. From what Yasahiro could tell most people either left or took their frivolities to one of the numerous private rooms on the upper levels.

“Coming right up, Yas,” she chirped, the two had become friendly somewhere between the first and second bottle of sake when Yasahiro helped to remove the couple from before when they got a bit too rowdy. “Need anything else?”

“Hmm,” the exile played the fool well—he just had to copy Asahi. “You know I was supposed to be meeting someone here but they never showed up…”

He took the new bottle from Minatsuki and drank directly from it; the formality of cups had long since been discounted for a more direct experience.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Yas. I didn’t—”

“It’s not what you think,” he quickly corrected the thought that was surely flitting through the barkeep’s mind. “It was supposed to be something of a business meeting, I guess they never showed. Doesn’t matter a whole bunch though, I suppose.”

He shrugged.

“Oh, who were you expecting to meet?” Minatsuki asked as she closed out the tab of the large man Yasahiro had been sitting next to for much of his time at the bar. “Maybe I know them.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “He goes by Kenchi; he’s a chef by trade. We were supposed to meet up to chat about some ingredients he wanted me to procure for him from Goro.”

“Kenchi, Kenchi, Kenchi,” the barkeep repeated trying to jog her own memory. “Do you mean Sleepy Kenchi?”

“I might, what is Sleepy Kenchi like?”

“Oh, he’s been a  regular here for a few weeks. He’ll come in and often fall asleep after a few drinks; poor guy had a rough night, his father died yesterday, heart attack I think it was. Either way, he has a private room on the third floor, end of the hall on the left.”

“Do you think he would mind me dropping by?”

“No, if you two have business it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. I do recommend bringing along some of that sake though, he’s probably in a state of some kind and sake is his favorite.”

“Huh, go figure,” Yasahiro put down enough ryo to pay off his tab and then some. “I’ll go check up on him, thanks for the drinks.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Yas.”

“Sure thing, Mina.”

Finding his feet under him to be a bit wobbly, the samurai steadied himself on the bar before pushing back and embarking on what should have been an easy jaunt upstairs. Unfortunately, his metabolism was not quite as strong as he had hoped. Clinging tightly to the railing, the inebriated man wound his way up the stairs and past a few shady business deals that lacked any real substance save for a fleeting feeling of human connection.

Third floor, end of the hall, and on the left; Mina’s words rang in his head like a bell amplified by the alcohol in his stomach. Stumbling down it like in a dream he nearly tripped over his own feet before arriving in front of the sliding paper door. The silhouette cast by the light within showed a single figure, at least he was alone.

“K-kenchi, Minatsuki sent me up,” he paused, waited for a reply, and hearing none continued. “I brought sake?”

“Oh, you should have lead with that,” a deep voice rumbled from within the room. “Come on in and bring that sake, I’m almost out.”

Pulling the door aside and stepping in, Yasahiro almost gagged; the room smelled like the inside of a sake bottle. Kenchi clearly had a headstart on the night’s drinks—this would surely play in the exile’s favor.

“Shall we?” Yasahiro slurred, shaking the bottle in his hand and banking on Kenchi’s drunken state to carry him through this awkward introduction.

“We shall,” Kenchi confirmed.

For the next hour so the two men drank heavily. They spoke of life, of love, and sports. It turned out that Kenchi had a certain love of baseball, something Yasahiro couldn’t quite relate to, but the addition of alcohol removed any friction from the conversation. Regardless, the two strangers soon become friends and, as friends are wont to do, their conversation took a turn for the personal with talk of family, living and dead.

“My father only cared about his craft,” Kenchi lamented. “He taught me everything he knew, but not because he loved me, no. He taught me for fear of his creations being lost to the world.”

“Oh?” the exile intoned, taking another swig of sake.

“I kid you not. All he cared about was his chili,” the son of the late chef’s voice fell into a hush. “He called it an art, but it’s really a science if anything. You throw in a set amount of ingredients for a certain amount of time and out pops a wonderful dish, nothing to it.”

“Nothing to it, really? I can’t say I’ve ever been able to make a good chili in my life.”

“Ah, nonsense, I learned to cook at the age of eight and it’s been easy as pie ever since. Frankly, anyone can do it with the right recipe…”

And just like that Kenchi revealed the secret to the Tamari Chili Conglomerate to Yasahiro in full. Sake was truly a wonderful drink. Soon the conversation drifted away from chili and to other topics until Kenchi fell asleep slumped over the table. At this moment, the samurai took his chance and slipped out of Rosy’s and back to Goro’s establishment where he slept off the sake. It was another mission in the books and another stack of ryo for the coffers.

The feeling of a full wallet was something that he could get used to. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to continue to do jobs like this one moving forward. So long as he didn’t take any jobs that attracted attention it wouldn’t be too bad, after all.
---
TWC: 2025
+ 2500 ryo (2400 mission ryo | 100 D-rank mission completion ryo)
+ 45 ap (5 mission ap | 40 max stat training)
+ 1185 words towards Metal Crusher
+ 840 words towards Wind Release: Zephyr Blade

Unfortunately you cannot claim AP training alongside Max stat training. You must forgo one of them.

Sorry, that was poorly worded on my part.

That ap training is only being done because I have capped my stats; the max stats discount is not being applied to the jutsu training.

Thank you for clarifying this for me. 

Approved