In the shadowy area of Shreveport, Louisiana's boardwalk, there stands a rather odd-looking bar. The locals know it by the name of "Alligator Drink," but any outsiders can recognize it by the massive stone alligator sculpture standing just outside the main entrance. It is an anthropomorphic alligator, standing on two legs and clutching a huge mug of frothy beer in its right hand, saluting anyone walking by who may just be there to admire the lovely view of the river. But locals know that the Alligator Drink is more than just a bar. It is the dream of resident Guy Toadie come to life.

Inside, it is a gaudy sort of place, wrapped up in shadows and random nick-knacks, and furnished nicely. Though incredibly flashy and somewhat shady, the Alligator Drink feels like home to a few. Across from the bar, where one might expect a dining area in a pub, there is instead what appears to be a living room. Couches, chairs, a pool table, a big TV attached to one wall. It is in this room that one will often find Guy Toadie, sitting back and enjoying the fruits of his entrepreneur-savvy success. Everyone had always told him that a restaurant or bar is one of the dumbest things to try to start up as a business owner. And what did he know, coming from the unknown, backwoods bayou town of Retraite? Back when he started, all he had was a large inheritance from a long-forgotten relative and a desire to move as far away from the crazy folk of Retraite.

But now, on this particular evening, he sat back in one of the sleazy-looking red couches and watched as customers were corralled out after last call, the bartender Michael gently urging people to take cabs safely back home instead of walking the potentially dangerous streets. As they left, Guy would give them a little wave, and they might wave back, but to him, it didn't really matter. He had new ambitions in mind. The XWF.

As the bar cleared out, Guy began lazily tossing darts at the board, which he had lovingly adorned with pictures of his opponents for Wednesday. Having hit one right in the forehead, Guy gave a light chuckle and looked to the bar, expecting it to be empty. Instead, he saw a single figure still sitting there, dressed down in a gray t-shirt and torn-up jeans. Even more odd, there was an old, beaten-down acoustic guitar slung across the man's back. From his angle, Guy could make out the man's olive skin tone, a rarity in Shreveport. Curious, Guy stood up from the couch and made his way over to the bar, taking a seat next to the stranger.

"Hey, man. You on your last round?" Guy asked, looking to the man to his left.

"First, actually," the man replied, looking Guy in the eye. This was a rarity for customers to the Alligator Drink. Most people didn't bother looking folk in the eye. It was a window to the soul, they said. No one wants to reveal too much about themselves; especially not their souls.

"You know, they say there's a relation between how late you start drinkin' and one's intelligence," Guy replied with a smirk. "You must be one smart sumbitch."

"Not really," the man replied, taking a sip of his beer. "Just a guy. Some guy."

"Guy...yeah, that's my name. Don't be goin' by Guy, guy," joked Guy, extending a hand to shake. The stranger quickly returned the gesture, shaking hands.

"Name's Jack West. I like your bar, Guy."

"Jack West? Now that sounds too good to be true. Made-up!"

"That's because it is," Jack responded with a sly grin. "Ain't nobody want a name like I had."

"Most people don't just start goin' by another name just 'cuz. They usually done something to warrant a new name."

"You might say I did," Jack replied, raising an eyebrow playfully. "They don't take to kindly to people like me back where I'm from."

"Well, the Alligator Drink takes kindly to everyone," Guy assured him, giving the man a pat on the back. "No matter what they did."

"Thanks," Jack shot back, chugging down a huge gulp. "I mean, me showin' up here wasn't exactly a coincidence. I'm lookin' for work."

"Well, I don't think I got many kitchen positions open and uh...Mike runs the bar pretty good by himself."

"Not what I meant," Jack interrupted, turning around in his barstool and swinging the guitar around to his front.

"Oh, an entertainer!" Guy realized, laughing. "Yeah, I figure we could use someone to keep folk singing and drinking. Always heard singing makes for dry mouths."

"And with someone of your profession, I figure you could use some poetry in your life."

"What, wrestling? It's plenty poetic!"

"Yeah, I heard about your sign-up to the XWF, Guy. Like I said, no coincidence that I showed up here."

To this statement, Guy could only give a curious look. Jack West seemed fond of speaking in mystery. An enigma. And Guy was far from done with him.

"Why don't you uh...show up tomorrow and show the bar what you got? We can set you up a stage and a little tip jar and see how well you play that guitar."

Jack smirked and did a little scale-run down the neck. It was pure blues echoing out of the instrument. Guy sat in amazement as Jack slammed down a rather complex 12-bar blues. When he had finished, Guy was already thoroughly entertained by Jack's sheer skill with the shit-quality wood and metal-stringed instrument in his hands.

"You might say I done sold my soul for how well I play it."