The song dies out as a smattering of applause is heard. The local dive bar only has a few patrons on this Monday night. More than likely, just a few of the regulars who are here every night. An unknown part-time singer, part-time wrestler wasn’t going to draw a crowd in this ‘out of the way’ location. Still, Stevie McKeown was gracious for the applause he did receive. At least he could mark Rhode Island off his map of the 50 states, considering it was his first visit.

“Thank you.” Stevie says into the microphone. The smell of beer filled the place, which was surprising considering how small the crowd was. Was it worth it? He’s travelled the country, playing music, wrestling small independent shows. With no attachments to his name, he just lived for himself. In this world, he lived with his two passions. Music and wrestling.

It would be hard to say which of the two he was more passionate about. Music was his way to express himself. Wrestling, well, that one he’s not too sure about. With wrestling, you were living out a real life drama. A hard-fought drama, but a drama nonetheless.

Still. Music. Wrestling. He couldn’t imagine one without the other. If someone put a gun to his head and told him to choose, he’s not entirely certain he could.
He waits for the clapping to stop, pausing to take a drink from his bottle of water. He checks the tuning of his guitar before leaning into the microphone. “I appreciate you taking the time to come listen. This next song is called, ‘I Was Eleven.’ You could say it a little biographical.”


“Good job, kid,” the owner of the bar tells him. The large man looked to be in his sixties, maybe older and was never seen without a cigar in his mouth. The word ‘kid’ kinda puts a little sting in Stevie’s pride. He was 27, far from those days of youth when he tried to put together a band before he even reached puberty. The old man shoved some twenties into Stevie’s hand. Two hundred dollars was the agreement, but Stevie knew from experience that you don’t count the money in front of the owner.

“Thanks,” Stevie responds as he shoves the bills into the pocket of his jeans.

The owner nods, “Sure thing. You’re back tomorrow, right? Tuesdays are a little better for me here. Might have a bigger crowd.”

Stevie nods, “Yeah, I’ll be here.” Where else would he be? Two hundred dollars will get him a hotel and three squares. Sleep? That’s a different story altogether. Kinda like his bar gigs, he was used to wrestling in high schools, city parks. When he was contacted by the XWF, he almost turned them down. It was the big time.
On the plus side, he’d get paid what he was promised. On the down side, he was a little nervous about committing. A little late now, considering he already agreed. But, the main event? What if he went out there and flopped? Even worse, he could get his ass whipped. He grabs his guitar and steps out into the cool Rhode Island night, his shirt still damp from the sweat of his performance.


Stevie runs the towel over his head as he steps out of the shower. He knows he has to get something on video for the show. Try and get some fans into seats. Well, that’d be a first, honestly. He chuckles to himself.
Reaching for a pair of shorts, he tugs them on and grabs his guitar and sits on the edge of the motel bed. It wasn’t had for 45 dollars a night, if you could ignore the smell of stale cigarettes.

He reaches for his phone and props it up on the nightstand. He takes in a deep breath and hits the record button.

As the video begins, he plays a few chords on his guitar, the beginning of “I Was Eleven.” After a moment, he looks into the camera, “I know I’m supposed to come on here and beat my chest and scream and yell. Isn’t that what pro wrestlers are supposed to do? Proclaim themselves to be the best? To, without a shadow of a doubt, be able to beat their opponents within an inch of their life?”

Stevie smirks.

“If you’re expecting that from me, I’m afraid you’re not going to get it. It’s my first match for the XWF. Hell, it’s my first match in front of an audience more than a couple hundred people. The truth is, I’m nervous as hell. Raye-Weathers. Armani. I won’t lie. I’ve never heard you guys before, just like I’m sure you’ve never heard of me. Trial by fire, that’s what they say. Beginner’s luck and the winner gets a title match? How unreal is that?”

He plays a few more chords on the guitar. It’s almost a security blanket for him as he thinks of what to say next.

“There’s so much going on in the XWF and I’m looking forward to seeing where I go from here, but let’s get this triple threat match out of the way. I’m definitely looking forward to seeing everyone. Oh! Before I forget, I’m playing the next couple of nights out at the Dusty Bucket. You might have to google it. Anyway, see you soon!”

Stevie reaches over and turns off the recording.