[Celtic Thunder]

Previously in the tale of Ciarán Doyle…

The roar from the other side of the curtains was so loud, compacted screams of delight, whistles and catcalls, was so strong that Ciarán could have sworn he felt it in his teeth! The young Irishman was this close to turning tail and bolting when he felt Ruaoro’s hand on the small of his back.

“Go!” Ruairí urged behind him, pushing him through the gap in the middle of the curtains and all Ciarán could blessedly see was the glare of the stage lights! A blessing in disguise as if he had been able to see the audience themselves, then he might have frozen - and he was still this close to doing so!

Ciarán’s eyes were glued to Ruairi, watching his every move and mimicking him as best he could without looking completely foolish. As the music pulsed across the entirety of the nightclub and the cheers and whistles washed over the men, they hit their first formation of two lines, then a staggered V and he did exactly what Ruairí had told him to do. He watched his mate like a hawk and copied every move half a beat behind. Step forward, roll a hip then turn. Hands dragging up oiled torsos, hips popping to the bea....

Seriously, how the feck did he get talked into making a complete arse out of himself!?

Ciarán wasn’t perfect. More than once he stepped left when the line went right, or his arm came up just a fraction too late. But every time he fucked up, he locked back onto Ruairí and corrected himself, falling back into synch!

And just like Ruairí had promised him, nobody out there seemed to give a shite. They were too busy screaming and fawning over thrusting pelvises and oiled up pecs. The rush of it washed over Ciarán, an insane blend of terror and adrenaline that had him grinning despite himself.

Midway through the number, the formation split. The music shifted, driving into a heavier, dirtier beat. One by one, the dancers peeled off from the line for a quick centre-stage moment under the brightest spotlight, ten seconds each to do something dirty enough to send their section of the crowd into orbit. And seeing this had Ciarán practically shitting himself.

A lad with a buzzcut dropped into a spinnarooni before righting himself and running his hands up his thighs. Ruairí’s turn brought a roar from the front row as he mimed loosening his belt and unbuttoning his pants, teasing the audience thoroughly.

And then there was space in front of Ciarán. The others had fanned back. He felt as if his heart had plummeted into his stomach suddenly.

“Go on!” Ruairi urged from the line behind him.

His mind was completely blank. He stood there like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi. He heard a woman near the front shout, “Take it off!”

With absolutely nothing else to grab onto, he did the first thing his panicked brain offered. He lifted both hands behind his head and rolled his hips while turning his body in a complete circle where he stood. The reaction was instantaneous as his movements drew immediate cheers and shrieks of delight!

Ciarán felt his face burn, but the reckless bit of him kept the grind going for one extra beat before he stepped back into formation.

“Ya filthy hoor!” Ruairí hissed happily as he slid in beside him again. “Told ya you had it!”

“Shut up and get me out of here!” Ciarán muttered, breathless.

The track changed again and just when Ciarán thought he had the pattern of the number clocked, the line turned as one and headed not back upstage but straight down the steps and into the crowd.

“What are we doin’!?” Ciarán hissed between his teeth.

“Mingle!” Ruairí shouted back over the roar. “Try not to get mauled!”

And then he was gone, swept off toward a cluster of women waving bridal sashes, leaving Ciarán nudged forward by the lads behind him until his boots hit the club floor. The table right in front of him erupted in schoolgirl delight.

“There he is! Grease-boy!” A woman in a veil  squealed, clearly having had more than her fair share of drinks. She had a plastic tiara that read “Bride To Be” and a sash with the words “Last Fling Before the Ring”. Her friends, each in a “Team Bride” t-shirt, moved closer around the table.

A hand ran a path down his chest. Another slipped a twenty (deep) into his belt. The bridal party and the bride herself all crowded around in front of him as someone held their phone out for a group selfie.

For half a second, all he could manage was a startled laugh. “Jaysus, ladies, steady on, will ye?”

“Aw, he’s shy!” One of them shrieked with delight. “Do the hip thing again!”

They clapped and chanted, “Hip! Hip! Hip!” like a drunken chorus.

What else could he do? He didn't want to refuse and cause a bad review for Ruairi and his buddies. So Ciarán placed his hands behind his head and repeated his move as best he could in the tight space. The table went absolutely feral.

“Best. Night. Ever!” The bride declared. “If this weddin’ doesn’t work out, I’m comin’ back for you!”

A familiar hand landed between his shoulder blades. “Sorry ladies!” Ruairí’s voice came as he slid in beside him. “Borrowin’ him back for a minute. Union rules, y’know.” Already steering Ciarán away with an arm around his waist, guiding him through the crush of bodies and back toward the steps. “Come on, superstar. Finale time.” Ruairi declared.

“Don’t you ever say ‘mingle’ to me again!” Ciarán muttered as they climbed back toward the stage.

Ruairí just laughed. “You smashed it, Doyle. Now focus.”

They slid back into position as the others reformed the line. The final chorus hit and they moved together to the beat, the whole stage pulsing. Ciarán lost himself in it,  still not perfect but keeping up as best he could with the steps he memorized.

On the last beat, the lads struck their final pose and the club detonated into screams, whistles and applause. Then the house lights dipped and the line peeled away in slick, practiced order,  backstage and behind the curtains as the MC again took control of the show.

Backstage was a blur of sweat, laughter and the high that came after a good show. The moment they cleared the curtain, the line of lads gave one another high fives and hugs, congratulating one another on a successful show. Ciarán stood there, heart still batterin’ his ribs, still coming to terms he just did … that! Before he could gather himself, one of the dancers, the same buzzcut lad from earlier, strode over and clapped him hard on the shoulder.

“Cheers, mate!” He said, grinning wide. “You saved our arses!”

Another fella with long hair tied back in a bun chimed in as he passed, giving Ciarán’s other shoulder a squeeze. “Would’ve been a shambles without that extra body out there. Thanks, Doyle!”

“Good man!” A third added, flicking his tie at him as he walked by. “Hard to believe it was yer first time the way you did that hip circle.

Ciarán could only manage “No worries.” His cheeks burning hotter with every compliment.

Ruairí appeared in front of him, eyes bright as Christmas. He slapped both hands onto Ciarán’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “See? Wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

“Wasn’t so…!?” Ciarán gaped at him. “Are you completely deranged!?”

He threw his hands up. “I made a holy show of meself out there!” He ranted. “I got molested six different ways by strangers and I’m fairly sure that I just might be engaged now!”

The nearby lads burst out laughing!

“Ah, would you stop!” Ruairí said, rolling his eyes. “You’re makin’ it sound worse than it is! You did grand! Crowd loved ya! You definitely pulled a few tips as well, don’t be coy!”

“Oh, I pulled tips alright!” Ciarán snapped. “Down in the promised land, apparently!”

Before anyone could ask, he hooked his thumb under the waistband of his trousers, ignoring the surprised chorus of “Steady now!” and wolf whistles, and reached down the front of his pants, expression twisted in indignation as he fished around.

“Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!” He muttered. “Could they not have used me belt like normal people?”

He finally got a grip on the wad and yanked his hand back out, holding up a crumpled bundle of notes. “There now!” He said, waving the wad in Ruairí’s face. “Look at this! I think I’ve just committed adultery with an entire bridal party via legal tender!”

The lads roared. With laughter, each one of them having experienced much the same throughout their careers.

Ruairí leaned in for a closer look, still grinning. Ciarán glanced down at the money himself, intending to dramatically fling it in his friend’s direction, and then did a double take.

“Hold on…” He said, squinting. “These aren’t singles. These are twenties!”

His brows shot up towards his hairline. “Who the hell is stuffin’ twenties down me jocks like that’s normal behaviour!?”

Ruairí snorted. “Hen nights, lad.” He replied with incredulous delight for his buddy. “They come loaded!”

He pointed with his chin at the bundle still in Ciarán’s hand. “There’s a fifty in there as well, look.”

Ciarán fanned the wad out with reluctant curiosity and sure enough, there it was. A crisp, brand new fifty. “Jesus wept… I’m gonna have to tithe this on Sunday. Cleanse me soul.”

“Or…” Offered a smooth, amused voice from beside them. “You could consider it an advance?”

Both Ciarán and Ruairi turned to find the group’s manager Seán, having materialized from somewhere behind them, a faint, satisfied smile on his face.

“Hell of a debut, Doyle.” He said. “Crowd went mad for ya! That hen table in front is already askin’ if you’re on again next week.”

“Absolutely not!” Ciarán said in reflex, clutching the money like it might either bite him or vanish entirely.

Seán chuckled. “You say that now. But….” He tipped his chin at the wad of cash. “There could be more where that came from. Bit of part-time work? Couple of nights a month? Easy money.”

Before Ciarán could even form a refusal, Ruairí was already chiming in, eyes alight with mischief. “And if he ever decided to go the full monty…” He added happily, “He could really…!”

“Nope!” Ciarán cut across him, voice going up a full octave. He stuffed the notes into his pocket like contraband, face scarlet. “No! Absolutely not! The answer is no from now ‘til Judgement Day! I am done! Finished! Career over before it even started! Now where…!” He demanded, turning around and looking down the hall for a dressing room or shower - something!  “...Can I wash this shite off me?!”

He stomped off down the corridor, muttering under his breath about oil and hips and defiling currency! One of the lads leaned out of a dressing room to point helpfully toward the showers, barely holding in his laughter.

Ruairí watched him go, that wide, fond grin still plastered across his face. Beside him, Seán folded his arms, eyes tracking Ciarán’s retreating, very popular backside. “Stubborn, that one.” He sighed. “Shame. He’s a natural.”

Ruairí shrugged one shoulder, utterly unconcerned. “Give him a bit. Once he’s not feelin’ like a greased pig on display and he’s counted that wad properly?”

He flashed the manager a knowing smile.

“He’ll be back.”


Pussy Willow: And you weren't.

Ciarán Doyle: And I wasn’t.

Two faces filled the screen, SCW reporter Pussy Willow and newcomer, Ciarán Doyle. Revealing that the entire story from the past week and this, had been a podcast interview broadcast on-air.

Ciarán Doyle: Not even a little bit. Back then if you’d have told me I’d be standin’ under lights with that kind of carry on, I’d have laughed you out of the room. I had all these grand ideas about dignity and keepin’ to myself. I thought I was above that sort of thing.

Pussy Willow: So what changed your mind?

Ciarán Doyle: The money. Plain and simple. I’d love to dress it up, but it was the bills on the table and the landlord bangin’ on the door. Rent doesn’t care about yer pride. The `lectric company doesn’t give a shite about yer boundaries. I was knowin’ if somethin’ didn’t give I’d be sleepin’ in a doorway. Simple as that. An' me lad Ruiain meant what he said at the time. Goin’ full monty was where the real coin is.

Pussy Willow's eyes shot up.

Pussy Willow: So does that mean...?

Ciarán nodded.

Ciarán Doyle: That somewhere out there on the wide and wonderful internet, there are pictures and videos of my banger floatin’ about, yeah. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend there aren’t. Somewhere some poor gobshite’s phone is full of angles of me I definitely never imagined bein’ archived for posterity.

Pussy Willow: And now here you are, not dancin’ for rent money but wrestlin’ for a career. Your second match in and they’ve already lined you up with Aiden Reynolds. That’s a big jump. What does that tell you?

Ciarán Doyle: It tells me exactly what the brass think of me. My first night in, I do what I’m brought here to do and I get me hand raised. I prove I can walk the walk inside those ropes. Now for match number two, instead o’ givin’ me another soft touch and lettin’ me coast, they throw me in with Aiden feckin’ Reynolds! A right bastard with anger issues and a chip on his shoulder the size of a tour bus. That’s them sayin’, all right Doyle, let’s see if you can swim with a shark!

Pussy Willow: What do you see when you look at Aiden Reynolds as an opponent?

Ciarán Doyle: I see danger, first off. I’m not stupid. I see a former Roulette Champion, a lad who’s been in there with killers and come out the other side still standin’. I see Wolfslair an' everything they're about all over his history. I see the fella who took Helluva Bottom Carter, the World Heavyweight Champion himself, right to the edge two pay-per-views in a row. Aiden dragged him into deep water, twice, and made him swim for his life! That tells me I’m facin’ a man who knows how to hurt, and how to keep goin’ when he’s hurt!

Pussy Willow: And yet you’ve also called him the bridesmaid, not the bride, especially when it comes to names like Alex Jones and Austin James Mercer. Can you explain what you mean by that, without takin’ anything away from those guys?

Ciarán Doyle: Aye. Alex Jones and Austin James Mercer? They're what you might call the stabdard bearers of the men in Wolfslair. They’ve put the work in. They’ve held the big gold more than once. And when you stand Aiden beside big name lads like that, he’s always right next to the top but never quite reachin’ it. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. The guy everyone looks at and says any day now, he’s gonna break through. Almost world champion. Almost the face of the brand. That eats away at a man more than any loss.

Pussy Willow: Do you think that’s where some of the anger comes from?

Ciarán Doyle: I do, yeah. When you’ve been that close that many times? You look at the world like it’s robbed you. I watch the way he carries himself. It’s the body language of a man who thinks the universe owes him a refund. He’s barely holdin’ it together. And that makes him dangerous because a man who feels cheated doesn’t mind cheatin’ opportunity out of the next guy if it gets him where he wants to go.

Pussy Willow: So you respect what he’s done. Why is that?

Ciarán Doyle: Because I’d be an eejit not to respect Aiden Reynolds! The man tore the World Champion apart before he just barely lost! I’ve watched tapes of his matches. I’ve seen what he's capable of. But I’m not the one carryin’ his history on my back, now am I? That’s the difference between him an' me. Every time he’s stood in the ring feelin’ the world slip through his fingers, that’s that much more weight on his back. Me? I’m comin’ in fresh with no ghosts of wrestlin' past in me ear. So while he’s draggin’ his past behind him, I’m runnin’ toward my future. I know what I’m walkin’ into. He doesn't.

Pussy Willow: You’ve talked a lot about roles in wrestling. Where do you see Aiden’s role right now? And your own?

Ciarán Doyle: Right now, Aiden is the measuring stick. He’s the man they send newcomers through to see if the hype is real. The bosses know that fella is a loose cannon that's going to break the new lads down bone by broken bone. You want to know if some new fella can hang with the big boys? You put him in with Aiden Reynolds. If he breaks, you can save yourself bother. If he survives, you got an investment. But here’s the truth of bein’ the measuring stick. You’re a tool. No more, no less. My role? I'm the one the office and the locker room are still tryin’ to figure out. I’m the question mark.

Pussy Willow: If he’s the measuring stick, what kind of match do you expect to have against him?

Ciarán Doyle: Step by step you mean? Bell rings, and he comes at me like a bull. That’s what a man with his anger does. He tries to set the tone, tries to hit me hard and early. I’m ready for that storm. I’ll take some shots, I’ll eat a few stiff ones, but I’ll still be standin’ there, hittin’ back. Then we get to the grind, the back-and-forth. Every time he hooks my leg and hears two instead of three, that chip on his shoulder gets heavier. And that’s where I make my living. In the moment where his temper gets ahead of his talent, I slip in, I catch him, and suddenly the bridesmaid is lyin’ on his back while the ref’s hand hits three.

Pussy Willow: Are you tryin’ to take his spot, then? To leapfrog off his name and step into the conversations he’s been havin’ for years about titles and main events?

Ciarán Doyle: Of course I am. What’s the point of gettin’ in there if you’re not tryin’ to move up the ladder? He’s spent years knockin’ on the door, and that constant knockin’ has worn the wood down. I’m showin’ up now to kick what’s left of it in. Every time they put a name opposite mine, I’m thinkin’ about how I can use that name as a step upward. When I beat Aiden, it’s not just a line on a win-loss record. It’s proof that I’m not just a fun new toy. I’m a threat. He stays the man who could have had it all. I become the man people start whisperin’ about.

Pussy Willow: Final thought. When the match is over and people look back at Ciarán Doyle versus Aiden Reynolds, what do you want Aiden to feel, and what do you want the fans to remember?

Ciarán Doyle: I want Aiden to feel that sick twist in his gut he knows all too well. That he did almost everything right and it still wasn’t enough. I want him lyin’ there, starin’ up at the lights, wonderin’ how he let it slip again. As for the fans, I want them to look at that match and say, that was the night Ciarán Doyle stopped bein’ an interesting newcomer and started becomin’ a problem. I want them to remember that I stepped in with a former Roulette Champion, a Wolfslair bruiser, the man who took Helluva Bottom Carter to his limits, and I won. That’s the story I’m writin’ here. I’m the lad who’s only just gettin’ started.

Pussy Willow: Thank you, Ciarán. And good luck this Sunday.

Ciarán Doyle smiles as the podcast interview is brought to its conclusion.