Raziel Reynolds: Countdown to Cancellation

Raziel Reynolds: Countdown to Cancellation

Posted on June 21, 2023 at 3:02 pm by Charles de Lacy

INT. O’LEARY’S. PUBLIC HOUSE. DAY.

The warm lighting and rich wooden features of O’Leary’s will
be a familiar sight to regular HOW viewers, being as it is
the unofficial HQ of a certain Mr DE LACY. The man in
question cuts a typically conspicuous figure, sitting in a
corner booth, idly swirling the remains of his scotch, his
tweed suit and haughty demeanour marking him out from the
crowd of lairy patrons.

The bar is full of men. Only two women in here and they look
like men. Faces like rotten beetroots. One has a tuft of
carrot-coloured hair. Everybody here has one thing in
common. They have come in here to get drunk. The atmosphere
is rank with stale sweat and Irish accent.

DE LACY
Once again you find me in my
natural habitat. The humble public
house.

DE LACY’s eyes remain fixated on the tumbler in his hand. A
sardonic smile plays on his lips.

Ah, O’Leary’s. A bastion of
tradition in a world consumed by
digital vapidity. As I sit here,
surrounded by the echoes of hearty
laughter and the clinking of
glasses, it should become
abundantly clear why I chose this
timeless establishment as the
setting for my latest sermon.

DE LACY takes a thoughtful sip from his scotch, savouring
the moment.

You see, my friends, while the
youth of today take refuge in the
digital realm, eyes firmly glued to
their screens, I find solace in
this place. O’Leary’s represents
values that have withstood the test
of time. Values that are as sturdy
as these wooden walls.

He gestures towards the bar and its patrons, his voice
carrying a touch of pride.

Here, in this haven of genuine
connections, we share stories,
embrace our heritage, and
appreciate the art of conversation.

As if on cue, a young couple enter the bar. The man, a
scrawny figure in skinny jeans, saunters towards a vacant
booth at the far end. The woman, a buxom blond spilling out
of a tight, black cocktail dress, totters behind him on
too-high heels.

Two Irish expats – regulars – watch the couple keenly from
the bar.

The first, flushed from hours of drinking, elbows his
compatriot in the ribs, conspiratorially.

PATRON 1
Did ya see the size o’ those
tings!? It looked like she had a
couple o’ bald fellas in a
headlock.

PATRON 2
Sure, ye wouldn’t kick her outta
bed for fartin’.

PATRON 1
What d’ya think she sees in a lanky
streak o’ piss like that?

PATRON 2
Beats me. But he must be hung like
a racehorse, begorrah!

DE LACY, acutely aware that the preceding exchange has
somewhat undermined his proclamations of wholesome bar-room
chit-chat, gawps at the two men, open-mouthed.

Regaining his composure, he continues.

DE LACY
(With a quiet sigh)
Ah, the art of conversation knows
no bounds. Yes, it is within the
walls of O’Leary’s that I find my
inspiration, surrounded by the
spirit of the hard-working men and
women who define this fair city…

The two Irish continue their character assassination.

PATRON 1
An’ did ye see the state o’ his
hair?

PATRON 2
It’s like me old da’ used to say,
‘lift up a ponytail, there’s always
an arsehole underneath.’

PATRON 1
Feckin’ hipsters.

Tiring of the competition, DE LACY picks up his tumbler and
searches for a quiet corner. He settles on a spot next to an
empty fireplace, easing himself into a leather armchair.
Satisfied that there will be no further distractions, he
continues his diatribe.

DE LACY
Ladies and gentlemen, I suppose
what I am attempting to do is
address the circus that awaits me
in the form of Raziel Reynolds,
HOW’s latest sacrificial lamb.

Ah, Raziel, my young unsuspecting
friend, you may think you’re
accustomed to a certain lifestyle,
but let me enlighten you, my good
sir. This wrestling promotion, this
High Octane Wrestling, is far
beyond your scope of understanding.
It’s not just a side project, oh
no. It’s a battleground where
warriors like myself step into the
spotlight and show the world what
true greatness looks like.

The kicking you took from
Bobbinette Carey? Well, that was
just the beginning.

You see, Raziel, I am not here for
the likes and subscribers, as you
so eloquently put it.

DE LACY grimaces.

No, my dear fellow, I am here to
dominate. I am here to show what a
true aristocrat, a refined
gentlemen such as myself, is
capable of. And while you may be
more concerned with applying
sunscreen than preparing for our
upcoming match, I assure you, you
will need more than Coppertone to
protect yourself from the onslaught
I am about to unleash upon you.

You claim to bring your social
media following to this
organisation, as if that’s some
grand act of altruism. Well, let me
tell you, Raziel, your followers
will be nothing more than pawns in
my game. They won’t be there to
help you, come CHAOS. They will
merely act as the fuel that fires
my disdain for you and your
generation. They will witness your
annihilation at my hands, with mild
indifference at best, before
scrolling to the next viral
sensation. After all, it will be
yet another chapter in the saga of
cancelled social media influencers.

And so, when the dust has settled,
and you are reduced to nothing more
than a “whatever happened to…”
Reddit thread, your followers will
be left bewildered. Lost in a sea
of unanswered questions and
shattered illusions. As they scroll
through the comments and
discussions, your name will be
whispered with a mix of pity and
scorn, a cautionary tale of
ambition without substance.

Meanwhile, as you prepare yourself
for the inevitable descent into
obscurity, I will continue to rise
above you. Triumphant and
unscathed. Living proof that 15
minutes of fame is no match for a
lifetime of hard work and
dedication.

DE LACY concludes with a terrible, puckered smile. O’Leary’s patrons continue to
chatter amicably in the background as the scene dissolves. Gentle murmurings from the tangible world.