The Incel Stratagem

The Incel Stratagem

‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’ giggled Carly. Slater returned her phone before sitting back on his chair, staring at his fingers in silence.

‘Anyway,’ continued Carly, ‘it’s just a shame that you’re a Volcel and don’t want to have sex with any women, becuase it looks like you’re really popular with some of them!’

‘Yes,’ croaked Slater, dully. ‘That is crazy.’

Of course,’ said Carly, ‘I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t see the appeal…’

Slater’s eyes snapped to attention.

‘I mean…’ simpered Carly, ‘there’s just something about…the way you carry yourself…there’s something about it…the way you always sound so sure about what you’re talking about…and it’s obvious you’re not like most guys…’

Carly sighed, ballooning her chest to absurd proportions. A thin veil of sweat had broken out across Slater’s dome-shaped forehead.

‘I remember this one article I read on your website,’ said Carly, ‘about how you opposed sex work. You said it was wrong for women to exploit men with their bodies, and that men who paid for sex were bastards who didn’t respect women. You said it was a dehumanising practice…Feminist-capitalism taken to it’s logical end point…’

‘Yes,’ croaked Slater, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was utterly engrossed with Carly’s chest. ‘I think a lot of the current discourse surrounding sex work is…problematic…’

‘I found that article very inspiring,’ said Carly. ‘It’s rare to see such a nice guy…so unafraid to take up an unpopular position…that takes strength and strength…moral strength is something I have always found very, very attractive.’

Carly made sure to allow her voice to crack slightly on the word ‘attractive,’ emanating a delicate, fragile squeak that hinted, only hinted, at the emergence of an erotic passion regarding Slater. It was a voice crack that she had rehearsed dozens of times in the mirror, coached by Hardwicke, standing at her shoulder. Carly forced herself to choke back a grin as she recalled how Hardwicke’s pride and joy had, quite unexpectedly, leapt to attention on the twenty-sixth rehearsed voice crack.

‘That’s the one,’ Hardwicke had joked, before his lips descended upon hers. ‘Do it like that and he’ll be at your mercy…’ Wordlessly, Slater reached over and switched off the tape recorder. He stood up and, slowly, stiffly, crept towards Carly. He leaned forwards, bending double, shoving his face inches away from hers. It took all of Carly’s self-control not to vomit at the incel’s grotesque visage. A loathsome, perverted flush had tainted Slater’s previously pale cheeks. The bristly barbs of his copper beard looked
like a mass of withered, uncropped pubic hair. His nose was covered in a thick sheen of sweat.

‘Do you really find me attractive?’ whimpered Slater.

Oh, yes,’ said Carly. ‘That’s why I came here. The interview was only an excuse. I just wanted the chance to meet you…’

Slater wiped his nose. His teeth flashed and, Carly noticed with revulsion, in the back of Slater’s mouth his teeth weren’t white at all. They were brown and stunted, jutting like tiny little splinters at the back of his grey gums.

‘I always thought…there’d be someone out there…’ stammered the politician. ‘Someone who actually…looked past my face and…paid attention to my personality…who got me…’

Slater’s hand, like a snake, darted forwards and seized hold of Carly’s shoulder. Carly squeaked with alarm and Slater’s eyes bulged with excitement.

‘You don’t suppose…you don’t suppose I could…’ begged Slater.

‘Sleep with me?’ finished Carly. Slater’s nodding head was a blur before her eyes.

Certainly not!’ said Carly.

‘Why not!?’ barked Slater, tightening his grip. For the first time, Carly felt a bolt of terror, real terror, jumping up the back of her throat. Indeed, it only now seemed to occur to her that she was alone in a room with a very dangerous man, in an isolated building overflowing with many more dangerous men. With a smile plastered across her face, she removed Slater’s trembling fingers from her shoulder.

‘Come on, Eric,’ pleaded Carly. ‘Don’t be like that. It’s not that I don’t want to…but, we’ve only just met, haven’t we? I’m not the sort of girl who sleeps with a man on the first date..’

‘No! No, of course not!’ spat Slater, his eyes twitching. He stood up and, immediately, shoved both of his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘No,’ repeated Slater, attempting a smile. ‘No, you’re not like that, are you? You’re lady. A real lady.’

Now that the incel’s hand was no longer clamped across her shoulder, Carly allowed herself the tiniest of shudders. She knew that she needed to gather as much fortitude as possible in order to carry out the last stage of THE IDEA. Slater licked his lips again.

First date, you said?’ he muttered, eyes flashing. ‘So, that means that there might be a…might be a…’

‘Second date?’ said Carly. ‘Of course! There can be as many dates as you want!’

An expression of pure joy erupted across Slater’s face, only to fade, moments later.

‘We’ll have to keep it a secret,’ hissed Slater. ‘No one, no one can know about us. My supporters…wouldn’t…they wouldn’t be too happy with the idea of me…fraternising with the enemy…can’t have that…I’m pure to them, you see. I’m what they aspire to be…untainted…’

‘Eric?’ Carly interrupted, biting her bottom lip. Slater froze. Even a man as unversed in the mannerisms of the fairer sex- or ‘The Ladies’ as he might call them- recognised that their was something significant in the suggestive biting of
that lower lip.

‘Yes, Carly?’ whispered Slater.

‘Just because I said I didn’t want to go all the way…’ said Carly as, staring deep into Slater’s eyes, she unbuttoned the rest of her shirt. ‘Well, that doesn’t mean that I won’t let you do anything to me…you can squeeze them, if you want?

‘Can I- Can I really?’ drooled the politician. Carly nodded then held up a solitary finger.

‘But first,’ said Carly, ‘you have to say the magic word.’

‘The magic word?’ whimpered Slater, panicking. ‘What’s the magic word? WHAT’S THE MAGIC WORD!?’

‘Please,’ breathed Carly Wallace. ‘Say please, and I’ll let you touch them.’ Slater stared at Carly. He stared at Carly’s exposed chest and licked his lips. Slowly, the politician got on his knees and rested his pointed chin upon Carly’s lap. The incel’s head felt like a lump of cold clay on Carly’s legs.

‘Please,’ whimpered Slater, eyes wide and hopeful. ‘Please can I touch them? Please?’

About The Author

Rhys Clark

I am an English and Theatre Studies student at the University of Warwick. I particularly enjoy dystopian literature and political satire. My influences as a writer are George Orwell, Christopher Hitchens, Kurt Vonnegut and Harold Pinter.

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