The Incel Stratagem

The Incel Stratagem

Several hours later, Carly Wallace was knocking on Hardwicke’s front door. Hardwicke moments later, she was sitting in Hardwicke’s living room with two tape recorders resting on the politician’s coffee table. One of the tape recorders was the one she had placed on Slater’s giant desk, that the incel radical had switched off. The second tape recorder Slater hadn’t known about. This tape recorder had remained in Carly Wallace’s blazer as Eric Slater had prostrated himself before the journalist, whimpering and whining for a squeeze. The second tape recorder had picked up every syllable of the whole sordid act, just as Hardwicke and Carly Wallace had planned it would.

‘Well done, Carly,’ said Hardwicke. ‘An Oscar-worthy performance, if ever I
heard one.

Carly Wallace didn’t say anything. Her mind was occupied by one thought:
returning home and taking a long, long shower.


The second tape did even better than they’d expected. It didn’t just discredit the Incel Party, it crushed them. Their membership halved overnight and, within a week, all the secret donors and shady allies had turned and fled, in search of better, more marketable fanatics to latch on to. The election passed with a small Tory majority. Labour did somewhat better than expected. The British Incel Party was all but completely wiped from existence. Even the Liberal Democrats found their performance laughable. The rallies vanished from the streets and, to Carly Wallace’s relief, so did all the rumours of enigmatic attacks being carried out on women.

Another thing that brought Carly much relief was the sudden disappearance of Eric Slater. As swiftly as he had emerged to dominate the political scene, he abandoned it, ears burning red, eyes streaming with the tears of betrayal. In the weeks after the BIP’s collapse, Carly Wallace heard some vague hints as to the politician’s whereabouts. Some people theorised that he had moved north, to join forces with the English Nationalist Coalition. Others claimed he had gone abroad. Some, bizarrely, insisted that Eric Slater now made a living as a sex worker, with numerous unsunstantiated reports of handjobs provided by the former political leader being offered up across the internet. Carly Wallace couldn’t help but feel that, if these rumours were true, it was better than the vile creature deserved.

Another strange thing happened, in the aftermath of that election. The
Conservatives devised a new bill. One that, though controversial, showed many
signs of passing. In order to combat the rise of political inceldom, they declared,
they intended to create a new government department that would allow incels to
request state sanctioned prostitutes. The Conservative Prime Minister insisted that such a measure would cripple the underlying philosophy to the incel movement. After all, what prostitute would turn down an eager client, especially if they had been sent to that client on behalf of the government?

‘That was something I proposed,’ said Hardwicke, three months after the
election. The pair of them had just settled down for another delicious lunch.

‘Oh?’ said Carly. She did her best to mask the disdain in her voice. She
hadn’t thought much of this new proposal by Hardwicke’s party. ‘I have to say,
I’m not sure if that’s exactly a conservative position for your party to take…’

‘Well, we have to move with the times,’ replied Hardwicke, smirking slightly.
‘There are lots of different factions within the party, politically…it’s quite a wide

Once they had eaten lunch, Carly and Hardwicke bid each other farewell.
Then Hardwicke got in his car and drove, far, far to the darkest corners of the
city, to a small building, squashed in-between two looming grey towers.
Hardwicke entered this building and was greeted by a trio of men. They saluted
as Hardwicke entered. They were sitting around a small, square table, upon
which had been flung a pale yellow flag.

‘So, Hardwicke,’ said one of the men. ‘Do you reckon the State Prostitute
Bill will pass?’

‘There’s a good chance,’ said Hardwicke, ‘although we’ll have to change the
name. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it!’

The three men laughed. The first man spoke again, wiping tears of joy from
his eyes.

‘I have to say, Hardwicke,’ said the anonymous speaker. ‘That was a big risk
you took, discrediting the Incel Party the way you did. Your girl performed

‘She did, didn’t she?’ smiled Hardwicke. ‘And yes, it was a bit touch and go, wasn’t it? Still, we did the right thing. If the Incel Party had been allowed to keep running it’s mouth, our forces would’ve been left fragmented. The Tories would have been eaten up by Slater’s fanboys and Labour would have conquered a divided enemy. The Incel Party was popular, yes but popular enough to win a sizable majority? I think not. I think not. No, subtlety is the key, boys. There’s no reason we have to rush our revolution, is there?’

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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