#fiction - the #incel manifesto
THE INCEL MANIFESTO
Drink and smoke and suffer a hangover, rinse and repeat. It’s another morning of raging headache and bile in my mouth. My rage keeps pushing and demanding alcohol medication. In my fitful sleep, dreams of revenge played in my mind. ‘I will find you all…”
George enters the room with a tray and I attempt to sit up in bed. My head swims and nausea pulses through my body. Slumping back into the pillows, I close my eyes and focus on breathing until the lightheadedness passes.
“Don’t attempt to get up, just relax. Open your mouth and I’ll help you with the medicine.”
I do as he demands and swallow the pills. I hear George rustling papers on my desk and know without looking he’s gathering yesterday’s writing for processing and replacing it with blank pages and the morning paper. I do like to stay informed, though my constant hangovers usually mean I take my morning news in the early afternoon.
“What time is it?”
“Noon, Ella. Do you wish to see the doctor?”
Opening my eyes enough to watch him organizing my writing, I shake my head in the negative. I don’t need the doctor. Not for my hangover, anyway. Maybe the head doctor can prescribe something to…
“There’s something that requires your attention, Ella.”
I use my hands to push myself up against the headboards, my skull pounding protest. It’s curious he didn’t just tell me what’s the matter, it’s not like him to attempt to prepare me.
“What is it, George?”
“I came across a pamphlet you will be interested in, titled Incel Manifesto. You will find it next to Monday’s edits.”
I sigh and feel a bit of disappointment, anticipating something of more urgency. “I know all about these incel creeps, George. No need to be dramatic.”
Closing my eyes, I attempt to conjure an image of Ray. My mind paints the cheekbones and I smile inside my mind.
“The pamphlet was left at the local café…”
Blood pulses into my brain and I struggle to make sense of what he’s telling me. This fucking hangover. Maybe one of these days I should do something about my drinking. Oh, no lies between friends, dear reader, you know that will not happen any time soon.
“Do you know the identity of the author yet?”
“Not yet. There’s no name on the manifesto, just the title and text of the document.”
I snap my eyes open and lift my arms, signaling impatience. “Tell me.”
“Let’s rape a bunch of chicks.”
The familiar rage rises, pushing out the hangover. “Send me Saul. Tell him I want this on the highest priority. There are no coincidences in this life. I don’t know what it means, but this manifesto being left at my café feels like a declaration of some sort.”
“Or a threat,” George adds before leaving the room.
Forcing myself out of bed, I enter the bathroom and run the shower. Stepping under the scalding water, the details of all George told me replay in my mind like a skipping record. An incel left a manifesto for me.
So you want to play? I’ll raise that bet, whoever the fuck you are…I’ll be seeing you.
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