"Locationcel, Mentalcel and Abominationcel."
Interesting taxonomy. Although I'm just a bit skeptical regarding its validity, I suppose I'm grateful that the latter-most tribe, the one to which I myself belong, actually received something like a nod. Shame how brief that acknowledgement was. I remember when Mr. Jack Peterson, thirty pieces of silver clutched firmly in hand, invoked us as well. There was that fleeting admission that there are some men no woman could ever love because their ugliness precludes it. At the time, I was just a little bit encouraged. Someone, anyone, was willing to utter the unspeakable, the terrible truth that sometimes Nature's arbitrary cruelty finds itself manifested in the creature we now refer to as an "incel". These things are not victims of social upheaval or radical hypergamy. No mental illness or social awkwardness can be blamed for their lamentable predicament. But Mr. Peterson, having spent a moment looking out of the corner of his eye at the monsters chained in the darkness with bonds far more severe than the trivial ones forged by culture and custom, quickly wrenched his gaze away only to stare back into the mirror. The incels he proceeded to discuss were those who could possibly be redeemed, incels such as himself. Because the only unloved men anyone is willing to discuss at any length are those who someday could be loved. There is a reason that prayers are offered for lost souls down in Purgatory while no priest, regardless of how unorthodox, would waste a single chant for a devil condemned to Hell. The only way to make sense of the truly lost is to forget about them, allowing them to sink back into their native darkness.
And we see the same narrative once again. The details are different, to be sure, but that's to be expected. After all, there are only so many variations on a theme. Instead of Peterson, we now have a sad, overweight child with an unfortunate upbringing who is struggling to become a man. Perhaps not an easy goal for him, but certainly an attainable one. He can earn his driver's license, secure employment, shed what remains of his excess weight. Our protagonist can leave the plastic realm he finds himself in which the expectations of women are unrealistic and journey to a place where it's possible for a man to be loved without having to resemble some gilded idol. Maybe, just maybe, he can find a place to call home.
For the true monster, the proper abomination, there is no home. He is infinitely worse than his father Cain because even the first murderer awoke in the Land of Nod to a wife's embrace. The monster wanders eternally, its forehead branded with a sigil that declares "See no Evil, Hear no Evil, Speak no Evil" in the language animals spoke before they were granted the gift of words. Whereas the Lord permitted no one to harm his worst child, Nature allows no one to mention the misery of Her most hideous offspring. Or at least not in any significant sense.
So our hero pretends to give the devil his meager due, payment for the spells a demon was charitable enough to teach him when God refused to let him hear the songs of angels. He offers the cheapest sacrifice imaginable: a condescending pat on the repulsive head of his erstwhile familiar before roughly shoving it away. And he does so while taking particular care to avoid the beast's horns lest he prick his palm and sacrifice just a little bit of his own lifeblood as an actual compensation to the grotesque abominations that ministered to him when no one and no thing else was willing to.
Last edited:
