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Story Short story: A Congregation of the Incel-Cult

Iamnothere000

Iamnothere000

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A Congregation of the Incel-Cult



“Welcome! Welcome, my brothers. It fills me with such joy to see that you finally arrived. I have already been worried.” Bishop ERasmus (as he called himself) greeted the group of new arrivals with open arms. His well-practiced voice echoed through the neon lit hall, repeating the phrases that he had already used several times this evening.

He was a short, scrawny and all-around unimpressive man, usually; however, his booming voice, dramatic gestures and wide dark robes gave him an air of authority (and a way of hiding his plateau shoes).

The first of the newcomers replied in an unpleasantly wet voice: “I-I’m sorry my liege, h-had to convince m-my whore of a mother to lend me the c-car. H-had to make up s-some shit about being invited to a p-party. T-Took a while till s-she was convinced.”

ERasmus rolled his eyes under the shadow of his hood but forced a smile. “Don’t apologise Brother Melvin, your driving skills are a tremendous boon to us.” One of the other arrivals, a lank, norwooding guy with an average face, suppressed a snicker. Ignoring that, ERasmus continued: “Please my friends, the sermon will begin soon. Don your robes and find your seats among your brothers.” He hesitated for a second. “…and, if you have the heart, throw some coins in the box over there, the bills don’t pay themselves and we, unlike foids, don’t receive money for simply existing.”

“I-I’m s-sorry but I don’t have any c-cash on me now, my greedy cunt m-mother demands that I c-contribute as much as possible to p-pay the rent.” Melvin said. “It is all well Melvin, don’t be sorry for things you have no control over, that’s the way of the cuck.” ERasmus replied slightly annoyed.

The group passed him and did as they were asked. ERasmus exited the building and, after a few steps, took one last look over the rural area. It was close to nightfall. The last rays of sunlight got swallowed by gathering storm clouds at the horizon. He could see the biggest part of the long street that led to his remote church. There were no headlights to be seen, no one else would arrive today.

He returned and, just as the first raindrops began to fall, closed the heavy metal gate of the storehouse with a loud gong-sound, signalling the beginning of today’s exhortation, ending all chatter and whispering. As he went for the pulpit he passed the ranks of his followers. First were the newest initiates, dressed in robes of bright red, symbolizing the shame and impotent rage they had to endure before joining the faith.

As he came closer to his destination, red was slowly replaced, by hue or by decoration, with black. Black, in this context, was the colour of truth. The more wisdom a follower received, the closer he came to know the truth about human nature, which was, you guessed it, pretty dark. This was a difficult and painful spiritual journey. So, in order to ease the process, the truth had to be administered in little, easy to digest doses. Pills, if you will. Indeed, a stylized black capsule was the holy symbol of this movement. The mark of the black pill was drawn on every surface of the building. Advanced members even had tattoos.

Dispensing those metaphorical pills was the primary calling of people like ERasmus. In irregular intervals he would host or join gatherings like this, where he freed his brothers from the lie of the just world, from falsehoods about personality and confidence, and were he opened their eyes to the abyss that is the human (and especially the female) soul.

The secondary calling, his favourite one, was the encouragement, facilitation, planning and enacting of deeds that resulted from such an understanding. But all in due time…

With slow, measured steps he ascended the pulpit, turned and gave the sign to dim the lights. Only those directly above him stayed somewhat bright, making him the visual focus of the audience.

“What is it my brothers!?” He yelled while raising his arms.

“It is over!!!” the congregation shouted back in unison.

“Oh, but it is not over, my brothers.” He said with mock indignation. “And why is that, I ask you?”

“Because it never began!!!” the crowd answered.

“Indeed…” ERasmus replied, beginning his sermon in earnest.

“In this world, in this society, it never began if you are born an ugly man!”

He started gesturing to supporting his rhetoric, occasionally pausing for effect.

“Study after scientific study proves that ugliness is a tremendous disadvantaged in every part of life. Career, Friendship, Respect and, most of all, intimate Relationships. All of it impacted by how attractive you are. What does that mean for men? The shape of your bones and the amount of hair on your head! Things you have almost no control over.

And now this society, those people who are otherwise so obsessed with fairness. With justice and equality. Turn around and tell us to just deal with it.

Man up, they say. Life is not fair! Play the cards you’ve been dealt!

We are told to compensate for our flaws with other quality’s we might have. To work on ourselves. A good personality and interesting hobbies can go a long way don’t you know?

And while there is an argument to be made for self-improvement, I must ask you:

Why am I expected, by this society, to compensate for flaws that should not even be perceived as flaws by this very same society?

A society that is, I remind you, obsessed with fairness and justice along every possible axis!

Should a black person be expected to compensate for being black?
A woman for being a woman?
The disabled for being disable?

The very notion would be unthinkable for those hypocrites.

Except when it is applied to us… ugly men.”

He spoke the last words with pretended disgust.

“If you are not attractive or, for some other reason, tremendously interesting to your employers, your politicians or potential female partners, you are apparently worthless.

We are just here to work, help out when we are needed, consume and pay taxes to fund the equalisation of groups with whom we will never be seen as equal, but lesser.

Should we ever complain, we are immediately shamed and told how much privilege other men apparently have. Because men, as you know, are the only demographic that can be treated as a monolith. You see, Old Lord Chaddington von Buchenwald was so privileged from all the power and wealth he acquired through slave trading. Therefore you, Mister unemployed autistic loner, are also privileged. Because both of you have a Y-Chromosome.”

By now the good Bishop was oozing with resentment. His hooded face was a mask of barely concealed rage. Event through his wide dark robes, his body language was that of a man about to commit violence. No one would be seriously surprised if he were to suddenly shoot lightning from his hands.

He did not, but, much like the fictional Sith-Lord he resembled, ERasmus was quite able to cannel his aggression in productive long term plans…

And there was still lightning, provided by the thunderstorm that now raged outside. The occasional flashes revealed that his audience was now just as angry as he was.

“Good… good.” He thought.

“Society, people and women only dare to treat us this ways because we are seen as harmless. As pathetic, passive little boys!”

“But this night, I tell you, we will surely rectify this impression… Brother Melvin, if you would.”

Melvin rose from his seat and went to the back of the almost dark hall, trying not to stumble over his red robes. Next to the donation-box was an even bigger vessel, shaped like a coffin, it stood upright, about 1,70 meters in height. Using a nearby hand truck, he moved the box to the front, occasionally colliding whit the seats of his brothers, apologising every time.

ERasmus gritted his teeth while observing the farce. When the box stood next to the pulpit, Melvin faced the congregation, fumbled for something in his robes and eventually retrieved a piece of paper. It was a page from the local newspaper. He began to read out loud, his exhaustion evident in his voice.

“A-After four days of int-…<pant>… intensive searching, t-there is still no t-trace of the beloved influencer and o-online model Stacy R-Rosenblatt, b-better known as B-BossySimpQueen to her countless fans. H-Her disappearance ha-has already caused wide s-spread p-protests and violent riots, as well as ss-several sss-suicides, since many of her f-followers cannot bear to live w-without their idol. I-It is for this r-reason that her wellbeing h-has been deemed a a m-matter of public safety and a-all a-available resources will be focused on her re-rec-recovery.

I-In other news, the s-stock price for c-cat food has doubled a-again as a growing number of e-experts p-predict a r-rise in…”

“That will be all, thank you brother.” ERasmus interjected.

“S-sorry…” said Melvin, as he threw the piece of paper away.

With a resigned voice ERasmus continued: “Please open the box and do as you were instructed.”

Without a word Melvin complied. Using a crowbar he removed each side of the box until its content was fully visible:

It was the restrained and apparently lifeless body of BossySimpQueen, held captive and upright by some kind of metal frame. Her mouth was gagged and her eyeshadow drawn in long lines over her cheeks. She was dressed in a filthy and partly removed maid outfit, like she wore in some of her photo shoots. Tits hanging out, her bare skin was covered in hematomas and burn marks. Some of her fingers and toes were black with frostbite, some were missing. The sign of the pill was tattooed crudely on her forehead.

The congregation, silent until now, began to whisper.

“…fuuuck…”
“…looool…”
“I fucking knew it…”

“Wake her!” ERasmus demanded. Melvin struck the metal framing with the crowbar, simultaneously silencing the audience and waking Stacy. She began to struggle weakly and moaned through the gag, her eyes darting around.

“Whores like this represent everything this degenerate society holds dear!” ERasmus continued his speech. “She is the polar opposite of us. Loved, admired, desired. Just for the grand achievement of having a hole between her legs.

Disposing of this filth will prove that we, if pushed too far, can be anything but passive. If we are not respected, if our problems are ignored, we can take what this world loves most and turn it into dead meat! The squeaky wheel gets the grease, as they say. And we will be very squeaky indeed.”

As he spoke he descended from his pulpit, now walking amongst his followers. “So, who of you has what it takes to ring the bell, to land the first strike against our oppressors? Who will do the deed and murder this bitch?”

…Silence…

“I see…” ERasmus continued, as he moved further to the back. “What I ask is not an easy thing. Protective urges, blue pilled conditioning, normie morale. Everything you have learned in your previous life is screaming at you that this is wrong. So it takes someone with true grit to overcome this brainwashing, someone with extraordinary courage.”

He turned.

“Someone just like… you!”

His hand fell on the shoulder of a red robed figure at the far back of the hall. The figure froze and was still as a statue.

“Courage…, I know you came here to see this, Brother… or should I say… Agent?”

The figure jumped from its seat, which clattered to the floor. Avoiding the Bishop, it ran for the exit, followed by the gazes of the others. Searching frantically for the opening mechanism in the dim light the figure ceased as it felt the shape of a strong padlock.

Turing slowly, the figure faced the mass of the followers, who had risen from their seats and now encircled the fugitive in a thick half circle.

The running had blown back the hood from his head, revealing his face: It was the norwooding lanklet who came with the last batch of arrivals.

“I knew I smelled the stench of a normie rat the first time you entered this holy sanctum!” ERasmus spoke from behind the wall of people, who slowly parted for his passage. “Do you think the tech-nerds who dwell in the basements of your agency are blind to our truth? You would be quite surprised.”

He reached into his robe and retrieved a sheet of paper. It contained the Name, Service-Number, Address and other information about the man who now stood before him with his back to the wall. There were also a number of pictures. Looks like the good Agent was quite capable of growing a full head of hair.

“But this is a night of joyous celebration, therefore I’m giving you a chance to get out of this predicament with your heart still beating. Please… follow me.”

The Bishop turned and made his way back to the front of the hall.

The Agent hesitated but was promptly grabbed by a pair of dark robed acolytes and forced to follow.

While he was dragged forward, the other followers returned to their seats.

ERasmus stood in his pulpit again and stared down to the bound woman, whose struggling has given way to quiet weeping. Melvin stood next to her, holding a small cushion on which was placed a wicked looking combat knife. There was a malicious grin on his face. The Agent was brought before them.

“I assume you came here to save this degenerate whore. Quite ironic that her demise is now the only way to save yourself. Kill her and live, or play the white knight and die. What do you say my friend?”

ERasmus thought of himself a very generous for making this offer. Therefore he was deeply hurt by the Agents answer:

“I say fuck yourself you crazy mo…” replied the Agent, but was quickly silenced by a blow to the stomach.

“You dare to reject my mercy!?” The Bishop vented his anger. “Fool, this was your last transgression against our faith! Not only did you abuse our trust and hospitality, you lied and manipulated our poor Brother into…”

“S-Sorry my liege, I-I didn’t know w-what he…” Melvin interjected, but was himself interrupted:

“Oh Shut the fuck up Melvin, I’m tired of your constant apologising!” ERasmus boomed, making Melvin wince.

“…Yea Melvin, you suck…” came a voice from the audience.

“You are still the same pathetic doormat as you were on the day of your initiation.” ERasmus continued. “Have you learned nothing from my teachings? Seriously, be a fucking man for once!!!”

“O-oh-OKAY!” Melvin shouted defiantly and uncharacteristically angry.

He took the knife, discarded the cushion and went to the Agent in a few quick steps. Then he rammed the blade into the Agent´s chest, inciting a surprised gasp. He ripped the knife out, went for Stacy and shoved it in her throat.

For the next few seconds, the only sound in the hall was Stacy’s wet gurgling as she slowly drowned on her own blood.

Some member of the audience broke the silence.

“That was…”
“…fucking based!” finished another voice.
“…based…”
“Based as fuck!”
“…based…based…Based, Based, BASED, BASED, BASED!, BASED!!...”

The crowd was ecstatic. Even the black acolytes discarded the Agent, who fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, and joined the chorus.

“Silence!!!” ERasmus shouted, calming the crowd instantly.

“That was based indeed. Melvin my boy, I had no idea you had it in you.”

Melvin nodded, taking the compliment.

“This is a night of accomplishment and fortunate surprises! And you know what that means, my brothers…” He reached for the inside of his pulpit with both hands, searching for something.

A moment later he raised his arms. In one hand he held a bottle of finest Jack, and in the other was placed a fat joint between each of his fingers.

“Copes on me my niggers!!!” He shouted joyously.

The crowd cheered.

Erasmus gave the sign to lower the disco ball and play a trashy remix of “Pumped up Kicks”.

Everyone (who was not bleeding to death) joined in a long polonaise, slithering its way through the hall. Melvin was at the front, followed by the Bishop.

Bevor his sight got dark, the dying Agent whispered to himself: “…what the fuuu…”

----------------------------------------------------




My other shit:

 
L

Lebensmüder

PUAhater
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Joined
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Posts
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Online
181d 19h 37m
Based and entertaining as always.
 
Iamnothere000

Iamnothere000

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Lebensmüder said:
Based and entertaining as always.
Glad you liked it.

I forgot to tag:
shavvka @shavvka
D @Grothendieck


…also, BUMP
 
kikecel

kikecel

mentally crippled by lonely teen years
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101d 7h 5m
youre like the Arthur Miller of Incels
good read
 
N-Digger

N-Digger

aussiecel
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Extremely based. I really like your writing style, especially the Bishop as a character.
 
shavvka

shavvka

Come, mister tally man, tally me banana
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Using a nearby hand truck, he moved the box to the front, occasionally colliding whit the seats of his brothers, apologising every time.
Lmao
Loved it, nicely written with a very based ending :feelsautistic:
 
Emba

Emba

Jarjar Sphinx
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Did Melvin get his black robe?
 
K9Otaku

K9Otaku

Captain
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Iamnothere000 said:
A Congregation of the Incel-Cult



“Welcome! Welcome, my brothers. It fills me with such joy to see that you finally arrived. I have already been worried.” Bishop ERasmus (as he called himself) greeted the group of new arrivals with open arms. His well-practiced voice echoed through the neon lit hall, repeating the phrases that he had already used several times this evening.

He was a short, scrawny and all-around unimpressive man, usually; however, his booming voice, dramatic gestures and wide dark robes gave him an air of authority (and a way of hiding his plateau shoes).

The first of the newcomers replied in an unpleasantly wet voice: “I-I’m sorry my liege, h-had to convince m-my whore of a mother to lend me the c-car. H-had to make up s-some shit about being invited to a p-party. T-Took a while till s-she was convinced.”

ERasmus rolled his eyes under the shadow of his hood but forced a smile. “Don’t apologise Brother Melvin, your driving skills are a tremendous boon to us.” One of the other arrivals, a lank, norwooding guy with an average face, suppressed a snicker. Ignoring that, ERasmus continued: “Please my friends, the sermon will begin soon. Don your robes and find your seats among your brothers.” He hesitated for a second. “…and, if you have the heart, throw some coins in the box over there, the bills don’t pay themselves and we, unlike foids, don’t receive money for simply existing.”

“I-I’m s-sorry but I don’t have any c-cash on me now, my greedy cunt m-mother demands that I c-contribute as much as possible to p-pay the rent.” Melvin said. “It is all well Melvin, don’t be sorry for things you have no control over, that’s the way of the cuck.” ERasmus replied slightly annoyed.

The group passed him and did as they were asked. ERasmus exited the building and, after a few steps, took one last look over the rural area. It was close to nightfall. The last rays of sunlight got swallowed by gathering storm clouds at the horizon. He could see the biggest part of the long street that led to his remote church. There were no headlights to be seen, no one else would arrive today.

He returned and, just as the first raindrops began to fall, closed the heavy metal gate of the storehouse with a loud gong-sound, signalling the beginning of today’s exhortation, ending all chatter and whispering. As he went for the pulpit he passed the ranks of his followers. First were the newest initiates, dressed in robes of bright red, symbolizing the shame and impotent rage they had to endure before joining the faith.

As he came closer to his destination, red was slowly replaced, by hue or by decoration, with black. Black, in this context, was the colour of truth. The more wisdom a follower received, the closer he came to know the truth about human nature, which was, you guessed it, pretty dark. This was a difficult and painful spiritual journey. So, in order to ease the process, the truth had to be administered in little, easy to digest doses. Pills, if you will. Indeed, a stylized black capsule was the holy symbol of this movement. The mark of the black pill was drawn on every surface of the building. Advanced members even had tattoos.

Dispensing those metaphorical pills was the primary calling of people like ERasmus. In irregular intervals he would host or join gatherings like this, where he freed his brothers from the lie of the just world, from falsehoods about personality and confidence, and were he opened their eyes to the abyss that is the human (and especially the female) soul.

The secondary calling, his favourite one, was the encouragement, facilitation, planning and enacting of deeds that resulted from such an understanding. But all in due time…

With slow, measured steps he ascended the pulpit, turned and gave the sign to dim the lights. Only those directly above him stayed somewhat bright, making him the visual focus of the audience.

“What is it my brothers!?” He yelled while raising his arms.

“It is over!!!” the congregation shouted back in unison.

“Oh, but it is not over, my brothers.” He said with mock indignation. “And why is that, I ask you?”

“Because it never began!!!” the crowd answered.

“Indeed…” ERasmus replied, beginning his sermon in earnest.

“In this world, in this society, it never began if you are born an ugly man!”

He started gesturing to supporting his rhetoric, occasionally pausing for effect.

“Study after scientific study proves that ugliness is a tremendous disadvantaged in every part of life. Career, Friendship, Respect and, most of all, intimate Relationships. All of it impacted by how attractive you are. What does that mean for men? The shape of your bones and the amount of hair on your head! Things you have almost no control over.

And now this society, those people who are otherwise so obsessed with fairness. With justice and equality. Turn around and tell us to just deal with it.

Man up, they say. Life is not fair! Play the cards you’ve been dealt!

We are told to compensate for our flaws with other quality’s we might have. To work on ourselves. A good personality and interesting hobbies can go a long way don’t you know?

And while there is an argument to be made for self-improvement, I must ask you:

Why am I expected, by this society, to compensate for flaws that should not even be perceived as flaws by this very same society?

A society that is, I remind you, obsessed with fairness and justice along every possible axis!

Should a black person be expected to compensate for being black?
A woman for being a woman?
The disabled for being disable?

The very notion would be unthinkable for those hypocrites.

Except when it is applied to us… ugly men.”

He spoke the last words with pretended disgust.

“If you are not attractive or, for some other reason, tremendously interesting to your employers, your politicians or potential female partners, you are apparently worthless.

We are just here to work, help out when we are needed, consume and pay taxes to fund the equalisation of groups with whom we will never be seen as equal, but lesser.

Should we ever complain, we are immediately shamed and told how much privilege other men apparently have. Because men, as you know, are the only demographic that can be treated as a monolith. You see, Old Lord Chaddington von Buchenwald was so privileged from all the power and wealth he acquired through slave trading. Therefore you, Mister unemployed autistic loner, are also privileged. Because both of you have a Y-Chromosome.”

By now the good Bishop was oozing with resentment. His hooded face was a mask of barely concealed rage. Event through his wide dark robes, his body language was that of a man about to commit violence. No one would be seriously surprised if he were to suddenly shoot lightning from his hands.

He did not, but, much like the fictional Sith-Lord he resembled, ERasmus was quite able to cannel his aggression in productive long term plans…

And there was still lightning, provided by the thunderstorm that now raged outside. The occasional flashes revealed that his audience was now just as angry as he was.

“Good… good.” He thought.

“Society, people and women only dare to treat us this ways because we are seen as harmless. As pathetic, passive little boys!”

“But this night, I tell you, we will surely rectify this impression… Brother Melvin, if you would.”

Melvin rose from his seat and went to the back of the almost dark hall, trying not to stumble over his red robes. Next to the donation-box was an even bigger vessel, shaped like a coffin, it stood upright, about 1,70 meters in height. Using a nearby hand truck, he moved the box to the front, occasionally colliding whit the seats of his brothers, apologising every time.

ERasmus gritted his teeth while observing the farce. When the box stood next to the pulpit, Melvin faced the congregation, fumbled for something in his robes and eventually retrieved a piece of paper. It was a page from the local newspaper. He began to read out loud, his exhaustion evident in his voice.

“A-After four days of int-…<pant>… intensive searching, t-there is still no t-trace of the beloved influencer and o-online model Stacy R-Rosenblatt, b-better known as B-BossySimpQueen to her countless fans. H-Her disappearance ha-has already caused wide s-spread p-protests and violent riots, as well as ss-several sss-suicides, since many of her f-followers cannot bear to live w-without their idol. I-It is for this r-reason that her wellbeing h-has been deemed a a m-matter of public safety and a-all a-available resources will be focused on her re-rec-recovery.

I-In other news, the s-stock price for c-cat food has doubled a-again as a growing number of e-experts p-predict a r-rise in…”

“That will be all, thank you brother.” ERasmus interjected.

“S-sorry…” said Melvin, as he threw the piece of paper away.

With a resigned voice ERasmus continued: “Please open the box and do as you were instructed.”

Without a word Melvin complied. Using a crowbar he removed each side of the box until its content was fully visible:

It was the restrained and apparently lifeless body of BossySimpQueen, held captive and upright by some kind of metal frame. Her mouth was gagged and her eyeshadow drawn in long lines over her cheeks. She was dressed in a filthy and partly removed maid outfit, like she wore in some of her photo shoots. Tits hanging out, her bare skin was covered in hematomas and burn marks. Some of her fingers and toes were black with frostbite, some were missing. The sign of the pill was tattooed crudely on her forehead.

The congregation, silent until now, began to whisper.

“…fuuuck…”
“…looool…”
“I fucking knew it…”

“Wake her!” ERasmus demanded. Melvin struck the metal framing with the crowbar, simultaneously silencing the audience and waking Stacy. She began to struggle weakly and moaned through the gag, her eyes darting around.

“Whores like this represent everything this degenerate society holds dear!” ERasmus continued his speech. “She is the polar opposite of us. Loved, admired, desired. Just for the grand achievement of having a hole between her legs.

Disposing of this filth will prove that we, if pushed too far, can be anything but passive. If we are not respected, if our problems are ignored, we can take what this world loves most and turn it into dead meat! The squeaky wheel gets the grease, as they say. And we will be very squeaky indeed.”

As he spoke he descended from his pulpit, now walking amongst his followers. “So, who of you has what it takes to ring the bell, to land the first strike against our oppressors? Who will do the deed and murder this bitch?”

…Silence…

“I see…” ERasmus continued, as he moved further to the back. “What I ask is not an easy thing. Protective urges, blue pilled conditioning, normie morale. Everything you have learned in your previous life is screaming at you that this is wrong. So it takes someone with true grit to overcome this brainwashing, someone with extraordinary courage.”

He turned.

“Someone just like… you!”

His hand fell on the shoulder of a red robed figure at the far back of the hall. The figure froze and was still as a statue.

“Courage…, I know you came here to see this, Brother… or should I say… Agent?”

The figure jumped from its seat, which clattered to the floor. Avoiding the Bishop, it ran for the exit, followed by the gazes of the others. Searching frantically for the opening mechanism in the dim light the figure ceased as it felt the shape of a strong padlock.

Turing slowly, the figure faced the mass of the followers, who had risen from their seats and now encircled the fugitive in a thick half circle.

The running had blown back the hood from his head, revealing his face: It was the norwooding lanklet who came with the last batch of arrivals.

“I knew I smelled the stench of a normie rat the first time you entered this holy sanctum!” ERasmus spoke from behind the wall of people, who slowly parted for his passage. “Do you think the tech-nerds who dwell in the basements of your agency are blind to our truth? You would be quite surprised.”

He reached into his robe and retrieved a sheet of paper. It contained the Name, Service-Number, Address and other information about the man who now stood before him with his back to the wall. There were also a number of pictures. Looks like the good Agent was quite capable of growing a full head of hair.

“But this is a night of joyous celebration, therefore I’m giving you a chance to get out of this predicament with your heart still beating. Please… follow me.”

The Bishop turned and made his way back to the front of the hall.

The Agent hesitated but was promptly grabbed by a pair of dark robed acolytes and forced to follow.

While he was dragged forward, the other followers returned to their seats.

ERasmus stood in his pulpit again and stared down to the bound woman, whose struggling has given way to quiet weeping. Melvin stood next to her, holding a small cushion on which was placed a wicked looking combat knife. There was a malicious grin on his face. The Agent was brought before them.

“I assume you came here to save this degenerate whore. Quite ironic that her demise is now the only way to save yourself. Kill her and live, or play the white knight and die. What do you say my friend?”

ERasmus thought of himself a very generous for making this offer. Therefore he was deeply hurt by the Agents answer:

“I say fuck yourself you crazy mo…” replied the Agent, but was quickly silenced by a blow to the stomach.

“You dare to reject my mercy!?” The Bishop vented his anger. “Fool, this was your last transgression against our faith! Not only did you abuse our trust and hospitality, you lied and manipulated our poor Brother into…”

“S-Sorry my liege, I-I didn’t know w-what he…” Melvin interjected, but was himself interrupted:

“Oh Shut the fuck up Melvin, I’m tired of your constant apologising!” ERasmus boomed, making Melvin wince.

“…Yea Melvin, you suck…” came a voice from the audience.

“You are still the same pathetic doormat as you were on the day of your initiation.” ERasmus continued. “Have you learned nothing from my teachings? Seriously, be a fucking man for once!!!”

“O-oh-OKAY!” Melvin shouted defiantly and uncharacteristically angry.

He took the knife, discarded the cushion and went to the Agent in a few quick steps. Then he rammed the blade into the Agent´s chest, inciting a surprised gasp. He ripped the knife out, went for Stacy and shoved it in her throat.

For the next few seconds, the only sound in the hall was Stacy’s wet gurgling as she slowly drowned on her own blood.

Some member of the audience broke the silence.

“That was…”
“…fucking based!” finished another voice.
“…based…”
“Based as fuck!”
“…based…based…Based, Based, BASED, BASED, BASED!, BASED!!...”

The crowd was ecstatic. Even the black acolytes discarded the Agent, who fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, and joined the chorus.

“Silence!!!” ERasmus shouted, calming the crowd instantly.

“That was based indeed. Melvin my boy, I had no idea you had it in you.”

Melvin nodded, taking the compliment.

“This is a night of accomplishment and fortunate surprises! And you know what that means, my brothers…” He reached for the inside of his pulpit with both hands, searching for something.

A moment later he raised his arms. In one hand he held a bottle of finest Jack, and in the other was placed a fat joint between each of his fingers.

“Copes on me my niggers!!!” He shouted joyously.

The crowd cheered.

Erasmus gave the sign to lower the disco ball and play a trashy remix of “Pumped up Kicks”.

Everyone (who was not bleeding to death) joined in a long polonaise, slithering its way through the hall. Melvin was at the front, followed by the Bishop.

Bevor his sight got dark, the dying Agent whispered to himself: “…what the fuuu…”

----------------------------------------------------




My other shit:

Quite based, no doubt.

I wonder if something like this could exist for real.

In the meantime, I have found a text which could well turn out to be the new Incel Bible:
The author of this thing is a writer like you and what is doing is hard-core blackpill
Emba said:
Did Melvin get his black robe?
Only after he reads Antarctica in full, including all the Wikipedia links
 
REAL TRUCEL

REAL TRUCEL

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both good read and severe autismfuel
 
Copexodius Maximus

Copexodius Maximus

Supreme Incel Commander in Chief
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I don't even know what I just read. But it seems other people liked it, so keep up the good work buddy boyo.
 
B

based_meme

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Iamnothere000 @Iamnothere000 You have talent, brocel. I enjoyed Melvin breaking out of his chrysalis.
 
Arabcel9

Arabcel9

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cultmaxxing?
Copexodius Maximus said:
I don't even know what I just read. But it seems other people liked it, so keep up the good work buddy boyo.
 
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