It was 2050 when the incelocalypse fell. The beta males of the world, after decades of planning and silent fuming about their involuntary celibacy, struck back against those sexy multitudes that had tormented them.

One violent spergout in a shopping mall became another, and another, became a spergout in the movie theater and town hall, which became further violent spergouts leading up to the halls of Congress themselves.

Spastic murders of random people by way of spree shootings and 18-wheeler truck hijackings led to a gradual shifting of society’s views on the sex drought of men on the bottom of the social totem pole…just as the incels had preached for years.

And so it was on 5/24/2055 that the incels achieved the Final Victory, on the day of and in honor of the Supreme Gentleman that laid all this groundwork. It was on that day that the foul, handsome lineage of Chadkind was extinguished for good, when the last true Chad, Bostwick Oakford, received his due comeuppance for depriving so many incels of their sexual rights. He had been dragged from his hiding place, knowing only the righteous terror of the sexually frustrated. His broad shoulders and knotted muscles were of no avail against the righteous indignation of so many incel rifles. He wept in fear and misery, tears somehow still not marring his chiseled and handsome features. He wept continuously until he had been dragged to the capitol building, knowing his inevitable fate. But by the time that the noose had been pulled down, passing over his glorious blond locks and bull neck, he had no more tears to give, for even the arrogant Chad knew what he deserved. He was hanged at sundown before a roaring crowd, and with his death, a new and better world could rise from his ashes. The world we have now…

“What the FUCK?!” Dave asked nobody in particular as he rifled through his closet. “Hrm?” Chris asked, being roused from his mid-day nap by Dave’s frantic searching. “I can’t find my hat!” Dave said increasingly frantically to his roommate. “How the hell am I supposed to do this stupid award ceremony without my fedora?!”

Chris almost started to say something, but then wisely decided against it. Although he was typically rendered somewhat uncomfortable by displays of pomp and pageantry, he was, as Dave was, a defender of the incel state and the way of life that had given beta males like them the first rays of hope they would otherwise been stripped of in the “all against all” savagery of the past.

They were young men, barely past their twenties, who had never known a world that wasn’t run by incels, but they were well aware of the state of horror that the Dark Times represented for all men like this. Thus, Chris was well aware of how important the seemingly arcane rituals of the state were, and…truth be told, he was pretty proud of his roommate and best friend too.

For today was the day that, after years of dedicated service to state, Dave would finally obtain his allotment of that most sacred of things: a government-mandated real girlfriend! Chris’s pride was a pride that was plastered so brazenly across his face that even She1la, his sex robot, could see it, laying naked in his bed as she was. “Bzzt, wanna go for another round?” She1la asked, her voice chip giving her a pretty sexy, albeit slightly tinny, rendition of a vapid Los Angeles accent.

“No, that’s fine, just leave me be,” Chris said, tiring of her latex and silicone-coated charms. The sexbot complied, rising up from Chris’ bed and walking to her recharging station, seductively swinging her wide hips and pert, rounded, latex buttocks with only the slightest hints of squelching and slopping as weeks’ worth of ejaculate sloshed inside her immaculately crafted silicone vagina.

Ever dutifully, She1la parted the voluminous depths of her synthetic 80s-style poofy hair, plugged the power cord into the outlet on her scalp, and went into sleep mode until it was time she would be needed again. “Hmm…yeah, I’m gonna have to…uh, clean that out at some point.” Chris said somewhat awkwardly as 70 percent of his attention was on the video game he was playing.

“Hey, don’t worry about it; happens to the best of us,” Dave said—and how could he not? They were best friends, boundaries of race and class destroyed by focusing their hatred on the common enemy of woman uninhibited. “Easy for you to say; you’re gonna be fucking a real woman now! Imagine: no more needing to clean out the jizz trap, having an actual flesh and blood being submitting to your will…ah, sounds pretty cool to me!” Chris said, patting Dave on the shoulder.

“Yeah…it feels kind of surreal, you know. You dream about this for so long, and then when it finally happens, you barely know what to say. Ah, here’s my hat!” Dave said triumphantly, pulling his fedora out of the closet and putting it upon his head, the only accoutrement that accompanied his T-shirt and jeans (for fancy clothes that weren’t hats are Chadly and therefore anathema).

“Well, I’ll be seeing you…” Dave said as he turned, grabbing his car keys as he prepared to walk out the door. About ten seconds passed as Chris hemmed and hawed and looked over at the sexbot the two men shared before realizing he ought to say something too. “Uh, bye…” he said as Dave hung around for another awkward couple of seconds before leaving, walking away and forgetting to lock the door. This was, of course, to be understood. Both men suffered from the holy disease of autism.


The crowd had already assembled at the parade ground. The sky was a deep cerulean blue and birds flew in the air. The sacred fraternity of men had already assembled there. Real men. BETA men. Now in their proper place as the rulers of the world forevermore.

Their physiques were scrawny, pale, and crabbed, just as a man’s physique OUGHT to be. No more were there the arrow-straight and broad-shouldered physiques of the hated Chads. Chads of every color, black, or white, red, and yellow, with trim muscular physiques, smooth skin, and clean hair. NO!

Now were only the proper men of the world, with acne-encrusted skin and greasy hair. Betas and incels of all colors, united in their hatred of women and the Chad plague that had been gloriously expunged.

It was an amphitheater that the ceremony was held in, a deep seashell built into the side of an ancient hill as the Greeks had done many years ago—and who better to know the way the ancient Greeks worked than the NEET, the finest example of masculinity?

After all, they were not in employment, education, and training, so they had all the time in the world to plumb the secrets of the universe. Didn’t the NEETs promise 50 years ago that they would do a thorough survey of all Greek and Roman arts to create a neo-Renaissance? That would surely be done any day now.

“In fact…” mused Dave to himself, “a lot of things are somewhat scarce. Food, electricity…with the veneration of the NEET male…” Ah, but that was something for another time. Now was the time to get some real poon, Dave thought as the crowd began to nasally murmur.

Aw shit, here’s the Two Minutes Hate Thing. Dave stuffed his hands into his pockets and slouched, glad that he wasn’t on stage yet. Dave still had bitter memories of his father lecturing him about standing up straight and encouraging him to look girls in the eyes. “This may be a new order,” he would say, “but I can still ask my son to stand up like a goddamn man!”

The elementary-aged Dave had promptly done his civic duty and reported his father to the local commincel, who summarily executed the old man with his pistol, but the insult still burned 15 years later. Fucking old redneck fuck, Dave said to himself, his face glowering with hatred.

The banner unfurled and the assembled male crowd gasped. For on that banner was the smug face of the devil in human form himself: Bostwick Oakford. Hatred began to burn in Dave’s matchbook chest as he saw his hated enemy. “Fuck you for taking women away from us!” the MC said, his voice raising to a screechy tenor as his eyes remained firmly planted to the parkay floor.

“FUCK YOU, BOSTWICK!” the crowd shouted back, pencil necks echoing in a crackling barely pubescent tenor. “Scarcity was ours!” the MC said. “You will bogart that treasure no more!” the crowd responded. “Rot in hell, Bostwick.” “Rot in hell.”

“But let us put aside these pleasantries,” the MC said, taking his eyes off the floor for just a second to establish eye contact like a big boy before going back to the dirt. “Now is a day of celebration!” The audience clapped.

Today, David Kaplan, for your service to the state and the new world, you have been awarded that sacred thing, the thing that all men lust after, the stuff dreams are made of: a real flesh and blood woman!”

The audience applauded, 10,000 strong, but not as ebulliently as Dave would have liked. Are they not happy for me?

“Of course, as is customary, we won’t do any kneeling or hierarchy or things. Such is Chadly,” and to this the crowd shuddered. “No, Dave, you’ll just go to the Halls of Labia to obtain your woman, a woman who will service you for life, as it should be. Service guarantees women. Service guarantees sexual release.” The crowd repeated these tenets.

Despite the awkwardness, Dave was pretty happy. He was now to have his woman, to be able to breed and bring forth a new generation of men and breeders to keep the world going until cloning was developed, so all men could be born equal and strong and true.

Speaking of which, when are they going to finish that? Dave thought with a small pout. I know video games are important, but COME ON, man!

Dave was led by the MC to a well-padded and decorated room, one that might have been a harem for some Chad many years ago. All around him, posters glared down upon him, posters of the soft chinless face of the eternal leader of the state Elliot Rodger, and a statue of the Supreme Gentleman stomping on the Farnese Hercules—a real hero stomping on a muscular prick.

The MC clapped his hands, and as if on cue—because it was on cue—the wall opened up, and there they were. Women! Real flesh and blood women, kept in their rightful place as sex objects for men, chained to rings in the floor, rings of the coldest wrought iron forged by manly hands (actually, robots; the incel master race had to keep their forearms scrawny and their hands soft with copious amounts of Lubriderm, of course) and kept in a state of low fear as they prepared to do what they were meant to do.

“Strange how they’re not used to it yet,” Dave said. “Ah well, they’re born with the seed of evil, but we’re working on it,” said the MC.

Dave looked over at them, all of them in their underwear and no other accoutrements besides the manacles on their ankles. Women of every different color, body shape, race, and hair color. And any one of them could be his.

Just think. A mere 50 years ago, I would never have gotten this. How blessed he was to live in this just time.

He perused, and his eyes fell upon a blonde with green eyes standing about five foot two. Dave’s nose turned up instinctively as he spun around. “Ugh, a white woman,” Dave said to himself. “The whoriest of all whores. It will take another hundred years for you women to be brought to heel sufficiently.” He muttered again a bit louder.

“What?” the woman said.

“I said…white devils like you are the biggest fucking whores in the world.”

Dave meditated on the issue for a second, remembering just how deep his antipathy for the white woman, the little Satan (next to the Great Satan Chad) was, and then remembered: Holy shit! This guy has ASIAN WOMEN available! AAAAASIIIIIAN WOMEEEEEN! For me! Real life lotus blossom demure goddesses of the Orient!

Dave began trembling in anticipation at the thought of delicate pale nadeshikos massaging his back and utilizing the hazily remembered sexual mysticism of the hoary Orient upon his body, the body of the conquering white man, getting the treatment he deserved. Truly this was society the way it was meant to be! Outside of his mental revelry, Dave’s leg was twitching and hopping spastically, and a thin line of spittle formed on the corner of his mouth. And truth be told, the whoremonger was doing much the same; this was the age of the incel, and things like decorum and proper behavior were associated with asshole fathers and snooty rich assholes at school! So let them act the way they wanted!

“Have you made your choice, sir?” the whoremonger asked.

“YES!” Dave said, his voice getting high-pitched with excitement. “AN AAAAASIIIIIIAAAN WOMAAAAAAN!”


For all installments of “Der Beta Aufstand Hat Begonnen!,” click here.