Not having anywhere in particular to go, Dave eventually walked back to his apartment, making sure to take the long route and passing by a burnt out, bullet-hole riddled storefront where some battle in the revolution was fought, a housing project full of uninitiated males, a public park with an outdoor gymnastics area that was of course not being used, and 15 retro gaming stores that also sold porcelain figurines of little girls shitting on things.
Can’t they fix this stuff? Dave thought, slowly realizing that he didn’t really know who “they” were…but wait! He was a member of the order now, he was deemed worthy of a government mandated girlfriend—nevermind how it didn’t work out—but nonetheless he was, tangentially, part of “they!” Maybe HE could be the change that he wished to see in the world, just like that Pajeet said once in the beforetimes. In his excitement, Dave ran into the apartment, full of the thumotic fire that only a noble NEET could ignite.
Dinner came and went almost as an afterthought as Dave rapidly gobbled his tendies, purely seeking sustenance to fuel his big dreams. His mind was on autopilot as he and Chris played…whatever Atlus game they played that night, for Dave was so focused on his new revelation that he barely even noticed he played a video game at all.
I can affect change was the thought that Dave laid awake in bed thinking. Tomorrow, I’m going to start using my power for good. To fulfill the promise of the beta uprising! To make this world the best it can be! And kickstart the development of super strong cyborg bodies we can transplant our brains into!
And with thoughts of his hyper-intelligent NEET brain being nestled into the muscular nanotube bosom of an android body, Dave fell asleep comfortably.
***
The next day, Dave drove to what was once the state capitol and walked towards what had been, at one point, City Hall. He wasn’t sure of how, exactly, his plans would be implemented, or who would even hear these plans, but as a loyal patriot to the Incel State, he had to do his duty.
Guards eyed him warily but kept their fingers off the triggers of their rifles. There wasn’t any real dissent anymore, but one could never be too careful.
“Need help, sir?”
“I’m a new initiate to the order. I…have a government mandated girlfriend and everything.”
“Yeah, so?”
“…So, I want to talk to the state governor or somebody else in authority.”
“Hmm, right this way, sir.”
The guard beckoned Dave to follow him and the two men walked through the halls. Spaces that had once held large-scale paintings were plainly evident in the wall, hastily replaced with 8×12 printouts of moe girls until new paintings celebrating inceldom could be properly commissioned (after all, everybody knew that NEETS had all the time in the world to master any and every type of art they pursued, since they were not encumbered by education, employment, or training). A statue that may have once been a Minuteman standing triumphantly over his oppressor had had its faces turned into Alex Minassian and a lantern-jawed dudebro.
The arcades to the side of the great hall were lined with statues of other incel heroes, cast in bronze for the edification of good incel children—Rodger and Minassian and Lepine—and about ten empty marble plinths that had pieces of paper on them denoting that they would eventually have statues of Patrick Crusius, Christopher Mercer, and other martyrs of the dark times.
God, where did it all go wrong?
Dave was led through hallway after hallway, office after office, until he finally reached the office of Governor Cockburn, a face that he was well familiar with (he was, after all, the closest link people in Airstrip 3 had to the world government), but never thought much about until now. And what Dave saw absolutely disgusted him:
For the governor actually looked like, to some small extent…he cared about his physical appearance! While he was still pimply and devoid of much muscularity, he was wearing a suit that was ironed and tailored and his hair looked like it was actually styled with some care. More to the point, the office was actually…full of work! The desk was clearly being used, papers were strewn about, and the computer on the desk was a low-powered office model, intended for clerical work rather than gaming! Dave’s thoughts flashed back to his father, who worked as an attorney, and he bristled with rage.
“Governor Cockburn, what the FUCK?!”
The pimply thirtysomething looked up from his desk and gave him a non-verbal grunt of acknowledgement, before realizing that somebody of his position should probably give a better response.
“How can I help you, citizen?”
“Why are you dressed like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like some Chad wannabe! Like…wearing a suit?! Styling your hair?! How dare you?!”
“Hey, it’s not what it looks like!” the governor said defensively. “My wife irons my clothes and does my hair. She knows her place!”
“Hmmm…” Dave grumbled, accepting the governor’s answer for now. He begrudgingly acknowledged that, even though all men were supposed to be equal, a position of authority did have to project it to an extent.
“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about the infrastructure.”
“What about it?”
“It sucks!”
“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” At this, Dave shrugged, and raised his voice in exaggerated gesticulation “I DON’T KNOW?! But you’re the governor! If you don’t have the power to do this, then who does?”
Governor Cockburn opened his mouth to speak briefly before Dave continued with “And where the hell are our cyborg bodies?!”
Governor Cockburn frowned and began to shrink from this questioning. “You have to DO SOMETHING, dammit!” Dave roared, “I mean, what the hell else are you being paid for?!”
The governor shrunk into a full crouch and covered his ears, the shouting of this angry constituent being like nails on a chalkboard to him.
“HEY, I’M SORRY ABOUT YOUR SENSORY ISSUES!” Dave snarled, “BUT I NEED YOU TO LISTEN TO ME!”
“OKAY!” the governor screamed, his voice getting disturbingly high. “YOU WANNA KNOW WHY WE CAN’T FIX THINGS?!”
“Yes!” Dave said, calming down somewhat. “Here, let me show you!” the governor said, regaining his composure and letting Dave follow him to another office, an office where a group of CPAs were hurriedly going through papers and crunching numbers. “Crunching numbers? Why? We’re self-sufficient, aren’t we? Like, what are you crunching numbers FOR?”
“Hmph, yeah right!” one of the accountants snorted. “Do you have ANY idea how hard it is trying to find things to export to other countries with a population of tendie-eating NEETs?”
Dave stood there utterly flummoxed. “…Export?”
“Thank God we were capable of retrofitting the financial and industrial sectors to be fully automated, which has kept us afloat, but eventually, we’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that 90 percent of our population is living off Neetbux! We’re barely keeping people fed and with roofs over their heads! You want the roads to be fixed? Get us a product we can export! Twitch streaming isn’t doing it!”
“Hold on, hold on!” Dave said, increasingly angrily. “Who are you exporting TO?!”
Another accountant piped up “Other countries, idiot!”
Dave held his head in shock—the world was under the benevolent control of an incel state. There were no other countries anymore, no more countries where men lived in the law of the jungle, a howling wilderness of all against all where the hated Chads could rule…right?
“…There are no other countries,” Dave pouted.
The accountant rolled his eyes and said, “Oh…you must be new to the higher echelons. You think that we rule the world!” At this, the room collectively laughed, and Dave felt a surge of hot, murderous anger towards these men for laughing at him.
“Now, now, don’t laugh at him; he’s been kept in the dark all along. But we think you’re smart enough to know the truth now, so take solace in that, bud!” The governor smacked Dave on the back playfully, reminding Dave of his hated father again. “Alright, we’ll give you the skinny: we don’t rule the world. Hell, we don’t even rule the majority of the continental United States.”
“…What,” Dave said with a flat affect that brimmed with barely concealed rage and disillusionment.
“Yeah, in the aftermath of the Second Civil War, incels like us saw an opportunity to grab a little bit of territory in the chaos. I mean, obviously we WANT to rule the world, but…I’m sure you can figure out it’s not exactly the easiest thing to do. So basically, as of now, we rule over a large part of New England, and parts of what were New Jersey and New York too. The rest of the country has regrouped under the federal government and we live in an uneasy truce with them. The rest of the world took a hell of a hit with America falling into civil war for a while, but it’s mostly stabilized.”
Dave fell to one knee in utter horror, mustering all his strength to ask, “But why? Why have you been lying?”
“So nobody asks questions, moron! If I pretend to just be a lieutenant in a bigger organization, nobody hassles me! I think I turned out pretty damn good for an autist, don’t you think? Ha ha! Why do you think we give everybody all the vidya and cartoons and porn they want? Because it’s free and distracting! Everybody’s too distracted by their toys to think about the government or the improbability of it all!”
“Improbability…” Dave said with a gasp, barely capable of keeping himself from crying tears of rage.
“Sure, improbability! I mean, what kind of a retard would think that you could affect real, worldwide social change with spastic spree murders and Internet whining? It’s pretty ridiculous, don’t you think?”
Dave was too stunned to even speak. This was perfectly fine to Governor Cockburn, who beckoned him to follow. Dave’s neck and face being aflame with humiliation, his entire world crashing down around him, he implored Cockburn in a hushed voice. “I was there, watching on the Jumbotron at Giant’s Stadium. I was watching when they hung the last Chad. I saw his body swinging from the end of a rope.”
“Eh…” Governor Cockburn said diffidently. “What you saw was the wax statue of Dolph Lundgren from Madame Tussaud’s in Times Square. We slapped a wig on it and hung it. So we could channel collective hatred in the two-minutes hates, you see. Anyway, come with me, come on!”
They walked to a large set of beautiful double doors in hardwood, behind which curious mechanical clankings were going on. Cockburn threw open the doors and Dave witnessed the most loathsome, repellent sight he could ever imagine.
Men. Were. Exercising! Men that were grotesquely changing and molding their bodies, still skinny but with burgeoning slabs of muscle, halfway between the noble incel and the hated Chad. To his left, men were sitting in meditation with calcium bentonite clay on their faces to clear their skin. To his right, men were getting clothes tailored, were stretching out to straighten their posture, and getting their hair carefully coiffed.
“Anyway, I like your attitude, your smarts, and you’re clearly good enough to get a government-mandated girlfriend. So please, stay with us for a bit. There’s good food, weights, and we can have as many women as we want!” the governor said, nudging Dave with his elbow on the last bit.
Dave glanced around the room in horror. The men who were supposed to be leading a new world of intellect and fairness, the men who had lied to him for the past two decades, continued to overhead press and squat and deadlift and bench and hit heavy bags and do push-ups and pull-ups. They continued to meditate and clear their skin and stand up straight. These men…
These “beta” men.
Dave set his teeth and snarled.
They’re fucking Chadlites.
Their muscles bulged, their white teeth glistened, their glorious hair flowed, and their perfectly tailored clothing clung to their bodies. The faces of Bostwick Oakford and Preston McDouche and Tyrone de la Ghetto and all those other monsters flashed before him, the faces that he had been conditioned to hate since childhood. The faces that still graced propaganda posters on every block. His mind hurtled between incel leader to Chad, Chad to incel leader, and from incel leader to Chad again, and it was impossible to say which one was which.
Blind, righteous hatred spurred Dave to turn on his heels and leave the gym, so fast that the leaders who had betrayed him couldn’t have any hope of stopping him. Blind, righteous hatred spurred Dave to run back to the parking lot, open his car door, and jam the key into the ignition. And that same righteous hatred spurred him to drive the car back towards City Hall before letting it idle.
Time seemed to stop for a second as he thought of Elliot, and Alex, and Marc, and his other heroes. The glow of revolutionary furor swelled his chest and made him feel a pride he hadn’t felt since his initiation ceremony.
He turned on his GoPro, and began streaming to Twitch.
The leadership never saw it coming when Dave drove his car into city hall at 80 miles per hour, killing multiple guards and one accountant. Before the dust cleared, Dave had gallomphed out of the front seat, grabbing his assault rifle and spraying into the staggering crowd.
Dave gunned down guards and civil servants alike, hurling invective to his stream above the maelstrom of gunfire about how there was no one-world incel government, how the economy was teetering on the edge of the brink, and most, damningly, how the leaders of the government were trying to make themselves into Chads, in between three-round bursts of .223 fire.
At the far end of the hallway leading into the rotunda, Dave heard the clomp of boots running towards him: the regular, rhythmic clomping of physically fit men. He knew what these guards would look like, and rage and hatred fueled him as he reloaded his rifle and took aim at their point of ingress.
I’ll shoot those goddamn straight teeth and muscles off you fuckers.
The guards ran in, accompanied by “Governor” Cockburn, guns at the ready, and time seemed to stand still for a second as everybody’s adrenaline pumped through their bodies.
“TEN THOUSAND YEARS TO THE SUPREME GENTLEMAN!” Dave roared, and time snapped back as he cocked and readied his gun and put three bullets into the governor’s chest. The guards readied their guns and riddled Dave with hundreds of bullets before the governor’s body hit the ground.
***
And thousands of people saw this livestreamed.
Thousands of incels saw this play out over their lunchtime tendies and marathon masturbation sessions. Thousands of incels forcibly learned that their government was built on lies. Thousands of incels saw that, just like in the dark before times, a few men were hoarding all the women. And one single thought ran through every single incel’s mind.
Women are turned on by killers. Hybristophilia!
Every single incel ran to their bedrooms and pulled their assault rifle or shotgun from their closet. Every single incel ran into the light of day, the first time in…ever that they had ever willingly chosen to leave the comforting womb of video games and porn for reasons not related to necessities.
And the killing began. Each incel sought to kill enough guys to turn women on—friends killed friends, brothers killed brothers, neighbors killed neighbors, all in the gloriously spastic and undisciplined method pioneered so long ago.
Bodies began to pile up in the streets and in the schools. One nameless supreme gentleman finished off the rest of the government, but the fighting continued. Dave and Governor Cockburn’s bodies were trampled flat in the ensuing series of firefights, but nobody noticed because everybody was too busy thinking about the sweet American pie they would get if they stacked up the highest score.
Not sure when, exactly, they would be anointed with the high score and be granted all the women, one perfect gentleman ran into a government fem-pen and gunned down all the women there, and all his followers on social media soon followed suit.
And when all the obvious targets of blind incel rage were taken down, the greasiest and scrawniest of men turned their gunsights on each other.
After several days of undisciplined shooting, and with the last series of gunshots, the incel reich had fallen, and the last best hope for unfuckable misanthropes died with it.
***
For all installments of “Der Beta Aufstand Hat Begonnen!,” click here.
Previous installments:
Larsen Halleck is the owner and proprietor of The Barbaric Gentleman, a staff writer for Return of Kings, and the author of The Oriental’s Guide to Sex, Strength, and Satisfaction. He also dabbles in music, poetry, and video production on his YouTube channel. You can follow him on Twitter here and on Gab here.
