The Odd and The Strange: A Collection of Very Short Fiction

The First Incel

What would make a man kill another man, you ask? I understand the question very well, thank you, and I really want to answer it but, mind you, it will take some time for me to explain. It's interesting, because I myself am innocent. I have always been innocent.I had a decent childhood tucked away in a bourgeois suburb. I went to an all-white high school with very few blacks or other immigrants to spoil my peculiar kind of fun, as every man has a childhood, they say. And it is actually the case that the young alabaster boys there were very attractive. It was one of those schools that one would never find in the ghettos of the inner cities or the rural areas where i****t and shotguns prevail. The new center of civilization, you see, is in the suburbs, and it was here that I first beheld these amazing male bodies in my gym classes as a young teenager who had just entered high school.

But I am hardly gay or anything like that. Quite the contrary. I had frequently showered with these young men and noticed their lean bodies, soccer players and swimmers they would soon be. Some of them would go on to play multiple sports, many of them to be varsity lettermen and scholar-athletes. In the shower room I noticed what hung below their waists, like heavy, long-necked birds they were, wet and limp, and soon enough I was entranced, not necessarily by what hung there, but what I lacked and could never imitate or live up to.

Their bodies were supremely white and muscular in an all-American, Aryan kind of way, and I admired them like all proto-Europeans admire Michelangelo's David. These young men would always succeed. They would thrive at whatever they did, just because they were born the way they looked. They were impossible to be ignored. Their success had been sewn at a time that pre-dated the dawn of civilization. And, of course, they all looked alike and acted the same as a school of fish or a flock of birds would.

For a while, I remained in the shadows of the school halls, biding my time until the release that my graduation brought. But I couldn't ignore that I would never have what they already had born into them. In no way would I ever be as strong, as brave, as smart, as noble. These qualities were etched into their bloodlines, white upon white for generations of their ancestors, up until this final point in time where they would plant their seed again and again and continue to dominate the whole of society through whatever violence, intelligence, spirit, and the very same inborn traits that I lacked. It was perfect, I thought at the time. I needed what they had, and so I immediately went after it.

But I didn't go about acquiring it in a very conventional or orthodox way. I have a calculating nature, a cleverness about me, whereby I can play the fool to slip into their company, become the object of their laughter, the court jester who thrilled these noble princes in the halls of the schools, the colleges, the malls, the office buildings, anything to have what they had, anything to have those smarts and those privileges that came with being their natural born selves.

I never had anything of the sort in my own life, you see. I was the antithesis of what they were, even though, yes, I had white skin and Aryan features, but I lacked the qualities that would make me one of them. I was ugly and awkward somehow, even into my early adulthood. Call it a failure of my genetic line, if you will, or some strangeness of character, or some spiritual malady, or just a simple lack of confidence or an overabundance of cowardice. And as they often say, cowards take the rashest route. Such a statement applies to me.

As I said, I wanted their parents' wealth, their college acceptance letters, their cars, and especially, their women. I can say with all honesty that their women were the most impressive I have ever seen. For someone who had grown up on the subtle pogrom of glamorous images on television and movie screens, m*********d to the white, slim, and half-nude figures on glossy magazine covers and discovered these real-life mannequins in only the nicest parts of town with an entourage of other eager look-alike males surrounding them, these women had nailed all of them.

These women had the most seductive, blue, Nazified eyes in the world. Their blonde hair, straight down their backs, could have been the softest parts about them that I would never, ever touch - their long flowing locks and their secret buried deep between their legs. But this was for the men in the shower rooms alone. These women were theirs for the picking. They were ripe fruit, peaches from branches that these lean, lithe men coated over with their splendid milk and sucked on with holy abundance.

These were delicious women. These were succulent women of class and culture, objects of beauty to behold, and I became ever so careful to please them in every way possible while I had the chance, because I knew at the pit of me that I was different. I wasn't like the others. And in no small way, they knew I was different too. Even the ugly girls in the school tried to look like these women but failed miserably. They gave their men blow jobs in the bathrooms, but they were simply dumped for the beach bunnies, cheerleaders, and future centerfolds that these men really wanted.

I carried these women’s books, washed their cars, donated to their blood drives, drove them home after drunken high school parties where these men easily fondled their virgin bodies, sucked on their clits in the spare bedrooms and bathrooms of their houses while their parents were away on vacation. And I watched them do it. When I went home, I imagined them doing it as I lay alone in my bedroom, dreaming up their shadows on the ceiling, closing my eyes and imagining them.

I did everything these people expected of me in the most gentlemanly way possible. And most of all, I made them laugh by playing the fool, so somehow their men would love me. You see, my strategy was that these women would love me in the same way their men did, capitalizing on what they loved about their men by loving me as they would a cute child, a clown, or the comic relief that they sorely needed, so that they could join their male counterparts in the joy and amusements of my a***e, their eventual copulations, marriages, jobs, successes, yes, I say, successes! And because of what I made of myself for them, they did love me indeed.

I was overjoyed by their love, their constant attention, their affections, their laughter, and all the while these women slowly slipped behind the shadows of their men, smiling and laughing all the same, but up to a point, you see. I had never prepared for the cutoff where these women began to ignore me and latch onto these more manly figures before them, these men well-hung and lean and muscular and so white that they bronzed in the sun like Roman gladiators.

And once they adjourned to their respective colleges, and I stayed behind in the same town to mow their lawns and rake their leaves, I immediately blamed the women for ignoring me, even though I so badly wanted them to return and laugh at me again. I wanted to possess the hearts of every one of them. So, I pulled their weeds, cleaned their pools and cars, delivered their packages to the post office, just like I had done after I barely passed High School. But they were the ones who had crushed my dreams of loving them, forever making love to these harder, well-hung men, as I hid forever inside myself for the rest of my tormented days, my strange imaginings providing enough of a temporary relief to slog through one more miserable day of remaining in the town and breaking my back for a smile, perhaps, as they f****d their college sweethearts in their master bedrooms and marble bathtubs. Yes, they rejected me at every turn, because they knew how much I cared for them. They knew how much I adored them and worshipped the ground they walked on, but they didn't notice me when they should have known already that I would do just about anything to please them.

But I was the funny guy in school. They guy who made everyone laugh. The guy everyone would remember but no woman would ever take into her bed, as I was ugly, and tiny, and warped, and short, and inadequate when it came to fitting between their thighs. And they never recognized my pain, my hunger, my isolation, my slow self-destruction, when they should have known while they skied as newlyweds at Vail or swam on the beaches of Nantucket or played in the gardens they inherited from their in-laws. Where were they then, I ask you? Where were they when I needed them?

They had turned cold and cruel. They ignored me. They made fun of me. They said I smelled when I tried to talk to them at the bars. They laughed when I moved into dance with them in the nearby city clubs. They called me fat, a fag, a p*****t, a loser, and after a while, I could not take their a***e any longer. Despite growing up among the most beautiful of them, my love for them turned to hatred when they passed me over for the same type of men I witnessed in the locker rooms of the High School, yes, those same well-hung men who fit between their legs nicely, those same men who made money and supported them without lifting a finger, the men who would be able to pay for and usher their sons and daughters through the same country day schools I went through on scholarship, while they tossed me a quarter for doing their laundry and running errands and chopping their wood for their seasonal fireplaces.

Their a***e of me didn't end there, though. Soon enough, after looking hard at them, I found that these women, the objects of my most ardent, unfailing desires, abused me deliberately. Yes, I say! They were stabbing me on purpose, bludgeoning me upon their alters by seducing other men and totally ignoring me. For years upon years I had thought and brooded about the reasons for their cruelty, until a solipsism of my ruminations developed, and I was unable to figure out why they hated me when I had devoted my entire life to them, devoted my entire being to their well-hung Aryan men and their children who soon took over their father's role to direct me when to mow their laws and clip their hedges and wash their new European sports sedans that their Daddies had bought them.

I watched these wives from afar, how they never aged, and how I continued to get fat and unhealthy, my lungs coughing up two-packs a day of cigarette smoke, sitting at the neighborhood bar with other old men lost in thought and all washed up. I made fast friends with the old men who weren't allowed to reproduce. And yes, I hated these women for what they did to me.

I wanted to beat and m**m every one of them, so that they could burn in the fires of Hell from where they came. I wanted to r**e and plunder their soft bodies, eat the heads off their children, and bury these women who had selectively chosen their male mates in spite of my assiduousness and loyalty and undying love. Yes, I wanted them dead, because even though they had treated me terribly, the men still wanted me around to share our time in high school when I was the joke of the classrooms, their joke, the one who brought back their youthful memories of laughter and glee, the women in the background secretly knowing that I wouldn't amount to anything. And I would hang around these same men, these husbands who could no longer stand their wives.

These men ran off to their city-dwelling barroom w****s all weekend, while their wives swapped Tupperware, hosted baby showers, slaved away in their all-to-perfect gardens, and took their kids to soccer practice or the expensive learning centers that lined the roads that cut through the heart of town.

But how, then, could I possibly hate the women that I loved? Why was the fire at the center of me forever alight? My dreams, in other words, couldn't be forgotten, no matter how many drinks I poured over them or how much I ejaculated into the thousands of sheets of toilet paper in front of my computer screen every night as I viewed their perfect bodies f*****g each other like perfectly symmetrical clones? These dreams would not end, because I still loved these women, no matter how much I hated them and wanted them dead.

And because I loved them and hated them at the same time, because I intuited that I couldn't have them for myself, because they forever wanted the type of men in the shower rooms as I had once beheld them in my youth and throughout my adult life, I had flashes of pleasing men for a change, since the women wanted so much to pleasure them in every way possible. It was just logical, then, that I would aid and assist these women in doing so, as I had always done before.

I would soon learn to please men by sucking on their hard d***s and allowing them penetrate me in order to please the women in the town whom I loved so dearly. I even waved their rainbow flags for them and furthered their causes, just so these women would choose the same type of men as the many generations before them had done, the same well-hung Aryans that I needed to please, because these women had insisted that I please their men. Finally, I believed that I was on the right track, despite taking their husbands into my mouth, day in and day out.

But as I focused on the task of f*****g their men, I had one eye c****d to their wives’ lovely flushed faces, their rosy, blushing cheeks admiring my determination and applauding my loyalty and faithfulness to them. Because I still loved them, you see. I had always loved them. And because they egged me on, because they had me please and pleasure their Aryan men, I no longer wanted to kill them or r**e them or bludgeon their children to death. Quite the contrary. I had never felt such a deeper gratification and love for them, as though I had finally come into contact with the Magical Queen of All Women, that blonde, blue-eyed Aryan angel that descended from on high and finally anointed me with her pleasant, sweet juices, as though I had been baptized by her cunt into the secret sorority of all womanhood.

And now that I had finally been admitted to her most cloistered gardens, it was time that I started to kill and m**m their men, so that I could finally claim what was rightfully mine, nay, what was ours to share together, and live apart from these corrupt, no-good husbands sticking it to every w***e in town, every harlot in the saloons, every cigarette girl in the bankrupt casinos, and every administrative assistant fresh out of college in their glass office buildings as they banged them from behind over august oak desks in the middle of their coffee breaks. These cruel men had to die, because now I worked for women and no longer for these i***t men. I worked for the Queen. No longer would I please her foot soldiers. Instead, I would kill these pawns and become her King.

On one hot afternoon after mowing yet another lawn on a rather large property at the edge of town, I lingered behind the manor home they had built together as man and wife. Their home, a castle in our wealthy suburban town, absorbed the ruthless sunshine as their children in the backyard swung wildly in the deluxe playground that their financier father bought them last Christmas. I watched husband and wife through the bedroom window as the rich Aryan husband loosened his tie and unbuttoned his silk shirt. His muscles were tight and ready, his expansive chest and washboard abs a show of design more than strength, a function of style more than substance, as though he had built them in a synthetic gym with synthetic pills with synthetic people rather than the heavy loads that I had carried on my back over many years of spine-splintering work, all for her, all for her. He had been lifting rubber weights filled with sand, while I had been lifting logs and dirt and dismal machinery, slaving over his land like the feudal slave he had made of me. I deserved her and her alone. I was the King, not he. I slaved for my Queen now, not over his limp, impotent d**k that I silently slurped in his bathroom office last year during one of his overnight work sessions.

And so, when she entered the room and stood before him next to the bed, I already knew what I would have to do that afternoon. She unbuttoned her blouse and slid her panties down to her ankles. She then kicked them off her soft, delicate toes and stood n***d before him. He slipped off his belt, and she then unzipped him pants, his phallus falling hard, wet, and shining in the sunlight, cascading in front of her soft n***d flesh. But then I saw it, because I knew it would happen. A self-fulfilling prophecy it was. Just as they fell into bed, she turned her eyes and saw me staring at them through the window pane. Yes, I say! She saw me, and it was there that she finally invited me in. I now had to kill my rival and win hear heart, just as I was always meant to do.

Do you actually think that I'm some kind of queer? Some kind of faggot to be f****d in the a*s all day, sucking d***s on my days off, hanging around the bars and taking money from these old, fat, out-of-work townie fuckheads to stroke them off in the bathroom stalls? Don't you think I'm better than that? Do you think I would actually take another d**k up my a*s? And you who laugh at me like the same clowns you have made of me, you will no longer laugh at me, because what I did had to be done to claim my rightful place as heir to what was rightfully mine to begin with, as it had always been mine through the beginning of time. Because when she looked at me through the window with those crystal blue eyes of hers, I knew immediately what I had to do.

While the kids played in the back, I entered the house quietly. I stepped carefully through the kitchen, making sure not to disturb anything that might have given me away. I wanted the gift of my presence to be a surprise to her, as my coronation had finally begun. My footfalls were light as I quietly swung open the door to their bedroom where they humped under the canopy of their king-sized bed.

Her legs were spread wide, and his flexed a*s and rippled back slammed into her with every ounce of strength he had built over years of lifting weights in that corporate gym of his. And I saw her perspiring face just then. Her eyes were closed, and yes, she called out for me. She moaned for me as I towered behind them. Can you believe it? I was never gay, you see. I did it all just for her.

Sweat rolled off his back as he continued to slam into her, and when she opened her blue eyes and looked into mine, she unleashed such a scream of pure bliss and delight at my sudden arrival that I was finally filled with all the rapture I had sorely missed in my youth. I unclasped the heavy hammer hanging from my toolbelt and hit the sharp edge of it into her husband's rotten skull. The prongs of the sharp hammer sunk deep into thick bone as his warm, black blood flooded the bed and soaked the sheets just as I had dreamt about the night before. Finally, I proved my love for my Queen. We would be together for an eternity, she and I. No longer would I ever have to serve men again.

Because, you see, Detective, they had made a fool of me. And my Queen had made a cuckold of me. And it was just a game, as that's all it ever was, as women like to play games. You see, I had to prove my love for the Magical Queen of All Women in order to win her hand. And for this, I just had to pry open his skull and vomit on his squirming brain.

She loved every minute of it. She bathed in his hot blood and cried and writhed in ecstasy on the bed within that tangle of soaked sanguinary sheets. Yes, I did it, Detective, but I did all for my Queen. No longer was I a queer slave. Because I now worked for my Queen and my Queen alone. No longer would I have to suck a man's c**k or let him f**k me from behind as he once did. Take me away if you must, but now I have a power far greater than all of your armies combined!

The Past and the Future