THE INCEL MASSACRE
An excerpt from a new novella by Andy Nowicki
Mr. Nowicki'’s newest literary work The Incel Massacre is now available to read on Kindle for just $2.99 (or the equivalent price outside of the US.) His 1325 novel, The Curtsy and the Kiss is also available for purchase.
Call him Corbin.
He is a private investigator, although the actual duties of his job are, truth be told, more open-ended. He is unlicensed, and strictly “off the books”...nevertheless his reputation precedes him. Corbin operates in a shadow realm somewhere between the real and the liminal. There is little he hasn’t seen. Horrors beyond your comprehension? No sweat: Corbin PI has a file on most of them.
When an old school buddy calls on Corbin to look into his girlfriend Felicity’s ex, a frightening and unstable creep, it appears at first to be an open-and-shut case. Yet soon it becomes clear that the alluring Felicity has left a string of men’s deaths in her wake. And the deeper Corbin digs in Felicity’s case, the stranger and more sinister he finds the situation.
Even worse, Corbin he also finds himself falling in love, something he never intended to do: something that might just be the death of him...
Advance praise (and blame) for The Incel Massacre by Andy Nowicki
“The Incel Massacre: From the Chronicles of Corbin, Esoteric Private Eye combines dystopian sci-fi noir, scathing social commentary, mystery, suspense, and creeping horror in a heady brew, something like ‘Blade Runner’ filtered through ‘Harassment Architecture.’”
—David Lynch
“Nowicki’s latest work examines the collapse of the West through the eyes of a world-weary gumshoe (of sorts), who, much to his surprise and chagrin, finds himself way over his head…”
— Vladimir Putin
“This Nowicki fellow knows too much. His fiction is enlightening the goyim most alarmingly. Someone needs to see to see that he be Charlie Kirk-ed, the sooner the better.”
— Jeffrey Epstein (from a secret lair in Tel Aviv)
Below, for your exclusive delectation, is an excerpt from The Incel Massacre: From the Chronicles of Corbin, Esoteric Private Eye:
Call me Corbin.
By now, perhaps you have heard my story, or rather, the story that involves me, though I dearly wish it didn’t.
If have heard of me, you know I am a private investigator, albeit that I work “off the books.” This admittedly puts me in a legal gray zone of sorts, but that’s precisely the zone where I prefer to operate. Most of the time, such an arrangement plays perfectly to my strengths.
People tend to find me via word of mouth. They know that I have a good track record, that I get results, that I’m not necessarily always inclined to adhere to the letter of the law, if the latter stands in the way of properly serving the client’s needs… thus, my reputation precedes me.
Over the years, I have seen a lot of things, as you may have guessed: things that would shock and repel most people, things that would make most people lose their faith in humanity, things that would curl your proverbial hair, and set your proverbial teeth on edge. I’ve tended to be a bit more tough-minded and pragmatic about such grisly cases… that is, until recently.
Now I know that I’m really not so tough after all.
But enough “morbid self-attention.” I for one have never been a fan of introspection. It’s never gotten me anywhere useful, that’s for sure.
To return to the story which involves me, it begins several weeks ago, when I got a call from my old schoolmate, Fred Junkens.
Now I don’t mean to be cruel, but I must be honest. Back at school, Fred Junkens was the sort of guy who sprang to mind when you were feeling sorry for yourself, because however bad you might have it, at least you weren’t Fred.
I was the type of kid who commonly got overlooked and ignored. Fred, by contrast, got bullied mercilessly and relentlessly. It wasn’t great to be an outcast and a loner like me, but then again, at least I wasn’t Fred.
Fred’s problem, in my humble (but not too humble to share) opinion, was that he tried too hard. Today, the kids have a word for that: namely, being a so-called “tryhard.”
But when Fred and I were kids, there was no equivalent word. Trying was seen as a good thing, and trying hard (“Just try your best!” our parents and teachers would constantly implore) was thought of as laudable. No one seemed able to admit, back then, that sometimes the best thing was not to try. If Fred could have gotten that lesson—one that I, an overlooked loner and perpetual outcast, knew intuitively—then he could have avoided the fate that he met.
Fred could have become like me. Not that I make any claim to having achieved greatness, or even especial goodness, for that matter. But I can, at least, say that I am a survivor, one resourceful enough to get by, and even, after a fashion, to thrive. I may not live the proverbial “dream,” but I do all right, in my own way.
I don’t suppose I ever really tried. I recognized, early on, that trying (to be liked, to be popular, to be successful, to be attractive, to be whatever, fill in the blank yourself) was a mug’s game. I sidestepped it like roadkill, and focused on the things in my life which I could control. I never saw the point of going about things in any other way.
But the Fred Junkenses of the world can never see what guys like me see. The Freds of the world are simply built differently. I would assert that their design conceals a built-in defect, something like a tragic flaw. They know that they aren’t designed for social success, but as soon as they “know” this, they kick dirt over this knowledge so they can quickly forget it again.
That is to say, they think convince themselves that they can “make it happen” for themselves, by hook or by crook, either by attempting to craft an entirely new identity, or by going the opposite route: that is, of striving for greater “authenticity.” They remain perpetually persuaded that, one way or another, they have it within their grasp to reverse the reality of their natures, and those of others; that is to say, they are sure that they can go from being bullied and ridiculed by their peers to being adored and treasured by those same peers; they just have to find the right switch to flip that’ll magically change people’s minds.
**************************
Naturally enough, high school was hell for Fred. His name was tagged alliteratively, with numerous variations: “Frederick the faggot,” “Frederick the fairy,” “Frederick the fudge-packer,” “Frederick the fart-swallower,” and so forth… though to me the most devastating of all of these insults was the most direct one: “Frederick the failure.”
That last one, if I were Fred, would have hurt much more than the rest, but maybe that’s just my middle-aged self talking, since the thought of being a failure--- or rather, the conviction of being one—hits a particularly raw nerve… I always thought I’d be up to something just a bit more expansive and important by now, even though I make pretty good bank in my semi-legal business. Sometimes I wake up in the wee hours—which happens much more frequently when a man hits his forties than it ever did when he was a young buck with “his whole life ahead of him,” as the silly saying goes-- awash with a stabbing sensation of ignominious shame and unbearable regret…
Fred, bless him, absolutely never gave up trying to become a social success, no matter how many times he was rejected, derided, laughed at, humiliated. I’m not exaggerating when I say that you could have literally dumped a bucket of pig’s blood on his head at the prom, and he would have just laughed it off, and good-naturedly shouted, “Nice one!” to his tormentors. Carrie White may have had her limits, but not Fred Junkens.
Surely all of the abuse must have bothered Fred on some level. Or so I always figured, because I couldn’t understand being utterly immune to the effects of relentless humiliation. Then again, my own constitution is so nearly the opposite of his that it sometimes seemed that we could scarcely be the same species, were it not for us both sharing the identical predicament of being unpopular, a circumstance to which I have always responded with the immediate, and unapologetic, withdrawal from anyone whom I ever suspected would reject my company.
Fred and I had been friends, after a fashion, since Fred wasn’t one who rejected my company, plus he was just so outgoing (the very source of his ordeals) that one really couldn’t help but be his friend—again, after a fashion. I liked Fred, and once or twice I tried to subtly sway him to change his ways, to cease to be what is today called a “tryhard,” but which in our youth had no name, always to no avail. Even the hint of a suggestion such a direction, in fact, failed to register with him. It wasn’t that he heard it and rejected it, mind you: it was more like he simply failed to grasp the very possibility of consciously altering his constitution in such a manner. It was like attempting to acquaint a dumb beast with the intricacies of a complex math equation.
After graduation, I lost touch with Fred, just as I had with nearly everyone else. But the disposition I had formed in boyhood only solidified as the years went by. Eventually, after a few fits and starts, career-wise, I stumbled into what became my vocation.
Put simply, I found that I was good at appearing insignificant and unworthy of others’ attention, which, in turn, lent itself to enhanced aptitude for surveillance and detection. An invisible man, after all, needn’t fear being noticed, and when strangers with secrets don’t see you, they are less inclined to be discreet, and are more disposed to reveal, intentionally or otherwise, that which they would otherwise keep hidden.
Things had gone well for me, to the extent that I could make ends meet without any handouts from anyone. My parents both died when I was young, and I have never been close with anyone else in my family. My social contacts were kept to a minimum; I had a few friends, but no real confidantes, and I generally liked it that way. Yes, there were times when I got lonely, or felt the need for, let us say, human company, but I had ways of attending to such needs. Otherwise all was satisfactory, at least when I looked at things objectively. Yet again, there were those inchoate dreams that were not infrequently haunting my otherwise peaceful nights. But in truth I seldom thought about those nocturnal disturbances during daylight hours.
*******************
In any event—as stated above—one day I got what would prove to be a fateful call from Fred Junkens. Actually, he texted me first: a cheerful note, containing a cordial and enthusiastic greeting. He ended the text with his name, but it still took me a few minutes to connect the name with the man, even though he was the only “Fred” I had ever known. It had, after all, been well over two decades since we had last been in touch. He had received my contact information through mutual acquaintances.
After these preliminaries, Fred asked if he could call me. On the phone, I was shocked at how identical his voice sounded to how I remembered it from our school days. I told him so, and he laughed good-naturedly, just as he would have years prior in response to me making a similar observation. Fred asked if my services were still available, and I invited him to stop by my office.
************************************************
I rent a tiny section of a nondescript and rapidly decaying strip mall a mile or two from my apartment. There is no signage and nothing drawing attention to the kind of business being conducted there, which is just fine with most of my clients, who would like to remain discreet. The owner of the strip mall is a dodgy character, with likely unsavory business ties, which also worked out well for me; he was willing to take my cash payment, with no questions asked.
When Fred came in, and we shook hands, he glanced around at the bare surroundings with the mildest hint of trepidation: a single desk, a few chairs, and a rusting file cabinet.
“I’m cultivating an aesthetic of squalor,” I informed him dryly. He nodded, and I wasn’t sure that he got the joke, but perhaps he had become preoccupied by other matters. I gestured for him to sit and inquired how I could be of service.
“Oh, well,” he began. “Things are going great. I have a terrific job, and my girlfriend and I just got engaged.” I congratulated him. Inwardly, I thought to myself, wait for it, there’s a catch somewhere, otherwise why would he be talking to me now?
As if to buttress his message, he produced a photograph of said girlfriend. She was beautiful indeed, and I told him so, which clearly pleased him.
“I’m a lucky man,” he said. “I knew it would happen for me eventually…” His smile abruptly vanished and his eyes, for a brief moment, assumed a forlorn gaze, the like of which I had never before witnessed in his countenance. Though it only lasted a split second, it shocked me to my core, because it struck me as registering something grotesquely incongruous to the essence of Fred as I knew it.
The moment passed, however, with Fred seemingly none the wiser that it had even happened. But just what was was “it,” and what did “it” signify?
Presently, Fred got to the heart of the matter: his girlfriend, whose name was Felicity, had an ex-boyfriend, and this man, she had several times mentioned, seemed to be stalking her.
“She’s really freaking out about it,” he continued. “She thinks he’s a little crazy, and she’s not sure what he’s capable of doing.”
Fred and Felicity hadn’t gone to the police about the matter, Fred said, since there was no credible threat, per se. The ex in question hadn’t made any threats, he had simply shown up at numerous places where Felicity had been-- including her place of work on one occasion—attempting to get her to talk to him. He had also emailed her several times, always pleading for her to “give him another chance,” even though she had made it abundantly clear to him that their relationship was over and she didn’t want him back.
Though Felicity had blocked him on all social media, and repeatedly told him to stop bothering her, nothing had worked so far.
“I was hoping you could, um, talk some sense into him, if you know what I mean,” Frank muttered.
I got what he was getting at, and didn’t blanch from its implications. Part of working as an “off book” private investigator had meant that I occasionally had to rough a few people up, or at least speak to them sternly. I’m tall and rather imposing (I have done bouncer work in the past), so the prospect of things turning “aggressive” with this man in question didn’t phase me much.
First, however, as always, I had to do my due diligence, to make sure that 1) the person in question indeed deserved the employment of my “aggressive” strategy, and 2) that said “aggressive” strategy would indeed be the most helpful way to proceed. I wasn’t, after all, a mere thug for hire; in fact, I always conducted my investigations in a manner that was in accord with my moral convictions. I may be something of a mercenary, working without a license and “off the books,” but that didn’t mean I was unconstrained by conscience.
I explained all of this to Fred, and he seemed to understand. The implicit message when I tell my clients such things is, “if you want to hire a hitman, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Most of the time, they actually seem to appreciate the clarification. Fred gave me the name of his girlfriend’s alleged stalker, and as this name left his lips, his eyes assumed that same disconsolate look as before. This time, his face assumed this pensive expression for a much longer interval; he looked lost in thought. I waited him out, and presently he began to chuckle ruefully to himself.
“You know, I really am a lucky man. I really, really am,” he said. “I’m so fortunate to have Felicity in my life. Sometimes—I know it’s silly—but sometimes I wonder if it’s all a setup, some kind of cosmic joke. It’s just so hard to believe. I really don’t deserve her…”
I nodded sympathetically, but inwardly I was jolted, and took note. Fred’s worry, the one which was causing him to assume such an un-Fred-like countenance, was clearly that he feared that his lovely fiancé, whom he ardently believed he “didn’t deserve,” might secretly be carrying on with her ex behind his back.
This suspicion of mine was confirmed when he told me that Felicity didn’t know that he had contacted me; in fact, he said, she would be angry at him if she knew he was here, employing me for my services. She had consistently downplayed the seriousness of this series of events, though he said he knew it had agitated her.
Of course I knew better than to confront him with any of these perceptions. In the first place, I wasn’t his shrink. Also—admittedly a more pragmatic concern—I knew that he would be offended, and would most likely react defensively, and I needed to avoid alienating him. Still, my heart went out to him, just a bit. I have trained myself to stay on an even keel, and know better than to get too emotionally involved, lest my objective detection skills be impaired and I lose myself in needless sentimentality.
******************
The ex, whose name was Darren, proved fairly easy to track down. He lived in a ramshackle little bungalow in a desolate, weedy area just outside of town. When I knocked on his door, and a gruff voice demanded “Who is it?” I decided upon the best strategy for the situation. Adopting a polite but authoritative tone, I informed him that I was investigating a case involving a woman named Felicity Dresden, and that I would appreciate his help, if he didn’t mind giving me a few minutes of his time.
The door opened, revealing the gaunt, wan form of a man of indeterminate age. His clothes were ragged and unkempt, and he gazed at me with a pitiful sort of dazed expression. My initial suspicion was that he was indulging some addiction, given his countenance and demeanor, though I wasn’t sure. I have encountered, in the course of my work, many a man in desperate straits, and though they have varied somewhat in their manner of behavior, they all carry a certain unmistakable aura.
Darren did not invite me inside of his miserable hovel, but I could tell that hearing Felicity’s name had caused him to open the door and speak to me, even though he would rather have told me to go away. I informed him that Felicity was facing some difficulties and that her boyfriend had contacted me and asked for my help, intentionally keeping mum on any accusatory aspects of the case regarding himself, in order to feel him out. To my surprise, he scoffed ostentatiously at my use of the word “boyfriend.”
“Ha! That fool, her ‘boyfriend’! Is that what he told you he was?” I noted Darren’s incredulous tone, and instead of answering his question, simply looked at him inquiringly.
“He likes to think that about himself, that he’s her ‘boyfriend,’” he continued, “but that’s just because she’s fooled him… it’s just what she does to men, on the regular. It’s what she did to me. She wrecked me, man. She totally broke me.”
He did indeed seem like a wrecked, broken man, but now that he had mentioned himself in relation to Felicity, I found I had an opening to address the question at hand forthrightly. I informed Darren that Felicity had complained of him (that is, Darren) harassing her by showing up at her place of work and continuing to contact her after she had made it clear that she no longer wanted to be contacted.
Darren rubbed his eyes, and began to chuckle, though not with amusement.
“Did she tell you that?” he asked sharply.
I admitted that it had been her boyfriend who had conveyed this message to me, and again he laughed that same hollow, bitter laugh, which this time collapsed into a cough, causing the poor wretch to double over as the violent fit overtook his frame.
When he finally recovered, he muttered, “I can tell you some stories about that girl.”
He went on to claim that every time he had visited her or contacted her via social media, it was because she had instigated contact, not him. The times when he had gone to see her had likewise been instances of him responding to some implied invitation on her part.
“Afterwards, I got scapegoated as the aggressor or stalker,” he declared. “But that’s just because she kept getting me to believe that she was still in love with me. She kept baiting the hook, and I kept biting at the bait. What a stupid fool I was!”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His face grimaced grotesquely, and I was so affrighted by its contortion that I briefly entertained the bizarre notion that he was attempting to metamorphose into an entirely different being. I waited a moment to see if that would actually happen (I have seen worse), and when his face resumed its original shape, I could see that he felt embarrassed at having laid his emotions out so plainly before a total stranger.
“Look,” he declared with sudden resolution. “I’m not sure what you’re actually looking into here, but I think you’ve been misled.”
When I asked if he could show me the recent social media exchanges between himself and Felicity, which would enable me to verify his claims, he shook his head.
“I blocked her on everything,” he said. “But now she’s entered my dreams. I can’t seem to block her from my head, there’s no mechanism for that…”
As if to highlight this thought, he seized hold of both his ears and widened his eyes and mouth in a look of mock-terror, which only partly concealed the actual emotion he seemed to be feeling.
“You know what she tells me in my dreams?” he asked. “She tells me to die. She tells me that if I die, we’ll be able to be together. She says if I do it first, she’ll follow me. She’s incredibly persuasive…” He trailed off, aware again at having bared his soul. The shame he felt over this weakness suddenly aroused in him an anger towards me and a resentment of my unwanted presence.
“Look, I don’t have anything more to say to you, okay? We’re done here.”
And with that he slammed the door and turned the deadbolt, leaving me alone on the weedy patch of turf that was his front yard.
As I meandered back to my car, deep in thought, I could not escape the sensation that I had spoken with a ghost.
While driving home, I had an abrupt vision of an earlier form of Darren; I saw him with healthy, boyish features and a ready smile. He seemed suddenly not so different from my friend Fred—that is, not so different until this recent catastrophic bout of deterioration had begun. I had no doubt, even then, that the disease, whatever it was, would run its terminal course. I entertained no hope of Darren coming back from the brink; the inevitability of his impending demise was impressed upon me with the same grim assurance as a simple mathematical equation. I could no more save him than two and two could cease to make four, or—to put the matter more aptly-- I could no more arrest this doleful process than I could prevent one minus one from equaling zero.
Read Andy Nowicki’s The Incel Massacre: From the Chronicles of Corbin, Esoteric Private Eye, now available on Amazon Kindle
Bought. Great opening. Looks promising.