“This is Brando,” Candy tells me as he gestures at the big guy to his right.

“Hhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiii,” Brando tones, his voice kind of like a vacuum cleaner on the heavier carpet setting. He looks like the sort of lug a group of more sophisticated bullies might send to do their dirty work and pound the lunch money out of a bunch of small kids. If he were part of a criminal gang, Brando would definitely be stationed outside the bank during the robbery, or in the getaway car . . . nowhere near the inside where he might be seen and identified with the rest. Car thieves might throw him in front of someone’s fancy ride to get a better chance at entry.

“Hi,” I say, seriously considering just leaving.

“I’m Jeeter 326,” retches the squirmy little rodent fuck to Candy’s left.

“Hello,” I say, and decide I’m definitely not going to refer to this guy by number.

“We’re all incels,” Candy reminds me.

“Yeah,” Jeeter affirms. “Do we know you? What’s your name?”

“This is X,” Candy tells him, his face beaming with pride for leaving Uncle out this time.

“Never heard of you!” Jeeter squeaks, squirming in his chair as if his ass is crawling with ants.

“Why would you have heard of me?” I’m genuinely curious.

“Never seen anyone that goes by X in our forums or Twitter. How old are you?”

“Why does that matter?” I frown, wondering if doing a fitness class has somehow allowed me quick access to anger I wouldn’t normally be able to muster and show so fast.

“Mmmmmaaaaaybe you're an ooooooooooldcell,” Brando groans.

I flinch the way you might when a statue you’re standing by comes to life. “Oldcell?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Jeeter’s voice seems to crunch. “Incels are young. Younger than you. So, if you’re one of us, you must be an oldcell.”

“Guys!” Candy shouts, his voice so booming and perfect we all turn to listen like nothing, following lifetimes of societal training to respond to dudes who talk like that. “He’s not one of us.”

Brando leans back, his dull eyes expanding wide.

Jeeter starts to flap like he’s possessed. “Not one of us?! Why would you bring a fucking normie to our meeting?” He turns to me and does something he must think looks like scowling. “Let me guess, you’ve got a hot girlfriend waiting for you, and you’ve probably dated all kinds of Stacys and Beckys in your time. You’re the problem! Why would we talk to you?!” He’s on his feet now, which doesn’t mean much.

“Settle down,” Candy says, his tone now soothing. 

But Jeeter keeps up his same bullshit, spouting, “The Gentleman had the right idea about those like you! And now you show up, bluepilled to hell, and expect us to just be cordial . . . like we’re the fucking sheep?! Well Bah-bah, mother fucker! Go back to your palace and beautiful wife who wants to eat your old ass with love as soon as you get in!”

I don’t know why, but Jeeter’s last line . . . beautiful wife who wants to eat your old ass . . . both tickles me and makes me sick, the combination amounting to a whole lot more anger, again all of a sudden. “Hey man, fuck you!” I reply as I imagine leaping to the table and stomping this flighty little jerkoff so he can’t keep buzzing around all anxious (making me nervous).

“Ha!” he says, then leaves a space, and then finally adds a second, “Ha!”

“Sirs,” Candy announces, his back all straight and arms up waving, “I brought Mr. X because he seems interested in our movement. And we all know how important it is to get our true message across. Please, let’s start over. Mr. X means no harm. He simply has never been exposed to our terminology before. He needs to be educated, not ridiculed.”

“Yeah, and my wife’s not hot, you fuck!” I yell at Jeeter as soon as Candy takes a breath. “Not that it fucking matters, but you made your mind up about me the second you saw me, and that was it. You don’t know me at all.”

“Let’s get to know each other,” Candy proclaims like he’s talking to a preschool class.

“Iiiiiiiiiiiiii agreeeeeeee,” Brando adds, and makes me jump again.

I sigh, figuring maybe it’s not so bad to have one loser shitface out of three hate me. “Alright,” I say. “So, none of you guys have ever been laid?”

Pure (unimpressive) rage crosses Jeeter’s face, and threatens to erupt out.

But Candy cuts him off, and answers me diplomatically, “No, none of us have ever had sex. None of us have had girlfriends. None of us have ever hugged a girl, or held hands . . . not with anyone we’re not related to . . . anyone we might actually want.”

“Why?” I ask.

“See, this normie fuck couldn’t begin to understand,” Jeeter jeets, “That’s why we can’t rely on speaking and reasoning to solve our plight. We must have our Day of Retribution, or nothing will ever change! It’s just as our three saints have proclaimed, even unto death!”

“Dude,” I grumble, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Where are you getting all this? I just asked why you’ve never gotten any? Damn.”

“It’s not like we haven’t tried,” Candy mutters, rolling his eyes.

I turn to look at Candy in hopes of ignoring Jeeter, and ignoring my urge to make that rat-like face even less attractive. “So, you’ve asked girls out?”

“Many, many times,” says Candy, his words awash with tragedy. “I’ve given women everything, spending weeks and months talking and listening, offering them all I have. But I am only ever a friend. That’s all they ever see me as.”

Seconds later, something clicks. “Are . . . are you talking about Jolene?” I ask, hoping it's not true. 

“Ah, Jolene…” Candy whispers. “I suppose I can’t hide it. Yes, Mr. X, I am. And I’ve given Jolene the very best of myself. I was there for her when Tyler broke her heart. I respond whenever she needs anything. Yet she won’t return the favor with even a single kiss. And that’s why we’ve joined together,” he motions again at the other two to either side, “to shed light on how unfair it is to receive nothing back from those exquisite girls to whom we give all we have. It’s just not fair.”

Now, I haven’t quite figured out why yet, but something in Candy’s spiel sets me off worse than Jeeter’s shit-brained assumptions and accusations.

And now it’s two enemies out of three, which changes things.

I stand, and feel the tired muscles in my shoulders, neck, back, arms, and face tighten once again as my eyes narrow.

Fuck these clowns!