duke
NEET
- Dec 29, 2024
- 1,266
The days turned into weeks, and ManletMachine never returned to university. He had no choice. The humiliation was too great, too all-consuming. The image of Niammh’s disgusted face, the smell of his own shit, the inescapable shame—it had crushed him completely. He cut himself off from the outside world. Confined to his room, he refused to shower, refused to change clothes, wearing the same cum encrusted boxers with dingleberry stains for months on end.
He stopped caring about everything. His room became a fortress of decay—stale air, rotting takeaway boxes, the same sweat and cum-stiffened bedsheets that had absorbed his tears before something had died inside and turned him into a mere husk. The bed-rot took hold, and with it came something darker.
An obsession with Niammh.
She became his world. Not in the way she once had, as a shining beacon of something he could never have, but as an enemy. As a liar. A fraud. A villain in his story. She had humiliated him, destroyed him, walked away while he lay there, broken and leaking shit. And worst of all, she had done it with no remorse.
He needed to remind her that he still existed. Needed to remind her that incels weren't people to be trifled with.
At first, it was just the small things. Anonymous comments under her social media posts. “LARPing as Irish again, I see.” He knew she hated that—she had spent years carefully curating her online persona as an authentic Irish nationalist, but ManletMachine had done his research. He had traced her family back. Anglo blood. She wasn’t really Irish. She was a fraud, a plastic paddy.
Whats more he began work to undermine her confidence knowing she had complained about her insecurities online. “You need Lefort 3 bitch. Cope.”
When she didn’t respond, he escalated.
He found out where she lived. It wasn’t hard. University directories, a bit of digging. He started leaving small, unsettling gifts at her doorstep. A used bar of soap. A bottle of Head & Shoulders. A note that simply said “Wash”
Then came the recordings. He whispered into his microphone late at night, looping his own voice into eerie, distorted messages. He slid a USB under her door with nothing but a single file:
"Niiiaammhh... you need Lefort 3.... naziwhore....stop the larp... stop the larp... stop the larp..."
She blocked every account he made, but it didn’t matter. He always found a way back.
Niammh was tough. She wasn’t easily rattled. But after weeks of this, something changed. She started looking sick. Paler, thinner, her sharp confidence dulled. Her friends whispered about how she wasn’t sleeping, how she jumped at shadows. She started carrying a pocket knife. She stopped going out alone at night.
But even then, she didn’t break. She refused to acknowledge him, to give him the satisfaction.
That’s when he knew he had to go further.
One night, he waited outside her apartment, hidden in the bushes, clutching a filthy printout of her profile picture. He had rewritten the lyrics to Niamharina on My Balls in his head, this time darker, filled with venom, with hate. He wanted to sing it to her in person, to make her hear it, to force her to understand that she had made him this way.
But before he could step out of the shadows, the door opened. And she wasn’t alone.
Duke.
He had heard about him. Some smug, overconfident bastard she had started dating. Tall, athletic, with 7.6 inch wrists and a girthy penis, he was an actual man. Everything ManletMachine wasn’t. And as he watched them from the darkness, the final realization set in:
She had moved on. She didn’t think about him. Not even as a joke. Not even as an afterthought.
That’s when he lost it.
He rushed forward, stumbling over himself, screaming, “YOU’RE A FRAUD, NIAMMH! YOU NEED LEFORT 3! YOU’RE NOT IRISH! STOP LARPING!”
She barely had time to react before Duke stepped in front of her.
ManletMachine didn’t see the gun at first. He only saw the anger in Duke’s eyes, the way he moved with absolute certainty, like a man who knew exactly what needed to be done.
Then—
BANG.
The shot echoed through the quiet Belfast street. ManletMachine stumbled back, a hot, burning pain searing through his chest. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping, his hands clutching at the wound, feeling the warmth of his own blood spreading.
Niammh stood over him, eyes cold. Duke lowered the gun, unbothered.
As he lay there, choking on his blood, his vision began to blur. Shapes moved frantically in the cold Belfast darkness. Like wild animals frolicking. The wet sound of lips smacking was followed by a sound he had only heard from the other side of a trembling phone screen in the feverish delerium of shameful pleasure. Niammh was moaning like a lusty whore. As a final coup de grace Duke was fucking her as Manlet lay there bleeding out. But at that point he didn't care anymore. Something he hadn't felt in a long time came back to him like a comforting memory.
Relief.
It was finally over.
No more loneliness. No more forums. No more Niammh.
The last thing he saw was the faint incandescence of the streetlights above, flickering softly, indifferent to his end,
And then—
Nothing
He stopped caring about everything. His room became a fortress of decay—stale air, rotting takeaway boxes, the same sweat and cum-stiffened bedsheets that had absorbed his tears before something had died inside and turned him into a mere husk. The bed-rot took hold, and with it came something darker.
An obsession with Niammh.
She became his world. Not in the way she once had, as a shining beacon of something he could never have, but as an enemy. As a liar. A fraud. A villain in his story. She had humiliated him, destroyed him, walked away while he lay there, broken and leaking shit. And worst of all, she had done it with no remorse.
He needed to remind her that he still existed. Needed to remind her that incels weren't people to be trifled with.
At first, it was just the small things. Anonymous comments under her social media posts. “LARPing as Irish again, I see.” He knew she hated that—she had spent years carefully curating her online persona as an authentic Irish nationalist, but ManletMachine had done his research. He had traced her family back. Anglo blood. She wasn’t really Irish. She was a fraud, a plastic paddy.
Whats more he began work to undermine her confidence knowing she had complained about her insecurities online. “You need Lefort 3 bitch. Cope.”
When she didn’t respond, he escalated.
He found out where she lived. It wasn’t hard. University directories, a bit of digging. He started leaving small, unsettling gifts at her doorstep. A used bar of soap. A bottle of Head & Shoulders. A note that simply said “Wash”
Then came the recordings. He whispered into his microphone late at night, looping his own voice into eerie, distorted messages. He slid a USB under her door with nothing but a single file:
"Niiiaammhh... you need Lefort 3.... naziwhore....stop the larp... stop the larp... stop the larp..."
She blocked every account he made, but it didn’t matter. He always found a way back.
Niammh was tough. She wasn’t easily rattled. But after weeks of this, something changed. She started looking sick. Paler, thinner, her sharp confidence dulled. Her friends whispered about how she wasn’t sleeping, how she jumped at shadows. She started carrying a pocket knife. She stopped going out alone at night.
But even then, she didn’t break. She refused to acknowledge him, to give him the satisfaction.
That’s when he knew he had to go further.
One night, he waited outside her apartment, hidden in the bushes, clutching a filthy printout of her profile picture. He had rewritten the lyrics to Niamharina on My Balls in his head, this time darker, filled with venom, with hate. He wanted to sing it to her in person, to make her hear it, to force her to understand that she had made him this way.
But before he could step out of the shadows, the door opened. And she wasn’t alone.
Duke.
He had heard about him. Some smug, overconfident bastard she had started dating. Tall, athletic, with 7.6 inch wrists and a girthy penis, he was an actual man. Everything ManletMachine wasn’t. And as he watched them from the darkness, the final realization set in:
She had moved on. She didn’t think about him. Not even as a joke. Not even as an afterthought.
That’s when he lost it.
He rushed forward, stumbling over himself, screaming, “YOU’RE A FRAUD, NIAMMH! YOU NEED LEFORT 3! YOU’RE NOT IRISH! STOP LARPING!”
She barely had time to react before Duke stepped in front of her.
ManletMachine didn’t see the gun at first. He only saw the anger in Duke’s eyes, the way he moved with absolute certainty, like a man who knew exactly what needed to be done.
Then—
BANG.
The shot echoed through the quiet Belfast street. ManletMachine stumbled back, a hot, burning pain searing through his chest. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping, his hands clutching at the wound, feeling the warmth of his own blood spreading.
Niammh stood over him, eyes cold. Duke lowered the gun, unbothered.
As he lay there, choking on his blood, his vision began to blur. Shapes moved frantically in the cold Belfast darkness. Like wild animals frolicking. The wet sound of lips smacking was followed by a sound he had only heard from the other side of a trembling phone screen in the feverish delerium of shameful pleasure. Niammh was moaning like a lusty whore. As a final coup de grace Duke was fucking her as Manlet lay there bleeding out. But at that point he didn't care anymore. Something he hadn't felt in a long time came back to him like a comforting memory.
Relief.
It was finally over.
No more loneliness. No more forums. No more Niammh.
The last thing he saw was the faint incandescence of the streetlights above, flickering softly, indifferent to his end,
And then—
Nothing
