One morning in the middle of summer, a group of four twentysomething students – Charles, Peter, Thomas and David – were sitting around a table in Costa Coffee in Earl’s Court, West-Central London, talking about Islam. In particular, they were engaged in discussing something the group had long referred to as the ‘Day of the Discount’ – a hypothetical future day when, with Western patience with Islam having finally snapped, attractive girls of Muslim descent desperate to avoid deportation to the misogynistic third world would become available to white men at far beneath their ‘peace-time value’.
“I’m personally very keen on Mishal Husain,” Charles mused, referring to a crisp-tongued newsreader employed by the BBC. “She would almost certainly want to stay, as well. Far too sophisticated to settle for a burka.”
Peter agreed. “Yes,” he nodded, “beautiful skin. She almost makes brownness a virtue. And that voice! My word! Puts many English girls to shame. Thomas?”
Thomas paused to think before answering. “Mishal is nice,” he concurred, “but I wouldn’t go out of my way. There are so many like her who aren’t famous. And we should also be realistic. She’ll have a sponsor from the get-go.”
The word ‘sponsor’ in this group’s parlance was used to denote a white (Christian) man willing to marry a Muslim-origin woman and ensure her continued status as a Western citizen. In their minds, all aspirational Muslim women would seek a white ‘sponsor’ when the full-heat of the white-nationalist renaissance broke out; someone, that is, to argue on their behalf, confirming to the crowds and authorities that they are exceptions to be trusted and let off.
“What is M.I.A?” David asked.” You know, the rapper girl? She’s quite pretty, I think.”
“Sri Lankan,” Thomas answered. “Hindu. No-go. I’m sure Hindu areas of Sri Lanka are tolerable enough, even if the standard of living might feel like a steep drop at first. It’s best to concentrate on Pakistani and Arab girls.”
“And Iranians,” Charles added. “They’re especially keen to avoid being grouped in with other Muslims. Most Persians tend to view themselves as exotic whites. In fact, they’re pretty much available for discounting now, even without a NatSoc government. Dating a white man for them is a way of confirming their difference. All they ask is that you agree that they are different. If you say something like, ‘I’ve always viewed you guys as whites,’ and then follow it up with some mean remark about Arabs, they’ll strip for you on the spot.”
At this point in the conversation, a lone woman walked into the store, attracting the attention of all four men. She was tall, golden-skinned and appeared no more than 20 years of age. Her black hair was long and sparkled like asphalt under the lights.
“What is she?” Thomas whispered lustily.
The girl approached the counter and ordered a lemon iced tea. Her accent was crisply native and middle class, spiced with a slight London twang.
“Could be mixed-race,” David suggested quietly.
“Nah,” Thomas returned, shaking his head. “Two dark. Mixed girls are very pale in my experience. And her hair is too straight.”
“The hair means nothing these days,” David argued. “They have products to straighten it. They use olive oil and stuff.”
“Still, I’m guessing Arab or Afghan.”
Having been served the girl took her tea over to a window table a few yards from where the boys were sitting. She seemed to be alone, a fact which greatly excited them.
The boys began to discuss who among them should be given the right to make the first approach. Charles argued it should be him, since he had only recently suffered the misfortune of losing his job at a local supermarket. Reluctantly, the others conceded that this case was unlikely to bettered by anything they could think of at short notice, and so Charles was duly given the go ahead.
“Wish me the grace of Kek,” he said, straightening his shirt.
“May he be with you,” the others droned in concert. “Always.”
And so Charles set off for where the girl was seated, his three companions watching his every move with fascinated anticipation.
“Hey,” he said casually, when he reached her table. The girl, who was reading a dense paperback at that moment, looked up at him, confused.
“Hello,” she stuttered.
“Can I?” Charles asked, gesturing to the seat opposite her.
“Can I ask why?”
“I know it’s odd, but you look like someone worth talking to. I’m a nice guy. Honest.”
“How do you know I’m a nice girl?” she smirked.
“Oh I can tell you are. And even if I’m wrong, you’re so beautiful that it won’t count as a waste of time anyway.”
The girl smiled, surrendering to his flattery. Her shining white teeth contrasted beautifully with the brown skin of her face.
“You look quite exotic,” Charles remarked, settling into his seat.
“Yeah. Are you Spanish or Italian or…?”
“I’m actually English,” the girl declared warmly, as if having anticipated the question. “I was born in Bristol.”
“And your parents?”
“Hampstead and New Malden.”
Charles grinned. “And their parents?”
“Lebanon, wow. Which side of the civil war were they on?”
This question, being clangingly out of tune with the tone of the conversation up until that point, did not go down well.
“What kind of question is that?” the girl frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“She seems upset about something,” Thomas observed from the boys’ table. “He’s fucked up.”
“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” Charles pleaded. “I just wondered. Your grandparents came over I’m guessing because of the political upheaval there. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry.”
“They’re Greek Orthodox. I still don’t know why that’s interesting to you. But there you go.”
Charles struggled to hide his disappointment. “Right.”
“And it was before the civil war,” the girl continued. “Luckily my grandparents left just in time. Many of their friends didn’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles said, his features still sunk in obvious dejection
“Are you alt-right?” the girl asked.
“You know what I mean. Are you a video-gamer racist? Do you spend your days working out to Rammstein and wanking over interracial pornography?”
Charles’ shock at her frankness was matched only by his terror at her prescience. He stared at her, open-mouthed, lost for words.
“Do you regard certain anime characters as your girlfriends?” she continued, smiling. “What’s your opinion on Amy Schumer? Do vaginas secretly disgust you?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” Charles replied, finding his voice before his orientation, “but this is crazy to me. I was just trying to be nice.”
“No you weren’t,” she pushed back. “You thought I was an easy fuck. A Westernised haji girl desperate to integrate before the anti-Islam storm erupts.”
Charles was once again speechless. He could think of no coherent way of denying her accusations.
The girl switched her tone. “I’m sorry,” she said, feigning regret. “I’m out of order, aren’t I? Shall we start again? My name is Laila. What’s yours?”
“This is where you tell me how beautiful my name is.”
“You have a beautiful name, Laila.”
“Thank you, Charles. I agree. Charles is OK; a bit generic. But it does for you, I suppose. What do you do for a living? I’m a student, reading history.”
“I’m not doing anything at the moment,” Charles confessed. All emotion and charm had faded from his demeanour.
“Unemployed,” Laila nodded, smiling. “I did wonder. Need to keep some time free for all that gaming. Don’t be embarrassed, Charles. Subcultures are very now. You might be poor, but then again, we who have a stake in society don’t have our own anthropomorphic frog. So who’s really winning?”
Charles laughed. He actually laughed. He laughed sincerely, despite himself, despite everything. He laughed.
“I have no idea what’s happening,” Thomas remarked, squinting at the two from the boys’ table. The others were similarly perplexed, similarly curious.
For the next twenty minutes or so, Charles and Laila talked cheerfully about everything under the sun. His original stratagem rendered useless, Charles went into areas of his mind and emotional complex that had cobwebs lining the walls, dust on the floors. Nothing in this neglected space was meta. Nothing was irony. The situation, the first for years in his life, was too pleasant, too deep, to important to treat with memes.
When Laila had finished her iced tea she announced that she had to get back to campus to work on a presentation on Nazi Germany. Charles’s eyes lit up upon hearing this.
“I know lots about that,” he said. “I can help you. Can we meet up again?”
“Sure,” she smiled, reaching into the pocket of her black denim jacket and producing a folded receipt. “Write down your email for me.”
He did so. She took it. He returned to the table where his friends sat, ravenously awaiting the details of what had transpired.
He was reluctant to tell them.
“It was good,” he explained vaguely.
“What was she?” David asked.
“She’s not a what,” Charles replied, and then upped and left the shop.
The first date Charles had with Laila was a meal at his apartment.
When she entered the living room, she was taken aback at once by the posters covering the walls. They depicted a clashing variety of Japanese animations, fantasy art and militaristic portraits and film stills. One especially large framed photograph which caught her attention was a still from the movie 300 in which Gerard Butler’s Leonidas stood ready to slice his long sword through the waist of an approaching Persian.
“You guys really like that film, don’t you?” she remarked. “I suppose because it depicts a pre-feminist age. We must be quite a nuisance.”
“You’re a feminist?” Charles asked, eyebrows raised.
Laila grinned. “Only in the sense that I don’t regard myself as pussy. I’m pretty radical. No bother, though, I’m sure we can find some things to agree on. I’m not a fan of hip-hop misogyny in particular. You can find a point of contact with that opinion, right?”
“I’m not racist, you know, Laila. I don’t even identify as being part of any alt-right, or whatever the media wants to call common sense these days. I just don’t my culture being reduced to an Afro-Islamic hellhole, for your sake as much as my own. Women don’t fare well in the third world. In many countries , they’re just a pair of eye-holes in black fabric. I think you’re worth more than that.”
Laila nodded thoughtfully, “And you’re the Leonidas standing ready to slice my oppressors in half, eh? She pointed to a bench-press in the corner of the room, directly beneath the 300 print. “I see you’re already getting pumped for the final confrontation.”
“Well, we can’t go on like this, can we? ISIS are barbarians. You don’t need to be a bigot to recognise that fact. Men do still have a use. We’re designed by nature to protect our women, just like lions protect lionesses. It’s human arrogance to think we’re above natural laws.”
There was then a pause. They stared at each other, both minds erotically charged, both hostile, both submissive, both craving to convert their differences into a tangle of angry flesh.
Laila removed her blouse, revealing small, cupcake bosoms held together by a black-lace brassiere. She then slid her skirt and pants down her coffee-brown legs and kicked them off with her shoes.
“Come on then, Leonidas,” she smiled. “Save this princess from the mud-blood hordes.”
And so they fucked, there and then, on the floor, on the sofa, standing up against the wall. And when they had finished, Laila promptly got dressed and said goodbye.
“Where are you going?” Charles called after her desperately as she walked to the door. “You can stay the night. You can stay as long as you want.”
But she said nothing. She just left. Charles watched the closing door like a dog watching his master head out for work. Everything that had filled him with happiness just moments earlier was gone, dissolved like water vapour.
The next time Charles met up with his friends was in the same coffee shop where he had first met Laila. Inevitably, their questions this day were all about her.
“So, is she your girlfriend or what?” Peter asked eagerly.
“I thought she might be.”
“But she isn’t?” Thomas suggested.
“No,” Charles returned. “We fucked at my house, but she hasn’t answered my emails since then. I didn’t get her number.”
“Probably just a tease,” said David. “Women don’t have the same values, dude. They act like we’re the ones who play around with emotions, but they’re the fucking masters of it. Just one reason I don’t let love enter my mind. It’s pussy voodoo, dude. It’s a spell.”
The conversation soon switched to other things; anime, cuck-porn, and, of course, the Day of the Discount, with the focus this time being placed on mixed race women like Meghan Markle and Troian Bellisario.
“They only date white, in my experience,” David maintained. “They’re raised white and they hate the idea of having to surrender to the American one drop stuff. A white man makes them feel they’ve been accepted by the good side. I going to aim for a quadroon.”
But Charles took no part in any of these discussions. He remained silent, his eyes lowered to the wood of the table. Every word his friends uttered bounced off his ears like trainers off plastic.
An hour or so later, when the group stood up to leave, Charles approached the server behind the counter to ask if she knew anything about Laila, if she was a regular there, where she lived, etc…
“She came in this morning,” the server said, to his delight.
“And where does she live?” he asked excitedly.
“How I could know that?” the served shrugged. “Is your name Charles?”
“Yes,” he frowned, “Why?”
“She gave me something for you. Wait here.”
The woman strolled off into the kitchen. When she emerged a minute or two later, she presented Charles with a folded piece of paper.
“I couldn’t help having a peek, ” she said. “Makes no sense to me.”
Charles unfolded the paper and looked at what was on it: a coloured cartoon of Pepe the Frog with tears running down his cheeks.
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