Summary: On a warm night in July, Heather and Stacy have a life-changing encounter.

Dusk! Twilight descends on the city of Austin as Heather and Stacy stroll down the sidewalk, iPhones in hand. They just came back from a hard session of Bosu Ball deadlifts at the gym and they’re preparing to reward themselves with a night of Alcohol, Drugs, and Strange Cock – AKA a Girl’s Night Out.

Heather is feeling frisky tonight. She wants to go out to the nightclub.

Stacy is feeling elegant tonight. She wants to go tango dancing.

As Heather texts Chad to meet her at the nightclub, she feels an urgent tug on the hem of her American Apparel tank. She looks up. Stacy is staring at her and saying something under her breath.

“Heather… OMGgggg… do you see that Gggguuy??”

Stacy points down the street. There, spotlighted by the cool glow of the moonlight, stands a man unlike any they’ve ever seen before. Something is different about this man. His eyes appear vicious and cold, wolflike in their unflinching ferocity, but his smile is warm and paternal.

He’s average height, average weight, average facial aesthetics, average everything – except for his attitude. An attitude that seems to say “I would murder a person in cold blood with my bare hands if they so much as THOUGHT about the POSSIBILITY of cutting me in line at the grocery store.” An attitude that seems to say “I control every woman I encounter, not because I take this control, but because they hand it to me.” An attitude that seems to say “I enjoy eating pussy, not because I like giving women pleasure but because I like temporarily denying them the pleasure of my dick.”

Heather and Stacy keep staring at the man as tingles electrify their nether regions like a thunderstorm of vaginal lightning. Heather’s text to Chad remains unsent as she and Stacy gawk at the stranger.

The man approaches. As he does, he opens his mouth and a deep voice floats through the darkness, penetrating the hearts of every woman in a one-mile radius:

“Hey…. do you sluts like linguistics?”

Heather and Stacy gasp. Their pussies are overcome with emotion. Suddenly, they know. Deep down inside, they know. There is only one man who could make an approach that bold, that daring, that brilliant.

That man is BurgundyCarpet.

“OMG, Stace….” Heather’s maw gapes as she regards the approaching hulk-like silhouette. Somehow, even the guy’s scent is Dark Triad as fuck.

Heather asks: “Did you know that he’s the guy who figured out what causes men to be Beta? Turns out it’s a distrust of their own perceptions and a tendency to rely on the abstractions of others.”

“Betch, get serious. That’s not the only reason he’s so sexy. Another reason is because he articulated the differences between Alpha Males and Beta Males in a very clear and concise manner. Did you even read how many big-ass vocabulary words he knows? When he uses terms like ‘conceptual validity’, I get wetter than Monica Lewinsky in a Cuban Smoke Shop.”

As the man draws nearer, the tempo of their frantic squabbling increases.

Heather turns to Stacy. “Okay, we need to decide who gets to fuck him, right now. Do you want to play Rock Paper Sci ––”

Heather never finishes her sentence… because Stacy punches her square in the face and knocks her out cold.

Enter Burgundy, stage left. Looking like a perfect 50/50 mix of James Dean combined with James Deen. He winks at Stacy and says:

“Hey, cute dog.”

Stacy laughs and playfully replies. “But I don’t have a dog! What dog are you referring to?”

Burgundy smirks and then points down at the passed-out body of her friend Heather. They both laugh. “Oh, you mean that dog,” says Stacy, touching Burgundy’s arm.

But Burgundy recoils. His expression, once preternaturally calm and loving, has turned to fire and brimstone. “What the fuck did you just say to me? Are you code-switching, bitch?”

“No, Burgundy! I promise I’m not! I don’t even know what code-switching is!”

Burgundy’s frown intensifies. “You’re still doing it.” He starts to walk away.

“No! I’m not! I promise! Come back, BurgundyCarpet! I want to suck your dick while you compose thoughtful articles about gender dynamics and abstraction!”

But the man is already gone. Stacy drops to her knees, sobbing…. until she notices a tiny piece of paper lying on the ground.

What’s this? A little scrap of paper with a phone number written on it? Could it be? Did BurgundyCarpet leave his number? Is it possible? Is sweet salvation close at hand?

Hands shaking, she dials the number. It rings. Once, twice, thrice. Someone picks up the line and says –

“Hello, you have reached Roosh V. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you...”

Stacy’s world comes crumbling down. Burgundy was playing her from the start. He was never gonna give out his real number. He was just here to troll and talk about linguistics.

Stacy takes out the cyanide capsule she keeps in her purse (in case she ever loses her Lifetime Pass to Jamba Juice, she needs an easy way to end it all). She bites down on the capsule…

...and in the nick of time, someone hits her on the back of the head, knocking the capsule out of her mouth and saving her life. Stacy looks around, trying to see who saved her from her suicide attempt.

...but he’s already gone, leaving only the lingering scent of Narcissism in his wake.

(And somewhere not too far away, a handsome and noble Chad spends the night alone, waiting for a text from Heather.)

Lessons learned: Women do not care about your interests or skills unless those interests will directly benefit their social standing. Unless she can tell her girlfriends about your skills and make them jealous, there is no point talking about your skills.

The Red Pill marches on. Thanks to /u/GayLubeOil for inspiring this post.