Chronicles of Woes

A short, sweaty, unwashed mess of Scottish NEET shuffles on to the stage, quivering. The immaculately dressed Richard Spencer - almost a polar opposite of this new disheveled speaker - looks awkward and glances nervously to the crowd, seeming suddenly insecure for the first time during the conference. Unaware, the manlet waddles further into view, the boards groaning under his weight, while the folds of his fat belly ripple through his clothing with every step. The audience is visibly repelled, only to be further aghast at the encroaching stench that washes over them. The odour of years of nicotine, body odour, and dead fermented semen drifts pungently across the room - it's clear he hasn't left his own room, let alone his own house, for months.

The tension in the room mounts, Spencer clearly grimacing through his smile, as the stinking apparition clears his throat with a guttural cough, swigs the Coke left at the podium for him, and then finally begins to speak…

"Hullo."

"Fucking Brit/pol/, right!" The man-child exclaims with a chuckle, bearing a coke and tobacco stained grin whilst attempting to break the awkward silence that has come over the audience.

No one laughed.

The audience look at each other, confused. The stinking manlet, sensing his joke had not been understood, decided to laugh at it himself, to make it more clear. In the past, he'd found that had lifted the mood during his lengthy Internet "hangouts".

"Hahahahahahaha"

The silence in the room, already heavy, seemed to thicken. The stage creaked again, and sweat leaked from his every pore as he realised the number of eyes staring at him.

Dried cum flaked off his stained dressing gown as he scratched his dandruff laden scalp to relieve the hot red itching, whilst the humiliation of being watched by so many people caused him to pop a half chub underneath his pajama bottoms.

He wasn't used to speaking without a fag in his mouth, let alone without a computer screen to glance at, so he went for his notes. He pulled them from his back pocket and attempted to smooth out the crumpled notes, which were scrawled on the back of coca cola labels on the podium.

Unfortunately, the sweat from his arse led him to smudge the biro ink, and his words resembled all of those Rorschach tests he had conducted online in aid of his self-diagnosis. It slowly dawned on him that there wasn't a chance in hell he'd last for the pre-booked, three-hour timeslot.

By this point Richard Spencer's gritted smile had disappeared, replaced by a look of appalling anguish. Crowded thoughts rushed into his mind - how could he have been so wrong to invite this awful, awful speaker? If his judgment was so flawed in this respect then what else may he have been confused on? The EU? Milo? Gay identity being implicitly white?

The room seemed to spin around him, voices of doubt swelling in his head, the terrible atmosphere in the room combined with the god awful smell overwhelming Spencer. His face glistened, and, with a sudden blank expression, he crashed to the ground.

The disgusting manlet a few yards away, relieved the attention was finally off him, decides to think of something witty to say.

"Haha. I think he had a bit too much to think!"

Now visibly shocked disturbed, the audience again, does not laugh.

Woes was now panicking.

His already weak control over his withered and worn sphincter muscles was beginning to show itself as the fetid odour of coke induced diarrhea began to waft gently from the podium. He looked up at the spotlights trained on him, shielding his face with his hand -  unknowingly releasing his grip on the half dozen ink stained coca cola stickers that blew away into the front row.

Was this it, is this how the man known as Manlet Woes would end his career as the most successful orator in Scotland?

He gripped the sides of the wooden podium as if to give himself some certainty. Those few of his crumpled notes that he still held, blurred and stained beyond any useful recognition, were crushed between his sweating palms and the tasteful solid mahogany - an item he knew the conference's decadent organiser had insisted on. Out of nervousness he tried to smile, exposing his crooked yellow teeth to the front row, and causing an attractive middle aged American woman to faint. Desperation set in.

Now utterly lost, he flicked his eyes to the crumpled body of Spencer, then back to the audience, finding assurance in neither.

"I wish I had spent more time on my speech, instead of spending the last few months making another new title sequence for my YouTube videos." He thought to himself.

Scanning the confused and disgusted faces of the audience, he longed to see someone, or something, familiar, but to no avail.

"If only Knightmarez were here, he'd know what to do," he mumbled to himself with stinking breath, looking down towards his equally stinking feet.

But there was no Knightmarez, only more silence. It filled the air, deafening woes with its presence, or perhaps that was simply his caffeine and sugar addled heart pumping his pre-diabetic blood too hard through his cheesy ears.

Suddenly, a cough broke the air, snapping woes back from the fantasy of burly Scottish men with hairy legs in tutus his mind had begun to drift to.

A man stood up from the crowd and spoke. Woes was startled but paid attention - this question was vital to his comeback, and, with his superior intellect he knew just how to reply to this plebeian

The man stood not too high, he wore a strange tweed cap and was quite visibly obese, his arms crackled like bubblewrap as he lifted his arm, reminiscent of a bundle of sausage skins stuffed with wet flour as it  began to postulate  its request to the smartest man in Scotland.

Woes felt thrilled. People in public, asking him questions. His mind drifted towards the way he had recently begun to feel about himself, thanks to his ECELEB status: someone important, an opinion former, a changer of the world, a real grown up. Better feelings began to drift through his flabby body.

"Is Richard Spencer alright? He just darn fell over? Probably because of this terrible smell!" Exclaimed the tubby eccentrically dressed American.

"What smell?" Woes replied, both disappointed and confused.

From the side of the stage, Spencer let out a small audible groan.

"Oh I'm sure he's fine" said Woes, putting on his best attempted at cheeriness despite the insult of not having been asked a proper question, befitting of his vast and complicated mind.

"Does anyone have anything they'd like to ask me? We could do an AMA, haha." He said, suddenly feeling courageous again.

And then something happened that made Woes feel extremely thirsty

A few audience members, people who had specifically come to this conference today to be regaled with his delightful charm and affect had begun to stand and leave

What was wrong?!? Woes pondered, could it be a gas leak? That could definitely explain the smell that peasant was describing earlier but then again he hadn't smelt it, indeed, the room didn't smell that much different from the darkened crusty pit he usually spent all his time in

"Ah I see some people just wont be able to handle some of the truths we'll be discussing tonight "

A few audience members began to murmur at the idea of where this discussion might be as the chubby crusty Scottish man on the podium had done naught that evening but stand on stage and sweat profusely for a good solid 20 minutes in almost absolute silence. Woes, having taken any reaction from his audience as a good one, now had a ridiculous grin plastered across his face, which only served to elicit more confused murmurs from the audience, more and more of them deciding to leave.

"Well I guess nobody has any questions for me then, haha" said Woes, feeling ever more confident as people filed out.

The more empty the hall became, the more it began to resemble his own empty room at home. Other people had always seemed an unnecessary nuisance anyway.

"I guess I'll finish up then!" he happily exclaimed, as increasing numbers of disgusted Americans found their way to the exit, looking back at him with revulsion.

Waddling off stage, clasping the last remains of his notes, Woes smiled contentedly to himself.

"That actually went better than I expected".

Then he frowned. He just thought of a way to improve his title sequence. It needed better lighting, he realised. He could feel the itch to get back in front of his nicotine stained computer, in the comfort of his dark and stinking bed room.

Richard Spencer never recovered. He remained in a coma, only to utter strange and confused whimpers every now and then. The doctors were confused by his condition, although he received the best medical care money can buy for the remainder of his life.

The obscure political movement Alt Right ended with that final disastrous NPI conference. The disgusting dwarf known as Manlet Woes didn't notice however, and continues to make videos to this day. The title sequences are said to be superb.