Violence. Speed. Momentum.

by Dr DisRespect

Okay, so he’s saying that this record makes absolutely no sense, given the immutable laws of time and physics.

  I mean, I guess that’s your opinion, man. But who’s the Doctor here? Yeah, I am.

  And now Nigel says at this point in the book all my readers might not even understand the significance of “yayaya,” so I should discuss its secret origin and what it means to me as a person and an elite competitor. He also keeps using the word “indeed” for no good reason.

  I mean, it’s really not that complicated. It’s just the terrifying guttural scream I make whenever I feel it in my stones, you know? Like deep in my massive steel cojones, right? Like say you take out some skinny punk in Modern Warfare and it’s “Yayaya!” or you knock back a brew with some of your buds and it’s “Yayaya!” or you finally squeeze out a massive dump and it’s “Yayaya!” There’s no, like, secret to it. It’s just fucking “yayaya,” you know? It’s universal.

  You got “Yáyáyáyá” in Spanish. Then there’s “Farfegnugyäyäyä” in German, and “יאיאיא” in Hebrew, which, remember, is read right to left.

  All right, now Nigel the Editor seems a little frustrated. He keeps yammering on about why I can’t just write a fun chapter about what exactly I’m a doctor of. Would that really be so hard?

  FINE.

  We won’t set the “yayaya” world record, okay? We won’t have the honor of making history right here and now, even though over 7.3 million people were only seven seconds—seven fucking seconds!!—away from taking their rightful place in the Guinness Hall of Warriors.

  But I’m not gonna write about what I’m a doctor of until I’m fucking good and ready. And you might wanna do a better job of staying on my good side, okay, bro?

  No, that’s not a threat. Not in the legal sense, anyway.

  I’m just saying—we live in a dangerous world. Shit happens. Crazy shit. Sometimes it can be helpful to be friends with a six-foot-eight hyper-athletic Adonis who has access to the latest cutting-edge Google technology in tactical vests, 4K HD scopes, and armored Lamborghini Diablos with custom GMV 1.3 1040 W-2 M5 Browning machine-gun turrets.

  That’s all I’m saying. That and—

  Yayaya!

  Okay, done.

  (Ya!)

  CHAPTER 3

  THE TWO-TIME

  I woke up this morning, put on my white silk robe—the only thing I own that’s not slate black or blood red—and walked in front of my wall-sized mirror, letting my robe flutter open and fully exposing my butt-naked body.

  I was on my way to my trophy room. It’s the part of my multimillion-dollar Top Secret Command Center I visit about six or seven times a day, just to soak in the glory of all my success. It’s really more of a gigantic hall than a room, because let’s be honest—I need a lot of square footage to fit all 19,226 of my plaques, victor’s cups, life-size golden statuettes, commemorative spears, and rare opals awarded to me by various dukes, sultans, and emperors.

  But even with all these riches, even with all these honors and fine exotic spices and oils, nothing comes close to the prize that sits at the very top of the heap. There, underneath a domed skylight of the purest Tiffany crystal, with all these powerful red lasers shooting down and cool strobe lights and this mysterious mist that honestly, I don’t even know where it comes from—there is my plastic trophy from the 1993 Blockbuster Video Game Championship. It kind of looks like a popcorn box with a VHS tape coming out of it, all coated with this metallic bronze finish, you get the idea.

  And next to that trophy, except a tiny bit higher, is one from the 1994 Blockbuster Video Game Championship, which pretty much looks the same as ’93’s, except for the year.

  And above those two is a special trophy that Blockbuster made right after I won the second championship, just because they were so impressed that I won them both back-to-back, and that one also pretty much looks the same as the other two.

  And above those three is this special commemorative trophy they gave me in 1999, to mark the five-year anniversary of my incredible back-to-back domination. That one is another bucket, except this time they’ve got a Sony LaserDisc coming out of the popcorn box, you know, a real sign of the Blockbuster commitment to cutting-edge technology.

  And then above those four is another commemorative trophy they gave me for the eight-year anniversary of the five-year anniversary, I’m not really sure why, and this one just has a little index card in the popcorn box that reads “Fuck Netflix,” and they got the date of the inscription wrong by eleven days, but hey, you don’t get to be a Fortune 50 company like Blockbuster without thinking outside the box, am I right?

  Anyway, the point of all this, in case you’re too chubby and out of shape to get it, is that I’m the Two-Time, Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion, and it’s the biggest deal in all competitive sports anywhere on the planet.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking.

  You’re thinking, “Doc, we get that this is such a prestigious prize, because the name Blockbuster stands for the quality and innovation and success of a timeless Fortune 25 company. We get that your level of dominance in winning such a cutthroat tournament not just once but two times in a row is absolutely unprecedented. We get all that. But tell us, Doc, why does your back-to-back Blockbuster Video Game Championship mean so much more to you personally? As a god-man among men?”

  Well, if you’d stop interrupting me with all these damn questions, I honestly would’ve told you all of that like ten minutes ago.

  The truth is this award isn’t about only the glory or the prestige or even the destruction of my enemies. It’s about the hero’s journey. My journey. From no one to someone. From little guy to big guy. From small-town star to the biggest gamer the nation has ever seen.

  It’s about the suffering I endured, the trials I overcame on that hard and lonely path.

  Like the young hawk when he first spreads his wings and soars through thunder and lightning to reach the tippity-top of the mountain. Like the baby anaconda when he wriggles out of his skin and slithers through fire and broken glass to strangle his first man-prey. Or like Fred Savage when he embarked on his epic cross-country road trip of victory and mayhem in that classic masterpiece of video game cinema The Wizard.

  And if you don’t get that reference, LOOK IT UP. Shit, kids these days!

  It all started, as all great things did back in 1993, with a night out at Blockbuster Video. I was just eleven, but by now I was already a stunning physical specimen, a little preteen Zeus, standing at five foot five with three pounds of hair cascading down my back like bubbling black steel and a thick layer of ebony peach fuzz above my upper lip that I called Slick Junior.

  By this time, Dr Disrespect was a local gaming legend. I dominated every pool hall, arcade, Sega Genesis, and Super Nintendo around. I even found the few tools who owned Sega CDs and I beat their asses too. Everyone could get it.

  But I was getting too big for this town, baby! I was bored with my success, tired of being so damn superior to every gamer around, sick of being the biggest fish in such a teeny, tiny little guppy pond. And besides, people were starting to look at me kind of funny in my wraparound shades and my child-sized tactical vest. By which I mean five-foot-five children, because I was huge.

  I needed to break out of that place and find a way to dominate on an elite national stage, but I didn’t know how.

  The only thing I had, the only thing that made any kind of sense anymore, was hanging with my bros at the local Blockbuster.

  Now, let me tell you about Blockbuster Video back in ’93, okay? You think Netflix is big? You got yourself a little hard-on for Hulu or Pluto or Fubo? That streaming crap has nothing on Blockbuster in the nineties, all right? Nothing!

  Those big ballers with their blue-and-yellow logo and their Twizzlers and Milk Duds and their New Releases wall told us to make it a Blockbuster night, and we made it a Blockbuster night. Tuesday night, Wednesday night, Saturday night for all the virgins out there, which was all
of us—they were all Blockbuster nights. We stood there and we looked at those rows and rows of Home Alone 2s and Jurassic Parks, and we stared at Sharon Stone on the boxes of Basic Instinct and got our baby boners, and we flashed those little laminated membership cards, and that was power, baby! That was freedom! That was the $1.99-video-rental experience, even if all that effort got you was a copy of Hudson Hawk that no one wanted! That, my friends, was Blockbuster.

  There was just one problem on that steamy August night as I stood outside those glass doors with Ramrod and One-Eyed John and Steve and Razor Frank, who I think was actually Ukrainian in this dimension,I and I stared longingly at A Bronx Tale—and with more than a little interest in The Piano, because I had a weird thing for Holly Hunter.

  I couldn’t go in. Because I’d lost a video.

  That video was The Wizard, starring teen prodigy Fred Savage.

  If you still don’t know, The Wizard is the most seminal coming-of-age-video-game-road-trip-movie-that-Fred-Savage-made-in-1989 of all time. Fred Savage and his little freaked-out brother make an awesome death-defying voyage across the country so the kid brother can compete in this colossal video game tournament in California and become the greatest gaming champion the world has ever known.

  It’s powerful, riveting entertainment. Siskel and Ebert gave it five thumbs-up, and I’m pretty sure Rex Reed called it “a manifesto of epiphanies.” It inspired me, dared me to dream of something greater than my tiny little town, and if you still haven’t watched it yet, do it right now, you lazy little punk.

  Also, I didn’t actually lose the video. I just wouldn’t give it back, because the movie was that fucking good.

  The late fee was so damn big by this point I couldn’t even show my face in Blockbuster. I was straight-up banned, man. But I could see the gigantic cardboard sign they’d posted right by the counter—for the very first, one-time-only…

  Blockbuster Video Game Championship.

  And guess what? This tournament, with elite competitors coming in from all over America, was taking place at Marine World, in California.

  California! Just like in The Wizard.

  My eleven-year-old jaw, already so damn angular it could cut glass, just dropped. This was what I had been waiting for. I was gonna ditch this two-SNES town and go on my very own epic journey across the nation to prove myself at the biggest, most Blockbusting video game tournament of all time. Just like Fred Savage in the Apocalypse Now of video-game-road-trip movies.

  I mean, so what if I already lived in California? So what if my house was only a fifteen-minute walk from Marine World and the only thing my stupid little town was known for was that it offered really convenient parking for Marine World? You think I let that bullshit stop me?

  It was meant to be. I was gonna hit the sidewalk and make my name.

  I sat my parents down for a little talk. I was pacing in front of them in my tactical jacket and wraparound specs, and I was like, “Mama, Papa, Dr Disrespect isn’t like the other little eleven-year-olds out there in He-Man pajamas still afraid of the boogeyman and the top bunk.”

  “But you love He-Man!” Mama protested.

  “Dr Disrespect is his own man,” I said, gazing into the middle distance. “And I’m gonna hitchhike by myself across the country, and at night I’m gonna sleep in burlap sacks on the side of the road, and during the day I’m gonna play video games for food and cold, hard cash, and I’m gonna compete in the Blockbuster Video Game Championship in Marine World, and I don’t care what you say!”

  Then my parents looked at each other kind of funny and they were like, “Um, honey, we’d be happy to just drive you to your tournament in our Dodge Caravan. It’ll only take five minutes. Remember we were just there last weekend for the Bubbles the Killer Whale Show?”

  And I was like, “OF COURSE I KNOW IT’S ONLY FIVE MINUTES AWAY! BUT I’M DR DISRESPECT AND I’M GONNA TRAVEL THE WORLD AND BE A NATIONAL MEGASTAR LIKE FRED SAVAGE IN THE WIZARD AND YOU CAN’T STOP ME!”

  And they were like, “That Fred Savage seems so nice. We loved him in Karate Kid.”

  And I was like, “That is Ralph Macchio! But I get it, easy mistake.”

  And they were like, “Okay, you can do this, but we’re following you in the car.”

  So I hit the road like the warrior I was, with nothing but my switchblade comb, my overdue copy of The Wizard, and a turkey sandwich my mom fixed. Oh, and also my He-Man pajamas, because they really are the baddest PJs ever made and I’ll fight anyone who says different.

  The journey was a hard one, my friends, I won’t lie.

  Except for my parents, there were no cars around to hitch a ride from. So I walked and walked and walked, my champion’s heart pounding, the sweat pouring down my chiseled prepubescent body from the tippity-top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  And that was after just four blocks. Shit!

  “Are you sure you don’t want to get in, uh, Doctor?” my mom called from the Dodge Caravan with its plush comfy seats and frosty-cool air-conditioning on full blast.

  “Yeah, I’m sure! I will not ride to my destiny in America’s safest minivan!”

  “Okay, dear, but you really should’ve taken a left two blocks back.”

  “I did that ON PURPOSE!”

  And I did do it on purpose—I swear! Because honestly it was like less than a fifteen-minute walk from my house to Marine World, and if I wanted a true odyssey of hurdles and challenges, I needed to go at least four miles, give or take three miles.

  But after all that walking, all that epic journeying, I was starving. Hell, I was a growing boy at five foot five, with abs so hard you could use them to wash your Underoos. I checked my pack and remembered I’d already eaten my turkey sandwich three blocks ago, while still in my driveway.

  “Are you hungry?” my mom shouted from the Dodge Caravan. “I packed a Lunchable for you!”

  “No! This is part of the struggle!” Damn, that Lunchable looked delicious.

  Then I looked and saw ahead, like it was fated to be, a seedy, grungy old saloon full of hard boys and biscuit-boxers. I could go inside and challenge some shark to a video game and win enough for dinner, easy peasy.

  I pushed open the grimy saloon doors and strode up to the dirty old dude at the counter.

  “Hey, I’m looking for some action,” I said under my breath. “Competitive game of Mario Kart, Double Dragon, Ninja Gaiden, pick your poison. Fifteen bucks a match. I’ll even give ’em a handicap.”

  He looked at me. “You realize this is a Denny’s, right?”

  I glared at him through my wraparound shades. “Fine. One game of Donkey Kong for a Moons Over My Hammy.”

  “Sheesh, kid,” he said. “We don’t even have video games here. But if you’re hungry, I’ll give you something to eat.” He frowned. “Wait a second, aren’t you Paul and Diane’s kid from down the street?”

  “THE NAME IS DR DISRESPECT AND I’M A HUNGRY WARRIOR TRAVELING THE COUNTRYSIDE ON MY WAY TO NATIONAL VIDEO GAME GLORY LIKE FRED SAVAGE IN THE WIZARD!”

  And he was like, “That Fred Savage seems so nice. I loved him in Teen Wolf.”

  And I was like, “That is Michael J. Fox. But I get it, easy mistake.”

  And he said, “You, uh, sure you don’t want an apple or a cookie or something?”

  “Chocolate chip?”

  He nodded and handed me a cookie.

  “Thanks,” I said. “The Doctor won’t forget your generosity when he’s a national icon.”

  Just like that, I was back on the road. And the journey was a hard one, my friends, I won’t lie.

  Except for my parents, I was all alone in this cruel, uncaring world. I walked and walked, my muscle-bound legs growing weary, like a powerful but grumpy camel crossing the vast Sahara. I finally decided it was time to bunk down for the night.

  I threw my pack down onto the cold, hard ground and started to change into my He-Man pajamas. They were not only badass but also very warm and snuggly. I’d just stripped off my ta
ctical jacket, my pants, and my Spider-Man Underoos when I heard the shouting of what I assumed was a crazy idiot.

  “What the hell are you doing butt-nekkid on my front lawn!?” screamed the crazy old man. Even as angry as he was, I could tell he was impressed by my athleticism.

  “How else do you expect me to bunk down for the cold, pitiless night?” I said.

  “Night? It’s twelve fucking noon! Now get your pasty ass—” He squinted. “Hey, aren’t you Paul and Diane’s kid from down the street?”

  “Hi, Stan!” my mom called from the Dodge Caravan. “Sorry for the intrusion! Our son is a little… different.”

  “THE NAME IS DR DISRESPECT AND I AM ON A HISTORIC JOURNEY OF EPIC VIDEO GAME DOMINATION JUST LIKE FRED SAVAGE IN THE WIZARD!”

  And Stan was like, “That Fred Savage seems so nice. I loved him in Webster.”

  And I was like, “That was Emmanuel Lewis. But I get it, easy mistake.”

  I grabbed all my shit and I booked out of there—the Blockbuster Video Game Championship was going to start in just thirty minutes!

  After all my wrong turns, all my epic adventuring, how the hell was I gonna make it? I didn’t even know where I was!

  Suddenly, like a Chariot of the Gods, racing down the road came the answer I’d been waiting for. The Lift of Destiny. The ride that would bring me to the end of my personal odyssey of fame and fortune.

  A blood-red 1991 Lamborghini Diablo.

  Now that was the way to travel.

  I sprinted after it as it drove by—thankfully my highly developed calves and preternatural speed made me more than a match for its 5.7-liter V-12 engine. Also it was stuck at a red light.

  “WAIT!” I screamed, waving my powerful arms. “HELP ME! I NEED A RIDE TO THE GREATEST BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO GAME CHAMPIONSHIP THE NATION HAS EVER KNOWN! HELP ME, PLEEEEEEASE!”

  The sleek, tinted driver’s-side window slowly went down.

  And guess who was at the wheel?

  Fred MF-ing Savage, that’s who.

  “Fuck you!” Fred Savage said. “I hate children! Now, stay away from my beautiful car and go to hell!” And just like that, he rolled up his window and peeled out in a cloud of smoke.