Sorry, that’s just how it is.
Then once you’re one of us, you get into your private plane or your personal Kamov Ka-27 attack chopper and you fly to every country you’re famous in—all of them, if you’re me—and you walk into a local sports bar in the last minute of a very important sports game and you stand in front of the only TV in the whole place and you scream at the top of your lungs, “NAME MY MUSTACHE! NAME IT NOWWWWWWWWW!”
Then after that, some local foreign guy who’s totally drunk and out of shape stands up and shouts something in a language you don’t understand. You record it on your flip phone, you politely say thank you, and then you get the fuck out of there before he stabs you with a broken bottle.
And then you’ve got an official, authentic foreign nickname for your mustache.
PROPER BODY ODOR
This one is pretty simple.
You ever get that not-so-fresh feeling in the morning? Like you take your shower, you wash and condition your long, thick jet-black hair with Pert Plus, you step out and dry off with your loom-woven silk towel, and you think, “Man, I just don’t feel so fresh this morning.”
Fear not, my friend. Because for just those kinds of mornings—for every morning, really—I’ve got just the body spray for you.
It’s SLICK, BY DOC.
I know, you can just hear that icy-smooth jingle I composed myself echoing in the background, can’t you?
Bump-tsshhh.
Bump-tsshhh-tsshhh.
“Slick, by Doc!”
Of course you can.
SLICK, BY DOC represents the ultimate in masculine smells designed specifically for men. And not just any men—I’m talking men who know how to win. That’s right, SLICK, BY DOC was formulated by the world’s top odor scientists to be a precise blend of one-third testosterone, one-third musk, one-third violence, and one-third victory.
Just slap six or seven ounces of SLICK, BY DOC all over your butt-naked body twice a day, maybe even four times if you really like smelling great like I do, and you’ll feel ready to dominate the universe on a whole new level of thunder and lightning and twilight of the gods.
Sound good? You bet it does.
Why wait any longer? Go NOW to InterdimensionalChampionsClub.gg and for the reasonable price of $1,399.99 you can order your very own lifetime supply of—
FUCK.
Sorry, you guys. I was really on a roll there, but my AOL Instant Messenger just beeped, and I got Nigel the Editor giving me an official…
Real-Time Update
Shit. This is the worst.
This dude is actually messaging me that the publisher is sick of all my “self-promotion” and “advertising.” That they didn’t give me this huge book deal so I could “peddle” my “cheap paraphernalia” on my “website,” and I should stick to writing my “book.”
First off, enough with all the written air quotes, all right, man? We get it.
Second, I don’t even know what the fuck “paraphernalia” is, but whatever it is, mine definitely ain’t cheap.
Is it my fault that SLICK, BY DOC happens to be scientifically proven to have more power, more energy, more WOW than any other men’s body spray on the planet?
Is it my fault that my mustache, Slick Daddy, is so badass that I trademarked and copyrighted it, and everyone has to pay me $129.95 at InterdimensionalChampionsClub.gg if they want to copy it?
Of course not! I’m just trying to give the people what they want here! I’m doing the citizens of this earth a favor! They want access to the coolest, hottest body wash and the most advanced prototype merchandise in the universe, and I want to give it to them!
Did Dostoyevsky’s publisher stop him from pushing the babushka? Did Shakespeare’s editor stop him from telling the world about codpieces and merkins? Of course not! If the greats could do it, why can’t I?
I—and SLICK, BY DOC, available NOW with SLICK for Her, ALSO BY DOC for the low combined price of $1,799.98 for a limited time only—am the greatest of them all!
All right, so now Nigel the Editor is messaging me that no one believes my nonsense, and if I don’t stop hawking my stuff and start doing my job—in particular, writing about what exactly I’m a doctor of immediately—then the publisher is gonna reconsider this whole thing.
Whoa. I mean… WHOA.
Those are some bold, bold words, my man.
When you totally screwed up my longest-“yayaya” record, I let it go. It was hard, but I let it go. And that was a chance to make history!
But this time? I don’t know, dude. You try to threaten me? Me—the Two-Time, the most dominant gaming champion the universe has ever known? You try to intimidate me? To bully me? You threaten to take away my own book?
A book I’ve poured myself into, fought for, bled for? A book I’ve been working on nonstop for at least an hour and a half after I got bored of doing much cooler stuff?
You think you can take that away from me?
Well, I got news for you, bro—I’m gonna take it away from you.
That’s right, Nigel the Editor. This is it. This is the end of the book.
No secret founding of the Champions Club. No incredible tips on how you too can have an amazing vertical leap. And damn well nothing about what I’m actually a doctor of.
It’s finished. It’s over. I’m done putting up with all your, like, editing and shit.
This, RIGHT NOW, is the official conclusion of my highly anticipated first and only memoir, Violence. Speed. Momentum.
Oh wait. I guess I need the…
Acknowledgments
Thank you to MYSELF for being such a great sport about all this. I totally couldn’t have done it without me. Later.
Yayayaya!
I. The only mustache that counts in this dimension is the glorious, standalone, beardless mustache. Because once a mustache is attached to a beard, it’s not really a mustache anymore, is it? It’s just a guy who didn’t shave for a while. Think about it.
II. If you can’t speak fluent Russian (like I can) in this dimension, LOOK IT UP. SHIT, KIDS TODAY!
CHAPTER 5
ALL RIGHT, I’M BACK
Nigel the Editor begged for forgiveness and bought ten cases of SLICK, BY DOC, and I very graciously marked up the price by 120 percent and agreed to keep writing my book.
Way I look at it, this is a win-win-win situation, because I get tons of money, the boys at the publishing office smell great—or at least as great as bookworms can possibly smell—and you guys get to keep devouring all my priceless pearls of wisdom to give meaning to your otherwise pointless lives.
But I still haven’t forgiven Nigel the Editor. I mean, I’ll think about it. But some wrongs can’t be made right, you know? Some fences can’t be mended. I might seem invincible on the outside, but deep down… well, I’m pretty much invincible—but still, no one threatens me. No one tells me what to do, and no one, I mean no one, out-negotiates Dr Disrespect.
CHAPTER 6
THE DOC’S FIRST SPONSOR
Every big-time gamer remembers his first sponsor. Even gamers less big-time than me, and that’s all of them.
To get that first paycheck with your name on it, not because you’re flipping grease at a Burger-Rama or sitting in some shitty little cubicle with your clip-on tie, but because you’re a stone-cold killer on an 8K battlefield of mayhem.
Because you’re contributing something real and powerful and important to society—video game dominance.
That, my friend, is an awesome feeling. That is flying with the eagles through the storms and above the clouds and into the sun. That is the flavor of true success.
Of course, you look at punk-kid gamers these days, and they all got it easy. They’re nine years old, they’re eating their Mr. T cereal, they’re munching on Pop-Tarts and chewing on Bubble Tape, and then they decide—“What the hell, I’m gonna jump on some new streaming platform and play a little Fortnite and see if I can get a few followers, why not?”
And the next t
hing you know, they’re making six figures from some sports-energy drink based out of Shanghai.
But back when I got started in the nineties? Back before streaming wars and PS4s and 8K LCDs and 1080p’s and Chinese sports-energy drinks with five billion yuan to toss at little punks?
Shiiiit, you had to fight to survive. You had to earn your keep with blood and violence and cunning. You had to know what you were worth and how to get what you wanted. And if you didn’t?
Then you died.
Or maybe, I don’t know, you got a real job, which is almost worse.
But maybe you literally died!
I know, because it almost happened to me when I got my very first sponsor.
* * *
It was 1998. For the past few years, ever since I’d won my second Blockbuster Video Game Championship, I’d been taking accelerated, advanced prototype classes in high school during the week and traveling to tournaments on the weekend.
Thinking back, it must’ve been hard on the other kids in my class, having to walk the tiled halls in the shadow of a national celebrity like me. By the time I hit my teens I was already six foot four with the baby-oiled body of a Greek god, a fully grown Slick Daddy, a glorious, silky black-on-black-on-black mullet, and, of course, full body armor.
Then you had everyone else. A bunch of pimply turds in khakis and blue jeans. Their midsections flabby, their upper lips soft and sweaty, their faces covered in stress rashes from their next AP Calculus exam. I almost felt sorry for them.
Just kidding, I fucking loved it! And I aced AP Calc because I’m a Mensa-certified genius.
When that weekend rolled around? Man, I competed everywhere. I went to every tournament I could find, no matter where, no matter when, no matter how big or how small. I dominated the Radio Shack Videoganza in Orlando. I kicked ass at the Menahga, Minnesota, County Fair and Pinball Social. And I took no prisoners at the South Bronx Cyberdome, which for the bonus round had an actual back-alley knife fight.
My reputation grew. My fame grew. I grew—six foot five, six foot six, six foot seven, six foot eight. I was one big-ass dude.
But my bank account? That didn’t do shit.
By the time I graduated, all I had left from my winnings was a cool scar above my kidney from the knife fight in the Bronx, the prizewinning 452-pound pumpkin from the Menahga County Fair, and all the time in the world to watch Fred Savage in The Wizard over and over again because I owned my copy.
Now there I was, sitting in a shitty little studio apartment I couldn’t even afford, playing Shaq Fu all alone, doing the most uncool, un-Doc thing I’d ever done in my life. By which I don’t mean playing Shaq Fu all alone—I mean feeling sorry for myself.
I’d always dreamed of having my own multimillion-dollar Top Secret Command Center, but instead I had a hot plate for a kitchen and an old shower curtain as a bathroom wall. I’d always dreamed of owning the most advanced Sony prototype audiovisual technology, and maybe even getting HBO, but instead I owned a fourteen-inch black-and-white Sanyo with tinfoil on the antennas. I’d always dreamed of owning forty-seven Motorola flip phones, but instead I only owned three, and they were Ericssons.
Also, I was hungry. That sucked the most. Hell, I was a growing boy-god and I didn’t have a thing in my mini fridge! What was I gonna do—eat my prizewinning pumpkin? Of course not, pumpkin is disgusting, everyone knows that. And I couldn’t eat my vintage autographed copy of The Wizard, could I?
I thought about my parents. Maybe I shouldn’t have screamed “I’m gonna be the richest, most successful champion in the history of the world and I’m never gonna ask you for money! NEVER!” right before walking out the door forever.
I thought about my old friend Razor Frank. Maybe I shouldn’t have shouted “I hate your stupid nickname and I’m never gonna ask you for money! NEVER!” right after he’d bought me breakfast that morning. Then again, I was pretty sure he only spoke Portuguese in this dimension, so maybe he didn’t understand me anyway.I
I thought long and hard, and I had just started to open Ericsson flip phone number three to call my parents for help, when suddenly I heard a knock at the door.
Knock knock knock!
Who was that? No one interrupts the Doc when he is busy feeling sorry for himself, which is practically never. No one!
Knock knock knock!
All right, exception to every rule.
I stood up from my sofa, which was also my bed, dining table, and Top Secret Research Laboratory. I looked through the peephole and saw these two skinny little nerd-punks standing there looking totally harmless, kinda nervous, and mostly just really nice.
So I drew my eleven-inch hunting blade out of its sheath because I thought it would be fun to mess with them.
As I threw open the door I waved my razor-sharp knife and screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!”
They squealed like little pigs and the one with the bushy eyebrows actually peed his khaki pants! And I laughed my ass off.
“I’m just kidding, guys,” I said. “But seriously, what the fuck do you want? I am, like, super busy making diabolical plans to dominate the universe with my fleet of armored Lamborghini Diablos.”
“I’m Larry,” eyebrows guy said, “and this is Sergey. You must be Dr Disrespect.”
Now I got suspicious again. The location of my Top Secret Command Center was top secret. How did they find me? There was only one rational explanation: they were government spies, sent to steal the secrets of my superhuman speed and reflexes.
“How the hell,” I said in a low growl, “did you find my Top Secret Command Center?”
“Well,” Sergey said, “first off there’s this sign that’s Scotch-taped to your door that says ‘Dr Disrespect’s Top Secret Command Center.’ It looks like a dot-matrix printout with, I don’t know, a clip-art graphic of Nyan Cat or something—”
“That’s a vicious puma!” I snarled. “And I’ve been telling the library they need a laser printer!”
“And second, you’re listed in the phone book. First name ‘Dr,’ middle name ‘Dis,’ last name ‘Respect.’ ”
I looked Sergey dead in the eye for five. Long. Minutes.
“So,” I finally whispered, “you’re not here to steal the secrets of my superhuman speed and reflexes?”
“Um, no?” Sergey answered.
“Awesome, love it,” I said. “You guys wanna come in? That’s my sofa/bed/kitchen table/Top Secret Lab. Take a load off. Larry—can I call you Lare?—here’s a towel for your pee-pee pants. No shame, brother.”
Of course I was lying and Lare totally should’ve been ashamed. I tossed him a rag, and they sat down.
“Doc,” Sergey said, “Larry and I own a small start-up named… Oogle.”
“Great name,” I said.
Then I started hacking and gagging like I had a hairball, because that name sucked.
“Um, thanks,” he said. “Our start-up makes video game hardware, and we’re a few months away from launching our very first product—a high-end multisensory, variable-input joystick that’ll revolutionize gaming forever.”
“Better than a Sony prototype?” I asked.
They paused dramatically. “Yes,” Larry said. “Even better than that.”
Wow. This was legit.
“We’ve been planning the rollout,” Sergey said, “and you’ve come to our attention over the last few years, starting with your incredibly impressive Blockbuster Video Game Championship—”
“Plural! Back-to-back,” I said. “ ’Ninety-Three and ’Ninety-Four.”
“—and, frankly, your rather interesting, uh, personal style choices.”
“You mean the black steel, silky and bulletproof? I guess you could say it revolutionized the hair game. Wanna run your fingers through it?”
“No, thank you,” Sergey said.
I laughed loud. “I was messing with you! I’d never let a punk like you touch my hair. You’re lucky I even let you hear that joke.”
Sergey
said, “Larry and I thought that a, uh, character such as yourself would make a fun, cool ambassador for our brand-new product.”
I eyed him with the sonar vision of an eagle.
“So,” I said. “You are here to steal the secrets of my superhuman speed and reflexes. I knew it!”
Sergey and Larry kind of looked at each other.
“No,” Sergey said. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Isn’t that what being your ‘ambassador’ means? That you sponge off me like a parasite?”
“No,” he said. “When we say ‘ambassador,’ we are thinking, like, maybe you could use our controller at your next tournament. Or maybe, I don’t know, we put a photo of your mustache on the box for a small fee or something.”
“Yeah!” Larry said. “That would be fun!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “My mustache, Slick Daddy, sell out for a fee?” My stomach grumbled loudly and I continued, “You’re goddamn right he would! That mustache has no morals. None! The Ethiopian Poisonous Caterpillar is a total cash whore.”
Sergey cleared his throat. “Yes, well, keep in mind that we’re a very small company.”
“Very small,” Larry said.
“Ten million dollars,” I said. “In unmarked one-dollar bills.”
“Absolutely not,” Sergey said.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Ten million… pennies! Also unmarked!”
“No,” he said.
“What if they were marked pennies?”
“Still no.”
“Lunch!” I shouted. “A ham fucking sandwich! Right now! There’s a goddamn diner down the block! I haven’t eaten since breakfast! I’m starving to death here!”
“Sorry,” Sergey said.
“But,” Larry said, “we are prepared to offer you… a ten percent discount on our revolutionary new multisensory, variable-input joystick. The same one you’ll be advertising!”
Violence. Speed. Momentum. Page 7
