“Um,” Carl the Hunchback said, “you lost me there.”
“You know what?” I said, really on a roll now. “I would bet my whole treasure chest of earnings—like seriously, no take-backs—that you’re not even a real hunchback. You were just trying to throw me off the scent! Now you’ll probably stand up straight and be like six foot two.”
Carl the Hunchback looked at me.
“Right?” I said, kinda laughing. Dude kept staring, didn’t say a word. Super awkward, which backfired and made me go all in.
“Come on,” I said. “Like, no one’s really a hunchback anymore, right? Modern medicine—it’s the twenty-first century here. See a chiropractor, am I right or am I right?”
I looked at all the heavily armed criminals around him, hoping someone would throw me a bone. But they were all doing that thing where people won’t look you in the eye and they pretend they’re studying some speck of dirt on the ground while whistling nervously.
“DESTROY HIM!” Carl the Hunchback shouted.
So all at once, thousands upon thousands of these vicious, weaponized assassins all bum-rushed me, climbing over each other like army ants to get up to where I stood on Hannn’s balcony. Thankfully none of them were superhuman like me, so they couldn’t leap vertically a full thirty-seven inches…
A Short Break
WOW, right?
Just, wow!
We’re Back, Baby!
…Then I climbed up on top of Hannn’s broken golden throne, and I spotted Just Plain Usman kinda hanging out by himself down in the arena.
“Yo, JPU! Where the hell you been?”
He shrugged. “Enjoying the show.”
I couldn’t blame him. I do put on a great show.
“That’s cool,” I shouted. “How about you call in those commandos now?”
“I can’t!” he shouted back. “You told me to send them home!”
Three gleaming throwing stars sliced through the air straight toward my head—
“Dude, I was kidding!”
—and I ducked at the last second. But shit was starting to get real, even for a hyper-athletic freak of nature like the Two-Time. Evil flunkies were closing in. Blades, bullets, and blood were everywhere, plus shouts and screams and fists and fury and violence, VIOLENCE, VIOLENCE!
I needed some backup, and fast. And it hit me—not the ten-millimeter bullet that whipped right by Slick Daddy, but an idea. I was already surrounded by the greatest champions the world had to offer. They just needed a leader. And guess what?
The Doctor is a born leader.
“Gaming champions of the universe!” I shouted from the top of the throne.
That got their attention. Kangaroo Jack, Killer Commie Ivan, Mr. Miyagi Min-Zhong, and all the other champions stopped what they were doing—which was mostly standing around shooting the shit—and they stared up at me.
“We came to KEFVGAAIR as rivals. We fought as enemies in this weird secret warehouse that didn’t even have super-piranhas. And, surprising zero people here, I dominated every one of you. Like, it wasn’t even close. I am actually embarrassed for you, your families, and the nations that you caricature—”
“Doc!” Just Plain Usman shouted. “You’re losing the crowd!”
“But enough about that! Now I have a cause to bring us all together. Something so horrific, so evil, so diabolical, that no one can possibly stand for it. These BASTARDS, the motherfucking Brotherhood, are gonna sell cheap action figures of ME all over the WORLD without giving me one thin DIME! And they’re calling it a DOLL!”
Crickets.
Seriously, never has an arena full of thousands of heavily armed criminals and champion gamers ever been so silent.
“And they also do all this illegal gambling and extortion and murder and arms dealing, and if I’m being fair probably some drug dealing on the side…”
Boom!
Mass chaos broke out. Kangaroo Jack pulled out a knife that looked just like Crocodile Dundee’s. Killer Commie Ivan smashed a few vodka bottles to use as shivs. And Mr. Miyagi Min-Zhong assumed the deadly pose of the kicking crane.
“YAYAYAYA!”
From the top of Hannn’s broken throne I flung my amazing body straight into the heart of the melee. With Just Plain Usman covering my back, I cut a bloody swath through Carl the Hunchback’s gang of thousands.
Roundhouse kicks! Jujitsu guillotine chokeholds! Devastating headbutts without ever messing up my hair! And the speed of my blades—oh, the speed of my blades!
I whipped out new knives from every secret sheath on my body. And let me tell you—I have a lot of secret sheaths. They whirled through the air in a cloud of death, slicing throats, gouging eyeballs, never missing their marks.
Hundreds fell before me, but I had eyes for only one foe. The man who had betrayed me. The man who had turned out really to be a hunchback, which was awkward after I made such a scene about it, though I still have my suspicions. The man in charge of the entire Brotherhood.
“CARL THE HUNCHBACK! YOU’RE MINE!”
He sprinted through the arena—really more like a lurching shuffle. Gotta give him credit—if he was faking it, he was totally committed to the bit. And in the midst of all the death and destruction and piles of bloody bodies, he managed to make it to the roof. You knew there had to be a dramatic rooftop climax, didn’t you?
I got there just as he was stepping onto his Apache chopper.
“You could’ve been a glorious commander in the Brotherhood, Doc!” he shouted as they lifted off. “But instead you’ve made a mortal enemy! Until we meet again!”
The Apache rose higher and higher into the dark Hong Kong sky. I had one last chance to get this prick—and one last hidden blade: my complimentary Ginsu knife.
How’s that for a callback? Remember all those iconic infomercials I did, like two chapters ago? Now you know why you need to PAY ATTENTION.
My Ginsu flew through the air straight and true—so much better than a Miracle Blade—and caught Carl the Hunchback exactly where I wanted.
“Ahhh!” he shrieked. “My hump!”
The blow knocked him out of the copter and into the deep, dark depths of the South China Sea. All I could think was, “Huh, guess the fucker really did have a hunchback.”
I turned around, and standing behind me, shoulder to shoulder, gazing at me in awe, were all the gaming champions of the world. It was a pretty badass scene—the entire secret warehouse in flames, the air smelling of burning corpses and Xboxes, the Apache falling out of the sky in a gigantic fireball—no idea why it blew up, but it did, so that was cool—and the screams of the Brotherhood hoodlums echoing below us as we sent them to hell.
It was so damn beautiful. If I wasn’t so much man, I would’ve cried. But I am, so I didn’t.
“I’ll be the leader of my own global organization,” I said, looking at the mighty gang of gaming warriors. “A brand-new organization of pure awesomeness. An organization that fights for violence, speed, momentum, and merchandise royalties for all! And we’ll create the most elite competitive arena the world has ever known.”
Just Plain Usman jumped up waving his hand. “Oh! Oh! Can we call it—”
“If you say anything that even sounds like ‘the Brotherhood’…,” I growled.
He sat back down.
“Listen,” I said. “I know exactly what we’re going to call it. We’re gonna be the Champions Club.”
Everyone nodded, like “duh.” Because obviously it was the coolest name for anything anyone had ever heard in their lives.
I had it all planned out, man. I was gonna take my new treasure and build a brand-new secret headquarters for my international club. It would have this sick-ass lounge, a secret lab, lockers for all the guys, and a trophy room that would only hold my trophies and no one else’s, because, I mean, I was paying for everything. Oh! And my secret headquarters would have not one but TWO moats! And there wouldn’t just be genetically enhanced super-piranhas, I’d get mutant alligato
rs and alien sharks and bionic electric eels too, and when I was bored I could watch them fight. Fuck yeah, that would be—
“Doc! Hey, Doc!” Just Plain Usman said.
“Dude,” I said. “I was just having the best daydream about eels and piranhas fighting in my two moats. This thing where you interrupt me is getting really annoying.”
“I was just wondering,” he said. “You think we’ve seen the last of Carl the Hunchback and the Brotherhood?”
“Like, for the purposes of this book?”
“Uh, sure.”
I laughed.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Because when does a vicious archenemy criminal mastermind who mysteriously falls to his doom ever make a surprise reappearance? Like, never—that’s when.
CHAPTER 12
THE RIGHT FLIP PHONE FOR YOU
I hear it all the time. Like, constantly.
My millions of devoted fans see me walking down the street—or, I don’t know, maybe I’m buying kielbasas at the grocery store or hunting down one of my mortal enemies, also at the grocery store—and they marvel at all my incredible, expensive, cutting-edge tech.
My prototype Google mirrored scopes with Sony 3D LCD night vision. My black-on-black Hellfire spec ops tactical vest with bulletproof, waterproof high-threat armor. My laceless Reebok Pump high-top combat boots with authentic XP-2000 pump action. My seventy-two-inch experimental AI Samsung LED flat-screen with quantum-computing 5K HD definition, which sometimes I carry around on my back just for fun. Or my portable 7T-43 laser-induced plasma-effect weapon with sonic boosters, which I stole from China and which can instantly target and hyper-vibrate your foe’s spleen, eyeballs, and brain, and which I also sometimes carry around just for fun.
And they ask me, “Doc, what flip phone should I buy, and why?”
Great question. And very, very complicated.
Sure, there’s the technical stuff. The sound quality—that incredible tinny crispness you can get from the single monophonic speaker. The powerful graphics of the three-bit dot-matrix tricolor display. The seamless user interface of your twelve-button push pad: “Bro, do you see how fast I can toggle from J to L on this number 5?! I can send out a text every ten minutes!”
Some flip phones even have these plastic arrows you can use to move the cursor around. It’s pretty fucking cool, but still kind of in beta mode, so not totally functional yet.
But if you’ve learned anything about the Doc so far—and let’s be honest, you probably haven’t, because you’re not the sharpest shooter in the battle royale—you know that I always go beyond the surface. To an even deeper understanding of my own surface.
And the truth is that owning a flip phone is about more than just tech. It’s about more than simple telecommunications. It’s a way of life. It’s a philosophy. It’s making a statement—a statement that’s usually kinda garbled, because you’re talking on a flip phone.
When you’re the greatest gaming champion the world has ever known, you don’t fly with the bird crowds. You don’t follow the herds of sheep as they baaaa and poop.
And what kind of phones do the sheep use? They use smartphones. More like stupid phones, am I right? I’m hilarious.
That’s right. I see all you common people with your high-definition displays and your apps that can do a million helpful, useful, virtually essential things given our society’s reliance on digital communication and high-speed computing.
And I laugh.
Yeah, so maybe you’re able to order paper towels from all over the world at the touch of a screen. Maybe you’re able to schedule a flight or check the latest scores or troll a gullible celeb on Twitter. Maybe you’re able to find true love with a swipe up or down or whatever the hell direction it is. Maybe you’re even able to take world-class photos and video using a wide variety of lenses and creative filters. You know, I’ve actually heard that some of those cameras are, like, professional grade, and TBH I could use something that really brings out the more subtle shades of black in my flowing black-on-black-on-black mullet, because my RED Digital Cinema 710-0322 camera with its Monstro 8K VV kit is fucking awesome but super heavy to lug around all the time, and—wait, where was I? Oh yeah.
But do you know how dumb you look with that “smart” phone?
Holding up this giant brick to your head whenever you want to talk. Carrying them around bulging from your pockets, totally ruining the aerodynamics of your pants. Dealing with all those accessories, your ridiculous PopSockets and screen protectors and rose-gold plastic cases. Staring glassy-eyed at your phone at all times of the day and night, when you’re walking, when you’re eating, when you’re taking a shit or falling asleep—it’s fucking obnoxious as hell! Unless you’re staring at photos of me, in which case—all right, I get it.
But not the Two-Time.
My relationship with my flip phone is something deeper, okay? Something spiritual. Something self-actualizing on a whole new cosmic level.
The right flip phone in my hand is like an extension of my being. I hear it ring. And you know what that customized ringtone sounds like.
Bump-tsshhh.
Bump-tsshhh-tsshhh.
“They call him Doc!”
Oh yeah. I draw that baby out of my holster—of course I’ve got a holster—and I flip it open in one smooth motion. There’s no fiddling with the password, no finicky fingerprint recognition, and there damn well ain’t no fumbles or drops. Just one cool, well-oiled, slick—
FLIP!
And that baby is open for business. Check the caller ID real quick—I mean, my number is unlisted, obviously, but with fans as dedicated, as obsessed, and, between me and you, as straight-up crazy AF as mine, well, you just never know.
Then I lean back, bring that bad boy up to my ear, and the magic begins. Maybe I’m closing a $10 million deal. Maybe I’m insulting one of my countless mortal enemies. Maybe I’m yelling at Razor Frank to remember to do my laundry back at the Top Secret Command Center—always separate blacks from darker blacks, Razor Frank!I Maybe it’s just a robocall from Zimbabwe, but I’m playing it cool and talking anyway so no one knows I got punked.
Whatever it is, I look great doing it. I got that slim, aerodynamic baby nestled snug against my ear. Its slightly rounded edges contrast perfectly with my impressively square jaw. Its glossy black casing glints in the sun—or in the klieg lights of whatever exclusive red-carpet event I’m attending—and beautifully brings out the subtle shades of even darker, glossier black in my hair. As I move my supple, pouty, yet extraordinarily masculine lips, Slick Daddy dances and prances beneath my warrior’s nose, and there’s no clunky smartphone to detract from my flared nostrils, stunningly cubic chin, sheer splendor, or soul-stealing dominance.
My good looks get some breathing room—they can stop “doing” and simply be.
What’s that saying? “If a flip phone rings in a forest and there’s no one there to answer it, am I still a handsome bastard?” I’m no Zen expert, but that sounds about right.
And it goes without saying—but it bears repeating—that because I look great, I feel great. I mean, I always feel great, because I’m so successful. But I feel better than great. I feel bloodthirsty-killer great.
I’m looking good, I’m feeling good, and maybe, just maybe, I close that previously $10 million deal at $100 million. Maybe instead of an awesome witty comeback for my mortal enemy, I come up with a mortal witty comeback for my awesome enemy. Maybe I yell at Razor Frank to do both the laundry and the dishes. Maybe I’m extra charming on the robocall from Zimbabwe, and I make a brand-new robotic Zimbabwean friend. Hell, maybe we decide to grab a couple beers later that night.
And I’ll be honest—sometimes using my flip phone is fun just because it pisses off the smartphone users so much.
“Okay, Doc, so I’ll text you later.”
“Yeah, sorry, man, have you tried texting on a flip phone? Not cool.”
“Fine, then I’ll send you a link to—”
“Hahahaha. A link? Have you tried using the internet on a flip phone?”
“No, but—”
“Like, I think this dot-matrix globe pops up on the little screen with the words ‘World Wide Web’ beneath it, and the globe kinda spins around for ten minutes, and it’s not even smooth, it’s really choppy, and then it stops, and it just says ‘Error.’ It’s fucking hysterical.”
“So you’re saying…”
“Yep.”
“I actually have to…”
“That’s right.”
“Talk? On the phone? With words?”
“Wow. You finally put it together.”
“But I never do that! Not even with my parents!”
“I’m not your fucking parents. The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”
“Why are you making that funny echo noise with your mouth?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
So. If having the right flip phone is so critical on so many levels—technical, cosmetic, martial, philosophical—how do you choose the right one for you?
Damned if I know. I mean, seriously—I don’t know you. I don’t know what your face looks like, what your values are, what your income is, how much of a warrior you may or may not be. How the hell should I know the right flip phone for you? I’m not a psychic.
But I do know the right flip phones for me. Maybe that’ll help you out, or maybe it won’t—not my problem.
Motorola
As far as the Doctor is concerned, Motorolas are the crème de la crème of flip phones, to borrow from the Swahili. English can’t capture how exceptional they are.
Who can forget the iconic Razr? No one with a combat knife in an ankle sheath, that’s who.
Violence. Speed. Momentum. Page 14