Anyway, both Knight Rider: The Fall of Quibi and The Mustachables 7: Rise of the Doc still ended up being huge blockbusters. The people want what they want, you know? And what the people want is real destruction, real dominance, real athleticism, real onyx-black mullets. Even if that means I have to bruise a few egos, bankrupt a few companies, and blow up a few small countries to get it done, all right? Because what the people want is Dr Disrespect.
I understood that, and soon the entertainment industry—or “the Biz of Show,” as we insiders call it—did too.
I built myself a swanky new complex in the Hollywood Hills—to make room, I had to tear down Vin Diesel’s mansion and Jet Li’s and the Rock’s, but none of them seemed to mind once they realized how much taller I am.
I was the main draw at all the red carpets. I hosted exclusive invitation-only Call of Duty battle royales at my pad with all the biggest A-list stars—Dolph Lundgren, Wesley Snipes, Billy Zane, Stephen Dorff, Michael Madsen, Jean-Claude Van Damme—and a couple times I even let Billy Zane almost win, just for fun. Hell, JCVD moved into my guesthouse and I didn’t even know about it for five weeks—my estate is so damn huge I’d never even seen my guesthouse.
It was a fucking blast. For a while, anyway.
But it got stale real quick.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get any of the red carpets changed to black. Which, I mean, unacceptable. Billy Zane got mad when he found out I was only letting him almost-win, and then he got super mad when I wouldn’t hire him to play my chauffeur in The Mustachables 9: Slick Daddy’s Revenge. And JCVD and Razor Frank did not get along. JCVD was a toilet-paper-under guy and Razor Frank was strictly toilet-paper-over. I mean, unforgivable.
JCVD is a tough guy and all, but they don’t call him Razor Frank for nothing. Meaning he will cut your punk face with a razor blade if he doesn’t like the way you hang your TP. I felt so bad for JCVD I gave him the chauffeur part.
You know that eye patch he wore in the film? Yeah, that wasn’t done for dramatic effect. Jean-Claude Van Damme literally has no right eyeball anymore.
So yeah, just like with Airwolf, I grew up watching these guys. I thought they were all badasses. All right, I never really liked Stephen Dorff, but everyone else—badasses.
I mean, Dolph Lundgren alone. We’re talking He-Man in Masters of the Universe. We’re talking Drago in Rocky IV. We’re talking the original Punisher of motion picture cinema. The man’s got a jaw almost as square as mine. He’s six feet five inches tall, so, you know, not as tall as me, but still pretty damn tall. And I don’t know what kind of mousse he uses on his hair—fine, I asked, it’s L’Oréal Studio Line with its patented Multi-Vitamin Formula for Protection and Shine—but those blond spikes are like indestructible nails of gold-plated solid gold.
Then, one day, we’re all hanging out at my mega-mansion, eating Papa John’s, pounding Pabst, and the dude farts.
Now, that, in and of itself, is cool, right? It’s like, “Whoa, mega action icon Dolph Lundgren just farted in my house on my jet-black Corinthian-leather sectional sofa”—like, what a fucking honor, you know?
And I’m expecting like this awesome riiiiiip. Like a ragged, raging chainsaw of a fart that revs up and roars, leaving a path of devastation and destruction in its wake. Like, I’m ready to be impressed, man.
But guess what?
This guy lets out the weakest, whiniest, most pathetic fart I’ve heard in my life. In my life!!! It’s this high-pitched, squeaky, mousy little paw just scratching at the screen door, pleading to be let in for a saucer of milk at suppertime.
The other guys there, Terry Crews and Jesse Ventura and Antonio Banderas and Kelsey Grammer, they all give each other this knowing look. Like, Oh—it’s one of Dolph’s embarrassing weak-ass farts again.
Then I look at Dolph, and he kind of shrugs and in his Swedish accent he goes, “Sorry, my bad.”
And that was just it for me, you know?
Like, all right, so you’ve got a clinically weak fart. I mean, it’s lame, it sucks, but whatever—it happens. But then to apologize for it???
NO.
Up on the big silver screen—or in syndicated television and various infomercials—these guys all seemed larger than life. They were men to be respected. To be admired. They were heroes! Almost—almost—as cool as me!
But in real life? They were average human beings who apologized for below-average farts.
I became disillusioned, to say the least. For the very first time in my life.
I’d accomplished everything I’d ever set out to accomplish. I’d climbed the highest mountains. I’d flown through the clouds and the smoke with the eagles. I’d hunted with the wolves and swum with the stingrays. I’d won every tournament, I’d beaten every challenge, I’d destroyed every so-called champion.
I’d had not just one origin story but three. I’d won the Blockbuster Video Game Championship—twice, in 1993 and 1994. I’d foiled the founders of Oogle, who turned out to be totally evil. I’d obliterated the world’s oldest crime syndicate, then established my own league of warriors called the Champions Club. And I’d become the greatest, most authentic, most real Hollywood star of all time, single-handedly rebooting Airwolf and Knight Rider and even giving Jean-Claude Van Damme a place to live.
I’d dominated every step of the way. And they were big steps, because I have massive feet.
But now? What was there? What was left to challenge me?
Nothing, that’s what.
Shit, I almost forgot. I guess Nigel the Editor did call me up and ask me to write a book to save literature. That was something. But now I’ve obviously done that too.
You’re welcome, literature.
So the Two-Time has officially accomplished everything there is possible to accomplish on the face of this earth. It’s time. Time to really retire.
Oh yeah. There is one more thing.
I. In this dimension—and this dimension only—Razor Frank and I speak the same language, but we have no idea what it is.
CHAPTER 14
WHAT I’M THE DOCTOR OF
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Oh, Doc, of course the last thing you’re gonna do is rescue Nigel the Editor from the evil clutches of the Brotherhood and save the day like the badass hero you are!”
As usual, you’re completely wrong.
I would’ve been willing to overlook all his sloppiness, all his arrogance, all his “indeed’s and “forsooth’s and his other pseudointellectual BS. I would’ve forgiven the way he crapped on my “yayaya” world record and gave me shit about selling my high-class merch. I would’ve forgiven—but I wouldn’t have forgotten, because the Doc never forgets.
But when Nigel the Editor quit my book, when he decided of his own free will to abandon Team Doc, he severed our bonds forever. I mean, I told the guy he might need my help someday—I told him!—way back on page whatever-it-was. And what did he do? He crapped a big steamy crap right on the face of everything we once shared, everything we once had.
And yeah, I know that metaphor is rough, but that’s how strong I feel about this!
And I’m sorry—hahaha, not at all—but there’s just no coming back from that, you know? Especially if “coming back” literally means I gotta fly a thousand miles in my chopper, battle hundreds of bloodthirsty knife-wielding henchmen, topple an ancient international criminal organization—again—and rescue your punk ass from a diabolical hunchback named Carl.
I mean, I haven’t even had lunch today!
I’m finally on my very last leftover chicken fajita plate from that first meeting at App Lebeés. When was that—four months ago? Five? Really amazing how well that stuff keeps. Can’t wait to dig in.
But because I’m a nice guy—seriously the nicest guy ever in existence—I have decided to honor Nigel the Editor’s last request. Or what will stand as his last request once the Brotherhood, you know, murders him or whatever.
That’s ri
ght. I’ll finally reveal to you, to the world, and to the memory of Nigel the Editor himself what, exactly, I am a doctor of.
And it’s all explained in my unprecedented, never-before-revealed fourth—that’s right, fourth!—origin story. Which I will proceed to tell…
NOW!
* * *
This will be hard, maybe even impossible, for your mind to comprehend, but in Dimension Quark there was a time when the Doctor wasn’t the Doctor.
That’s right. This dimension happens to be named after the most fundamental particle of physics. A pillar of quantum mechanics. A cornerstone of the universe itself. It’s a dimension in which time, space, and probability all combined to create the most profound, fundamental manifestation of reality ever envisioned by god or man: me.
So anyway, I was about ten and the fam and I were on a fun little vacay, right?
No big deal, just driving our brand-new Dodge Caravan around the country, stopping at campsites, seeing the sights.I To be honest, I straight-up had no idea where we’d been or where we were going, because I spent the whole time locked on my Game Boy, demolishing one Tetris world record after another.
Except for the video games, most of the time I was bored off my ass. I mean, camping? Really? I was a ten-year-old mini-champion in the making. Ready for new worlds to conquer, new foes to obliterate, new Lamborghinis to purchase and then crash in awesome high-speed chases. What the fuck did I care about roughing it?
Until we arrived at California’s Mount Whitney, the biggest mountain in America.
And yeah, if you want to be a smart-ass you might be like, “But, Doc, isn’t Mount McKinley in Alaska bigger?”
Then I’d laugh viciously and be like, “Everyone knows Alaska isn’t really America. Also, shut up.”
This mountain was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen in my life. And at ten years old, I’d been around. We’re talking purple mountain majesty—WOW. We’re talking jagged cliffs with sheer drops of fourteen thousand feet—WOW. We’re talking snowy crags and lethal pines and snarling rabid wolves howling into the infinite blue sky—WOOOO-OOOOOOOOOWWWWW!
I knew, right then and there, as I looked up from my Game Boy—this time dominating Castlevania, another pretty sick Game Boy adaptation—that I was going to climb that mountain. I was gonna make it all the way to the tippity-top. And I was going to do it alone.
I waited till later that night, when we’d all bunked down in our tent. My folks were snuggled into their matching goose-down sleeping bags, me in my He-Man sleeping bag, which didn’t match a damn thing because I live life on my own terms, baby. They fell asleep at like 9:15, because they were lame and old, though I obviously loved them dearly because, you know, they did give birth to a man-god.
I looked one last time at my snoozing, snoring parents, turned to the fabric He-Man on my bedding, whispered, “Keep an eye on ’em for me, buddy. I might not make it back,” and escaped into the night.
My heart was pounding like the drum of a Celtic shaman. The stars shined brighter than the eyes of a cosmic eagle. The sky was the blackest black I’d ever seen. Blacker than coal, blacker than slate, blacker than the mood of my defeated enemies. Blacker even than my hair.
Just kidding, nothing is blacker than my hair.
I began my ascent. Even at a young age, I had the preternatural speed of a killer cheetah, so I moved quickly, confidently, never tiring, barely breaking a sweat, and always smelling great.
I could hear the animals of the ancient wilderness all around me. The guttural growls of the mountain lions. The subtle slitherings of the snake. The ghostly hoots of the owls. But none of them felt threatening to me. Instead, they seemed like kindred spirits. My wild warrior family. A source of additional strength and ferocity as I climbed higher and higher, hour after hour.
The air grew colder, thinner, and although my young skin was already thick and tough and leathery, I started to wish I’d changed into something warmer than my Spider-Man PJs. I was up so high I could see the clouds all around me, reflected in the moonlight. The mists, the winds, and the clouds swirled everywhere. Eagles soared past me, screaming in fury and brotherly awe at my boldness—it felt like I was flying with them, at a whole new level of greatness.
Time ticked by, and on I climbed. The lack of oxygen became like fire in my throat. I could sense my normally catlike vision starting to blur. My calves, usually so supple and springy, were growing slack. My glutes, usually so chiseled and firm, were becoming soft and spongy. My five-foot-four frame, usually so powerful, was beginning to wilt.
Shit, this mountain-climbing thing was tougher than I’d imagined.
Then, just as I thought it would never end, just when I almost—almost—began to know fear for the first time in my young life, I was there.
At the Top of the Mountain.
My energy returned to me in a rush, my power crashing through me like oceanic waves. I raised my fists in the air, tossed back my flowing masculine mullet, and shouted into the heavens with my brothers the coyotes:
YAYAYAYA!
And then, from behind me, I heard a whisper, like a rustling of leaves on the jungle floor.
“Ah, so you’re here.”
I turned and saw a grizzled old man, his back stooped with the passage of time, his twisted gray beard hanging down to his waist. He had a big-ass mole right above his left eye. It was disgusting, and the more I tried not to look at it, the more I looked at it.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’ve been waiting for you for many a year, child.”
“Yeah,” I said. “All this speaking in mysterious riddles? Super annoying.”
“Ah,” he chuckled. “The prophecy said you would be a bit of an asshole but in a funny kind of way. Let’s hope at least the second part is also true.”
Now I was really getting pissed. I was more than funny—I was hilarious!
“Look, man,” I said. “I don’t care how old you are or how tired I am—you better start giving me answers or I’m gonna have to beat your weird mystic hermit ass.”
He sat down on this little boulder with a groan.
“Well,” he said, “you pretty much just said it. I’m a weird mystic hermit. And I’ve been waiting here forever. Or about five or six years, give or take. All because of a dream I had. A dream that someday a boy would walk up this lonely mountain in the middle of the night. A boy of exceptional athleticism, unsurpassed skill, and otherworldly hair. A boy who would go on to be the greatest online gaming champion the world had ever known.
“And I—I was to give this boy a message. And a name.”
“A name?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”
And when he said it, there really was this awesome badass reverb! I swear the dude didn’t move his lips funny or do anything strange with his mouth or anything. It was just this amazing reverb effect. It electrified the air and shook the very cliffs on which we stood.
I’ve been trying to replicate it ever since.
Then I asked the first question that pretty much anyone would’ve asked.
“I’m ten years old. What am I a doctor of?”
“It’s an acronym,” he said. “Obviously.”
“Oh, right!” I laughed. Then I got super serious: “Dude, did you not just hear me? I’m ten years old. I have no idea what an acronym is.”
“Simple,” he said gravely. “Each letter of ‘Doctor’ stands for a different powerful component of your uniquely awesome character.”
“Ohhhh,” I said. “So you’re ripping off ‘Shazam’?”
“Shut up,” he said. “Anyway, here’s how it breaks down. The ‘D’ stands for ‘deadly.’ Because you’re a master of destruction.
“ ‘O’ stands for ‘omnipotent.’ Because you are as close to all-powerful as a mortal man can be without being divine.
“ ‘C’ stands for ‘crazy.’ Because I think we can all agree that you’re pr
etty damn crazy.
“ ‘T’ stands for ‘Titan.’ Because your massive, powerful, athletic frame will allow you to dominate all who challenge you.
“That brings us to the next ‘O,’ ” he said. “For ‘omniscient.’ Because you will be wise and all-knowing.
“And finally there’s ‘R,’ which stands for ‘rage,’ ” he said. “Because you are one angry son of a bitch.”
I smiled. Because sure, he was right about the whole rage thing—he was right about everything—but I also have one hell of a good-looking smile.
“And what about ‘Disrespect’?” I asked. “What does that stand for?”
“Doesn’t stand for anything. You’re just a bit of an asshole,” he said.
I thought about the name. Was “Dr Disrespect” the moniker, the identity, I wanted to embrace for the rest of my life? I mean, yeah, the gnarly old hermit dude seemed cool enough—definitely a BO issue, and that big mole was like a car wreck, but everything he’d said had been spot-on. Yet this was a huge decision. One that would impact my future, shape my destiny. It would have implications not just for me, but for every enemy I obliterated, every civilization I crushed, every world I dominated.
Took me about a second to make up my mind.
“The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”
Saying my new name felt right. It felt good. It felt… “me.”
The hermit guy said, “You know I can see your lips moving when you make that reverb sound, right?”
“DAMN IT!” I said. “HOW DID YOU MAKE THAT COOL SOUND?”
“You’ll figure it out,” he chuckled. “Someday.”
“ ‘Someday’? Well, that’s super annoying—thanks for nothing, hermit guy.”
And, completely justified in my anger, I turned to go.
“Wait!” he shouted.
“Look, dude,” I said. “Maybe you could, like, tell me what to do before. But things have changed now that I’m the Doc. The Doc don’t take orders from no man.”
Violence. Speed. Momentum. Page 17