“There’s one more thing,” he said. “A message I have to give you before you leave.”
“Chop-chop,” I said. “I still gotta get down this mountain, and if I know my mom I got a bowl of Mr. T cereal waiting there for me right now.”
He looked into my eyes. He was graver, more solemn, than I’d ever seen him. And seriously, it took every ounce of my will not to grab that damn mole and try to twist it off.
“Even with all your powers,” he said. “Even with all your strength and cunning. Even with your domination of every arena known to man, you will have one weakness, Dr Disrespect.”
“Lies!”
“And that weakness is your unquenchable thirst for challenge. Your unstoppable need for competition. Because no matter how successful you are, no matter how dominant, no matter how high you climb, it will never be enough. You will always want more.”
“NO!” I shouted. “IT’S IMPOSSIBLE! I’M THE DOC! I HAVE NO WEAKNESSES!”
“Really?” He smiled. “Where are you now?”
“I’m at the top,” I said. “I’m at the tippity-top of the mountain!”
“Then what, my friend, is that?”
He pointed above us. I looked, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I was at the top of the mountain. And I was still only halfway up.
* * *
FUCK.
Man, I’m so sorry, you guys. I mean, I know we pretty much reached a natural ending point to that incredible moment in Doc lore, but still—I wanted a few beats to savor it, you know? To really bask in the powerful emotional impact.
But yeah, I got this urgent message from Nigel the Editor’s AIM account.
So this right here is an official…
Real-Time Update
And of course we all know that this isn’t Nigel the Editor contacting me anymore. This is Carl the Hunchback.
I thought you said you were going to delete AOL Instant Messenger, Doc.
Whatever, man. I’ve been busy telling amazing stories here, but I’ll delete it this afternoon.
I’m happy you still have it now. It’ll give you a chance to see your old friend Nigel the Editor in his last few extremely painful moments.
What—AIM has video? No way!
Well, we had to add that functionality ourselves.
Shit, I guess you Brotherhood punks are good at something—OUCH, that does not look like fun for Nigel the Editor. What is that—a buzz saw slowly moving toward his nuts?
Yes.
And tweezers yanking out his nose hairs one by one?
Uh-huh.
And clamps twisting his nipples into little knots?
He actually requested that.
Yeah, I don’t need to know. Anyway, guess I’ll let you guys get back to it—
“DOC, PLEASE! SAVE ME! PLEEEEEASE!”
Ah shit, do you really have to scream so loud, Nigel the Editor?
“YES!”
WOW! Is that a portable 7T-43 laser-induced plasma-effect weapon with sonic boosters? I thought I was the only person who had one of those! I’ve never actually seen it vibrate anyone’s brain before.
“PLEASE, I’M BEGGING YOU!”
Ah shit, man. I mean, I would, but—I haven’t even finished my lunch yet. Wanna see the explanation about what I’m a doctor of that I wrote for you? Maybe I can email it and the Brotherhood can let you read it or something.
“I CAN’T READ! MY EYEBALLS ARE FULL OF ACID!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Sigh.
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
All right, all right, I get it! Dude, chill out! I’ll rescue you, all right? Fuck! I could’ve told you like ten minutes ago if you’d just stop screaming like a skinny little punk!
Honestly, between me and you, I was always gonna do it. I just wanted to make you sweat it out a little, you know? Look, I’m still a little pissed that you walked off my book. And if I’m being honest here, I just think you could work on your people skills, you know? I mean, I’m the talent. I’m the Doc. And I expect to be treated with a certain degree of respect.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
But anyway, you messed up, I think you understand that now, I’m sure you won’t do it again, and I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. I’m happy to be the bigger man here. Because when it’s all said and done, I still love you, man. I still appreciate everything you’ve done for me and for the book and for the entire Champions Club. And I really am the bigger man out of the two of us, like a lot bigger, both literally and figuratively, and I think the facts back that up.
All right, cool. So I’m gonna finish up this chicken fajita, then I might need a nap. And then, when I’m good and ready, I’ll come rescue you from the Brotherhood. Cool?
Oh hey, Carl the Hunchback—where am I meeting you guys to kick your ass? Hong Kong again? You got a new lame-ass warehouse for me to demolish?
I’m glad you asked, Doc. The setting will be a bit… different this time.
Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa. What are you showing me right now, bro? I thought you were inside, but that looks like gleaming silvery skyscrapers. Like shining spotlights and flashing bulbs and paparazzi and international press with TV cameras and helicopters and Lamborghinis and A-list stars and plush red carpets and all the glitzy glamour of a MAJOR EXCLUSIVE INVITATION-ONLY GLOBAL PAY-PER-VIEW GALA EVENT. That’s my kind of torture chamber, baby!
That’s right, Doc. I know you like… attention. We’re holding Nigel the Editor at the very top of the world’s tallest building in the heart of Dubai. And we invited the world’s top press, the galaxy’s biggest stars, and the most powerful, influential people in the cosmos to witness our final showdown. We’ll be waiting.
I disconnected AIM and arched one of my perfectly sculpted slate-black eyebrows.
A life-and-death rescue mission on the world’s tallest building in Dubai in front of the eyes and cameras of the entire sentient universe?
This just got interesting.
I. In this dimension, both my parents were grade-school teachers, and they had an irrational hatred for used-car dealers. There was no Razor Frank—no Razor Frank at all! Think about it.
CHAPTER 15
THE END???
So I’m flying my Ka-27 attack chopper through the clear Dubai night sky, dictating directly to my advanced prototype Casio TP-4000X microcassette recorder.
As usual, I know exactly what you’re thinking: “Doc, why are you dictating? Why not just wait to type this up later on your experimental Dell Inspiron with WordPerfect 5.1 emulator?”
As usual, I’m nice enough to answer your impertinent questions. And the simple fact is that even though I’m the most dominant champion in the history of mankind, when you live a life like mine, a life that’s always on the edge, a life that’s always at the tippity-top of the mountain and only halfway up—there’s risk. There’s danger. There’s a chance I might not make it home.
; If there wasn’t, it wouldn’t be a challenge. And I wouldn’t be the Doc.
My copter is getting closer to the tallest building in the world. And I gotta admit—that thing is really tall. Like, you know how sometimes people are like, “Wow, that building is tall,” and you see it, and you’re like, “Yeah, that building is tall—but with my six-foot-eight frame and my superior athleticism, I bet I could still jump it”?
Well, this building isn’t like that.
I see it standing alone and unchallenged on the Dubai skyline, like a dagger plunging blindly into the black heart of night. Shit, that was poetic. I fly closer, and I see klieg lights sweeping across the heavens, with dozens of other, less cool helicopters circling the top, trying desperately to get a glimpse of the action.
I cut right through the crowd, because the Two-Time always cuts through the crowd, and my Kamov pulls in close for a perfect landing.
Just before I touch down, I scan the crowds, and for once in his pathetic life Carl the Hunchback wasn’t lying. Everyone is there. Everyone!
All the TV press that’s been covering me, drooling over me since I won my first Blockbuster Championship—Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather and my old buddy Wolf Blitzer and some dude I don’t recognize from ABC because who the fuck can really replace Peter Jennings? And next to them all the A-list stars and champions I’ve encountered throughout my life—Leo and Brad and Fred Savage and JCVD and the ShamWow guy and Just Plain Usman and Kangaroo Jack Hortly and even Dolph Lundgren, who really is a good dude even if his farts are weak. And then the most powerful executives in the universe—there’s Mr. Blockbuster, and Sergey and Larry from Oogle, and of course Zuck and Bill and Bezos, who I just closed a $10 billion deal with on my flip phone on the flight here. And there—there are my parents! And I do a double take, because there are six of them from various different dimensions! And they all look mostly identical, except, like, one of my dads has brown eyes, and another has green eyes, and another has one brown eye and one green eye, and cool little interdimensional differences like that. And there are at least seven Razor Franks, and who even knows what the fuck languages they all speak.
And I land my Kamov on my reserved helipad, and I open the cockpit and flashes are going off and TV cameras are rolling and the crowds are cheering and I step onto the plush red carpet and I flick my flowing requiem-black mullet back over my shoulder in this really slick way.
And speaking of slick, a lifetime supply of SLICK, BY DOC is still available NOW at InterdimensionalChampionsClub.gg for the ridiculously awesome price of $1,399.99.
And then Bell Biv DeVoe and Lionel Richie start harmonizing my awesome theme song live for the entire crowd to hear:
Bump-tsshhh.
Bump-tsshhh-tsshhh.
“They call him Doc!”
Oh fucking yeah. All the great influences are here from my past. Everyone I’ve respected. Everyone I’ve loved. Everyone I’ve beaten—and that’s everyone. If I didn’t have an icebox where my heart used to be, that heart would be warmed.
Now I’m seeing Carl the Hunchback, and he’s wearing a little hunchback tuxedo—honestly, a classy touch—and he’s surrounded by heavily armed guards and standing next to Nigel the Editor, who’s strapped down on a stainless-steel table with a buzz saw headed toward his nuts.
I look around, and I smile my sly, cunning smile, and I hold up my massive hands, and I shout:
“ENOUGH!”
Suddenly there’s silence.
“Welcome, Dr Disrespect,” Carl the Hunchback says, “to the ultimate challenge of your life.”
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Nigel the Editor screams.
“I’m up for any challenge you or the Brotherhood has for me,” I say. “And I gotta admit—even I’m impressed by the badass setup. You guys must have an amazing event planner. But before this goes any further, don’t you think we should end your little charade?”
“What charade?” Carl the Hunchback asks.
Hahaha, like I’m gonna fall for his bullshit.
“You know,” Carl the Hunchback says, “we can hear everything you’re saying into your tape recorder. And my question wasn’t bullshit.”
I shout, “You know exactly the charade I’m talking about. It’s the final twist ending you’ve set up since the beginning of this book—and I’ve seen it coming a mile away.”
Carl the Hunchback and Nigel the Editor kinda look at each other.
“The two of you,” I say, “are really… the SAME PERSON.”
“Uhhh,” they reply.
“That’s right! Nigel the Editor is really Carl the Hunchback, and there was no kidnapping or torture at all!”
“But…,” Carl the Hunchback says, “but we’re both right here. Right in front of you. Right now.”
I laugh. “You can’t fool me. All of it—writing my book and saving literature and treating me to lunch at App Lebeés—it was all just an elaborate ploy so the Brotherhood could get its final diabolical revenge!”
“Doc,” Nigel the Editor says, “I know we’ve had our differences, but you’re totally embarrassing yourself right now. And this saw is almost shaving the fuzz off my peaches.”
I scratch my insanely square chin. “So… Simon & Schuster really is paying me to write a book?”
“Indeed.”
“And, Carl the Hunchback, you’re absolutely, positively sure that’s really—”
“YES, IT’S A REAL FUCKING HUNCHBACK,” he screams. “THE DOCTORS CAN’T DO A THING ABOUT IT, I’M HIGHLY SENSITIVE ABOUT MY APPEARANCE, AND CAN WE PLEASE JUST MOVE ON TO MY ULTIMATE VENGEANCE?!”
“Fine,” I say. “But only because I say so.”
Carl the Hunchback takes a deep breath. And it’s like, learn to regulate your emotions, you know? You’re supposed to be the head of a major international criminal—
“I can still hear your dictation, Doc. But more important, I’ve invited all these people here today to bear witness. It is well-known that you’re the greatest competitor the world has ever seen. Mostly because you never let us forget it. You’ve won every battle, you’ve dominated every challenge. Your athleticism is unparalleled, and your silky hair is the only thing blacker than your soul. Your mustache is registered as a lethal weapon in twenty-three countries. You crave combat. You live for danger. You lust after battle.”
“Hey, keep it PG-13 for the kids, man.”
“But,” he says, “what happens when you finally meet your match? What happens when you finally face a challenge you can’t overcome? What happens when, for the very first time in your life, you finally lo—”
“DON’T EVEN FINISH THAT SENTENCE!” I shout. “IT’LL NEVER HAPPEN! THE DOC WILL NEVER, EVER LOSE!”
Then I hear this, like, awkward coughing noise, and I look out into the crowd, and—holy shit, it’s Sensei Billy with his nasty pubey goatee!
“Um,” he says, “I’m pretty sure I got you once back in the eighties…”
“THAT WAS BEST-TWO-OUT-OF-THREE,” I yell. “AND I HAD NOT YET CLAIMED THE SACRED MANTLE OF THE DOC! GET YOUR FUCKING LORE STRAIGHT, BILL!”
“Whatever. I’m just here for the vol-au-vents.”
“I repeat,” I snarl, loud enough for the world to hear me even without the mics of every major news organization shoved into my face, “I. WILL. NEVER. LOSE.”
Carl the Hunchback laughs. I gotta give the guy credit—it’s a pretty solid evil laugh. He’s totally been working on it.
“I’m glad you made that perfectly clear, Doc,” he says. “Because in order to save your friend Nigel here, you won’t have to kill anyone. You won’t have to shoot anyone. You won’t even have to stab anyone.”
“Seriously?” I say. “This is starting to sound dull.”
“No, you will simply have to play—and win—a new video game. A game we ordered developed by the greatest gaming minds of all time, everyone from Midway to Nintendo to Riot to Epic. A game that combines the gore of Mortal Kombat with the gameplay of Halo. The power of
Call of Duty with the totally inexplicable popularity of Fortnite. The ingenuity of Apex Legends with the iconic status of Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!! And yes, Mike Tyson is in it, and yes, he bites off someone’s ear.
“It is quite simply the grandest of all the grand games the universe has ever known.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“And you’ll have to compete against the latest, super-advanced, high-performance, perfectly perfected version of the only opponent you’ve ever struggled against: Lord Hannn.”
The platform that Nigel the Editor is being tortured on slides to the side and he screams in terror, except no one really cares because the shit that’s revealed is fucking awesome.
A massive 146-inch 6K experimental Sony Trinitron plasma flat-screen TV with a Bose sound system the size of a semitruck. Holy fuck, do I love a good subwoofer! And connected to that is an advanced prototype PS7 that for no good reason is plated in twenty-four-karat gold and encrusted with diamonds and fine furs. And connected to that is a brand-spanking-new Lord Hannn robot. And this robot is like the Borg hive queen meets the ED-209 meets Number Five Is Alive meets the original Terminator with all his skin fried off. We’re talking polished black steel, we’re talking motherboards and wires and flashing lights, we’re talking human brains floating in vats of pink goo hooked up to tubes and blue lightning bolts randomly shooting from one electrode to another and smoke and steampunk dials and gears and AI and graphic equalizers, and I’m pretty sure I saw a flux capacitor somewhere in there too. Also? No Xbox-controller hand.
“All right, that does look cool,” I say. “But ‘struggled’ is a total stretch.”
“So, Dr Disrespect,” Carl the Hunchback says. “Do you accept this challenge?”
I look at what’s unquestionably the most advanced experimental computer in the cosmos, the greatest opponent anyone has ever faced. I look at Nigel the Editor, sobbing for his life. I look at the cameras, the press, the celebrities, hanging on my every word, waiting for my next move.
Violence. Speed. Momentum. Page 18