“We’ll give you a Lamborghini,” Nigel said.
I casually took a bite of brisket quesadilla, which I didn’t remember ordering, and which may have actually been Nigel’s. It was delicious.
“First off, Nigel, I don’t like being interrupted. Second, I obviously already own a 1990 Lamborghini Diablo, so…”
“I’m talking a 2021 Lamborghini Aventador SVJ.”
I stopped chewing.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m listening. What color?”
“Red.”
I jumped up, sending chicken tenders and Bourbon Street shrimp wontons flying everywhere.
“Red! Red?! RED???!!! The Two-Time drives black, and black only!”
“But—but we already bought the car—I barely even have the money to cover this lunch!”
“I don’t care!” I growled. “Take it back. Take it back or I won’t save literature.”
“Fine,” he sighed.
“And I want a thirty-eight-foot offshore racing boat. And a matching trailer. And I want that connected to a 2021 Lamborghini Urus. All blacked out. And with an official Dr Disrespect Logo Decal™ on the side. But it’s cool, I’ll have my guy handle that last part. You can reimburse me.”
PREFACE YAYAYAYA!
Yayayaya!
INTRODUCTION OKAY, I’LL WRITE THIS BOOK
So here I am, one day later, sitting in my multimillion-dollar state-of-the-art top-secret complex, surrounded by twenty doggie bags of leftover riblets and nachos, writing this book.
Nigel, who I guess is my editor or something—wait, are they allowed to change these solid-gold words? Is that even legal?—said something about finally sharing with the world the Doc’s deepest, most intimate secrets. The untold history of my mysterious, legendary origins and my rise to unparalleled dominance. My treasured philosophies of life, victory, and wiping your ass while still sitting down. Grooming tips for how you too can achieve the perfect mullet-mustache combo (hint: you can’t). And he really, really wants to know what, exactly, I’m a doctor of.
But let’s be real here.
I’m gonna write whatever I want, and you and Nigel and the Champions Club and pretty much the whole world are gonna love it.
You really think I need his Lambos? I already own a warehouse full of ’em! You think I care about his racing boat? I have an entire fleet! You think I needed that free lunch from App Lebeés? I made a call on my flip phone twenty minutes ago and now I own the whole chain. (Turns out it’s not French or very fancy, but I’m making them add an accent over the “e” just for the hell of it.)
I don’t care what this contract says. This is my book. It’ll have the rhythm of a sleazy seventies muscleman and the ruthlessness of a nineties serial killer. It’ll fly with the falcons to a whole new galaxy of awesomeness. It’ll stare down the long, dark alley of your fears and never look back.
So prepare yourself for a level of verbal domination never before experienced by man, woman, or child in the history of the written word.
Then again, no—there is no way to prepare. No way at all.
CHAPTER 1 MY MULTIDIMENSIONAL BIRTH
Every badass superhero has an origin story. Historians, scientists, and Nigel the Editor all say so.
Batman had that thing where his wealthy parents were murdered right in front of him in an alley when he was a kid. That must’ve sucked.
Superman had that thing where his whole planet was blown into a billion tiny pieces and his dying parents blasted him off into outer space. Also sucked.
Spider-Man got bitten by a radioactive spider. Actually kind of cool. But then his uncle got murdered by this dude Spidey failed to stop. Back to sucking.
But if it’s not clear to you yet—just kidding, of course it is—the Two-Time is different. The Two-Time is special. So the Two-Time has not one but three origin stories.
One for each dimension I inhabit.
“But wait,” you say, “why only three dimensions? Aren’t there supposed to be more?”
You try kicking ass in more than three dimensions and see how great you do, okay? Being a multidimensional superstar is not easy, man.
“Hold on,” you say, “how different is this really? Didn’t you see that Spider-Verse movie?”
Shut up. If I say it’s different, it’s different.
“Wait, wait, wait—”
Hey! Whose fucking book is this, anyway? Nigel, you’re supposed to be handling security here! I’m sick and tired of these interruptions!
So, as I was saying—three dimensions, three different origin stories. And here’s the critical fact you need to understand: each of them is equally valid, okay? They’re all completely true and completely false. Completely authentic and completely fictional. Completely silent, like the stealthy snake, and completely roaring, like the jungle cat. All at the same time.
Okay, fine. Maybe the second-dimension story is just a little better than the others…
NO.
That was a test, and you failed it.
All my origin stories are equal. All different, and all the same. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense, but trust me—it does. Oh yes, it does.
Think about it.I
MY ORIGIN IN DIMENSION ONE
This will be hard, maybe even impossible, for your mind to comprehend, but in Dimension One there was a time when the Doctor wasn’t the Doctor.
When I wasn’t a chiseled six-foot-eight specimen of athletic superiority. When I didn’t own a multimillion-dollar command center with its own helipad, and Slick Daddy was nothing but a dream above my trembling lip. When the Doctor didn’t even have his master’s degree.
That time was when I was ten.
The year was 1992. I was just a little tyke growing up on the mean streets of Oakland, California. Small for my age, skinny, my voice high-pitched and girlish. Cute face, of course, but with a shockingly weak jawline.
My parents were decent, caring people. My papa drove a minivan and sold used Chevys for a living, and my mama was a grade-school teacher who always wore a fanny pack. They taught me the value of integrity, honesty, and hard work.
But they didn’t teach me any of the important stuff,
