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
