“KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR! KEFVGAAIR!”
“Now I shall introduce the very best of this year’s warriors, taking special care to sincerely respect and appreciate the cultural heritage of each of our international friends.
“With us from Sydney, the top gamer from the Land Down Under, Kangaroo Jack!” This big-ass spotlight shined onto this dude with sunburned skin, a leather hat, and a crocodile-teeth necklace, who, to the surprise of no one, looked exactly like Crocodile Dundee.
“KANG-A-ROO! KANG-A-ROO! KANG-A-ROO!”
Kangaroo Jack looked royally pissed. “Hey!” he shouted. “No one calls me ‘Kangaroo Jack,’ all right?? My name is Jack Hortly. None of this shit I’m wearing even belongs to me, they just fucking made me wear it. I’ve never killed a crocodile, I’ve never put a ‘shrimp on the barbie,’ and I don’t say things like ‘G’day, mate!’ or ‘That’s not a knife, that’s a knife!’ I’m just a normal dude from Australia who loves playing video games.”
The crowd went silent for a second.
“KANG-A-ROO! KANG-A-ROO! KANG-A-ROO!”
The spotlight shifted to the dude in the babushka. He was pale, massive, looked a ton like Drago from Rocky IV, and was dressed in a red boxing robe emblazoned with a hammer and sickle.
“With us from the heart of Siberia,” Hannn announced, “winner of the 1999 Mother Russia Gaming Championship, Killer Commie Ivan!”
“KIL-LER COM-MIE! KIL-LER COM-MIE!”
“Hi, guys,” Ivan said, raising his hand shyly. “Big fan of free markets actually.”
“KIL-LER COM-MIE! KIL-LER COM-MIE!”
Hannn raised his controller-hand and pointed at the next competitor.
“And from Beijing, Mr. Miyagi Min-Zhong!”
“MI-YA-GI! MI-YA-GI! MI-YA-GI!”
A dude in a ninja outfit holding a folding fan, a carp streamer, and a paper umbrella stomped on the ground in fury.
“Seriously, people?? I’m from Beijing! Mr. Miyagi is Okinawan! This is the stupidest—”
“MI-YA-GI! MI-YA-GI! MI-YA-GI!”
After that came Pretty Boy Batista from Rio de Janeiro, who was actually horrible at soccer and the only ugly Brazilian I’ve ever seen, then Pepe le Phil from Paris, who hated berets and had never been rude in his life, and Just Plain Usman from Nigeria. They wisely didn’t stereotype him or give him a nickname at all, but sadly he was the one in sandals and socks.
He kinda nodded at me. Hmm. Maybe he was a secret double agent making contact so we could hatch a diabolical scheme together later. Or maybe being nice is just a Nigerian cultural thing.
“And that,” Hannn said, “concludes my introduction of the best of this year’s gamers. The others are very good, of course, but not…”
I didn’t even hear the rest of his pathetic words. Fire flashed in my crazed eyes—RAGE—venom pumped through my veins—MORE RAGE—violence crashed through every atom of my chiseled six-foot-eight frame—MORE MORE MORE RAGE!
“WHAT DID HE SAY ABOUT THE TWO-TIME?”
Carl the Hunchback tried to grab me—
“No, Doc! Don’t!”
—but I pushed past him to the center of the arena, where I stood tall and proud and athletic, glaring up directly into Hannn’s eyes. Or, you know, at least where I thought his eyes probably were, because he was still hidden in the shadows like a coward.
“LISTEN UP, HANNN!”
“What?” he roared. “Who dares interrupt the lord of the Brotherhood?”
“I not only dare,” I snarled, “I double-dog dare! I don’t know who you think you are, why you thought it was smart to cut off your good hand, or even where exactly your pupils are right now because it’s pretty dark back there, but there’s one thing I do know—and that’s who I am.
“I am the greatest, most dominant gamer in the history of the universe. I am the undisputed Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion. I am the eagle that soars to the peak of Mount Olympus and the tiger that tears out the throat of his enemies. I am the butt-naked Vaseline-covered missile that shoots down the waterslide and the guy who does the robot at senior prom and makes it look cool.
“And I damn well ain’t one of the others who are just ‘very good.’
“The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”
The entire chaotic arena went silent—and I mean silent.
“Did—did you just add your own reverb effect with your mouth?” Hannn asked.
I grinned, my mighty mane of hair blowing dramatically in a mysterious wind. “You’re goddamn right I did.”
Oh man. That is such a perfect line to end part 1.
Seriously—chills right now. But yeah, now you’re gonna have to wait for part 2 to see how it all ends. Suck it up, punks.
I. I think he actually spoke English in this dimension, but I was so busy being rich I never really listened to what he said.
II. Like I said, hopefully this ain’t your dimension. But yeah—you’re probably fucked.
CHAPTER 10 THE ATHLETICISM—WOW!
Everyone knows I’m the most dominant, most transcendent gamer in the history of the universe. Everyone knows that my silky yet invincible mullet is a thousand subtle shades of stunning black-on-black-on-black. Everyone knows that Slick Daddy is not just the Ethiopian Poisonous Caterpillar but is also my best friend—and your worst nightmare.
But what everyone doesn’t know is that I’m six foot eight, with a powerful, dynamic, muscular, athletic god-body, and I have a thirty-seven-inch vertical leap.
All right, you got me—everyone does know that. And they know it because I say it pretty much all the time.
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Doc, you’re the greatest gamer ever, but still—you’re a gamer. You play video games for a living. Why do you care how tall you are? Why does it matter how high you jump? Why is it important that you’re a perfect specimen of quasi-bionic, possibly superhuman athleticism?”
First off, it matters because it’s true—I really truly am all those things.
I mean, maybe you want to live in some shitty dystopia of absolute relativism where objective facts like height and one-rep-max squat and vertical leap don’t really matter. But not me, man.
Second, it’s the experience.
I know in your simple, narrow mind gaming is a thing I do. Just some activity where I
