I’d flown to Hong Kong to compete in the greatest, most ancient, most cutthroat video game tournament in the world, like this actual Kumite of video games called KEFVGAAIR. It was held by this shadowy, mysterious network of super-criminals called the Brotherhood—generic, I know—and I got pissed off, kinda lost my patience a little, which I do sometimes, so naturally I insulted their one-handed diabolical leader, Lord Hannn, in front of the entire arena.
Like, I called this loser out, okay? Totally showed him up.
So it was a few hours later, and I was feeling pretty good about myself, because I’d really made a great first impression. My guide, Carl the Hunchback, was showing me to my luxury suite, and suddenly I spotted the Nigerian champion, Just Plain Usman, gesturing at me through the cracked door of a secret double-agent spy room.
Or maybe it was just a janitor’s closet. I had to find out.
“Um, you go on without me, Carl the Hunchback,” I said. “I’ll catch up to you in a sec. I’ve got to, uh, look at… something… around… here.”
He rolled his eyes and kept walking.
“All right, Just Plain Usman,” I said. “I’m getting, like, strong secret double-agent spy vibes from you. So what’s the deal, man? And why the hell are you wearing sandals with socks?”
“Doc,” he said, “I’m part of a secret international organization of double-agent hero spies that’s been trying to infiltrate the Brotherhood for centuries. The earliest known socks, dating from 300 AD, were excavated from Oxyrhynchus and had a split toe designed for sandals. Socks were invented for sandals—why are you wearing socks without sandals?”
“All right,” I said, “what’s your organization called?”
“Well,” Just Plain Usman said, clearing his throat, “we’re also called the Brotherhood.”
“JESUS CHRIST!” I shouted. “What is wrong with all you secret international organizations? Is it that hard to come up with an awesome name?”
“Look,” he sighed. “I’ve been trying to get it changed ever since I became a member, okay? But there’s a lot of red tape in these secret international organizations! It takes five meetings just to agree on an agenda, our Slack channel is an absolute mess. I’ve had to refile my proposal for our new name five separate times, in triplicate, but the registrar keeps losing the documentation…”
“So what is it?” I said. “Your pitch for the new name?”
“The Other Brotherhood.”
“Yeah,” I said. “BEFORE I STAB MYSELF IN THE FUCKING EYEBALL OUT OF FRUSTRATION, we’re gonna have to move on.”
“We’ve learned that Hannn uses the KEFVGAAIR tournament as a front for his entire criminal operation—illegal gambling, money laundering, grand theft auto, murder, extortion, international arms dealing, violence, and mayhem.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I mean, I already knew they were criminals, so…”
“But,” he sputtered, “did you know how bad the crimes were?? The murder! The mayhem!”
“Yeah, gotta be honest with you, that all sounds pretty cool to me.”
“But—”
“You literally just listed my favorite things.”
“But—”
“Like a real-life version of James Bond meets Goodfellas meets all the Fast and Furious movies except Tokyo Drift.”
“But—”
Too late. I’d already closed the secret double-agent spy room/janitor closet door behind me.
“Hey, Carl the Hunchback!” I shouted as I jogged to catch up to my guide. “Hey, what kinds of crimes do you guys do, anyway?”
He shrugged as he unlocked the door to my suite. “Just the cool ones: illegal gambling, murder, extortion, international arms deals…”
“Sweet. That’s what I figured.”
I walked into the suite, and even I was impressed. We’re talking a state-of-the-art flat-screen TV so huge, so massive, and so flat that it covered one whole wall. We’re talking top-of-the-line speakers so gigantic they covered two more walls. We’re talking a bed so fucking big and luxurious it covered another wall. Yeah, it was a Murphy bed, but it was a really awesome one.
And all the other walls? We’re talking wall-to-wall-to-wall slate-black slate everywhere. That’s a lot of walls, a lot of black, and a lot of slate. Plus one big-ass mirror on the ceiling.
That’s my kind of room.
“Whoa!” I shouted as I ran over to the gigantic Murphy bed. I pushed a shiny silver button and it lowered from the wall automatically. Pretty fucking cool. “This must be, like, an experimental prototype Murphy bed, right?”
“Sure,” he said. “Doc, I shall leave you now. You’ll need your rest for tomorrow’s KEFVGAAIR. I do not think Lord Hannn will easily forget today’s… interruption.”
“It’s cool.” I grinned. “I’ll dominate.”
Carl the Hunchback bowed and closed the door behind him.
I kept pressing on the silver button over and over again—it was so much fun watching the Murphy bed go up and down!—until suddenly the damn thing broke. Instead of going down, it slid to the side, revealing the entrance to a big-ass secret industrial warehouse.
And stacks and stacks of illegal merchandise.
Crates full of Kalashnikovs and M203 grenade launchers. Piles of rigged slot machines and roulette tables. Rows of Lambos and Ferraris and Jaguars with fresh coats of paint and filed-off VINs. And bale upon bale of counterfeit currency.
I mean, what can I say?
FUCKING AWESOME!
Then I saw something else.
Hidden behind boxes of throwing stars, a totally different kind of illegal merchandise. Thousands of small, lifelike plastic action figures. Each with its own blood-red tactical jacket. Each with its own pair of mirrored Sony prototype specs. Each with its own perfectly square jaw and flowing black-diamond mullet and little mini Slick Daddy.
That’s right. The illegal merchandise was me.
Unauthorized, knockoff, bootlegged Dr Disrespect action figures to be trafficked in black-market toy stores in every country on the planet.
I picked one up. It was an awesome idea, but the workmanship was shoddy. The paint was scratched, my little mane of hair had no luster, and the Ethiopian Poisonous Caterpillar looked like it had retreated into a cocoon. And yeah, I just came up with that metaphor right now.
Worst of all—like worse than anything I could possibly imagine, including death by super-piranha—the Brotherhood planned to sell them all without giving me a cut. Not one thin dime.
I know this because they’d foolishly left their
