He gestured behind him, and a flunky wheeled out this massive wooden chest and popped it open. That baby was full of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, gold bars, the works. This was like Jeff Bezos rich—before his divorce settlement.
“Fine,” he said. “But you’ll have to beat me first.”
I grinned. “Your funeral.”
The crowd—my crowd—went ballistic.
“DOC! DOC! DOC!”
“Doc!” Just Plain Usman said. “We gotta get going, man! I got the elite squad of commandos from the Other Brotherhood set to storm the compound in three minutes!”
“Call ’em off,” I said. “I destroy vicious international criminal organizations on my own time.”
I walked toward the console. Carl the Hunchback was giving me this weird look, like maybe there was a surprise plot twist coming up, but I shrugged it off.
“Let’s do this, Hannn!”
The game started. And I gotta admit, I thought Hannn’s whole “I’m gonna cut off my good right hand and replace it with a damn Xbox controller” thing was dumb as hell, but guess what?
It fucking worked!
That dude’s left hand moved like nothing I’ve ever seen. He was using one finger to jump, another finger to crouch. One finger to fire, another finger to reload. One finger to throw grenades, another finger to switch weapons, another finger to move, and another finger to zoom.
I mean, how many fingers did this motherfucker have? Looked like ten, twenty, thirty, plus maybe a dozen thumbs, all moving in a blur, hitting one button after another, jumping all over that stupid Xbox-controller implant.
And he was playing on the big dog, the original Duke controller! So his fingers had a lot of ground to cover, and they weren’t even long! They were these little fat, ugly, stumpy things. Like, not attractive fingers at all. That made it even harder to watch.
Now, everyone knows that I hate using controllers in general—tell me to use a controller instead of my mouse and keyboard on my stream and I will never speak to you ever again. Like, that’s it. Mom, you’re cut off. Dad, you’re getting nothing in the will. You’re dead to me. That’s how seriously I take that shit.
But back at the 2001 KEFVGAAIR, using that first-generation prototype advanced Xbox console, playing with a controller was the only option.
You know what?
Didn’t fucking matter.
Why? I’m glad you asked. Not really, because you should’ve known the answer. And the answer is that I’m the best. It doesn’t matter what game, what console, what computer, or what controller. I cannot and will not be beaten. It’s that simple.
So when I saw how Hannn could move, how he could work that ridiculous Xbox controller implanted on his right stump using his left hand, I didn’t sweat it at all. I mean literally not one single molecule of sweat came out of my perfectly formed pores on my stunning alabaster forehead.
I just smiled and I started moving even faster.
Because a true champion doesn’t quake at the first sign of real competition. A true warrior doesn’t tremble when he’s finally challenged. The Two-Time, Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion doesn’t run from the danger at the end of that long, dark alleyway.
No, he keeps right on running. He embraces the danger. He thrives off the challenge. He grows stronger from the competition.
This was what I’d been craving back in my lair. This was what I had missed. This was the VIOLENCE, the SPEED, the MOMENTUM I had been yearning for.
Now I’d found it. And I loved it.
My reflexes got sharper. My fingers and thumbs moved faster. My killer instinct became more lethal and more instinctual. I was the claws of the hawk. I was the fangs of the cobra. I was the wolf’s cunning and the lion’s roar.
And then something weird happened. As I steadily gained the upper hand—pun 1,000 percent intended—on Hannn, thin wisps of smoke slowly started emanating from his shadowy throne, from right around where his nose would’ve been if I’d ever seen it. Blood-red sparks started flying everywhere as an electric crackling sound echoed from his balcony.
CRACKLE-ZIIIPPP-POWWWW-TWANNG!
I had to get to that balcony.
From the arena’s platform, I leapt into the stands. The rabble scrabbled. A few asked for my autograph, a couple more asked me to lay on hands.
I couldn’t blame them, but I had work to do.
I jumped over four rows, then another four, then another four, because I’m just that tall and athletic.
I reached the bottom of Hannn’s mysterious balcony and I peered upward. The stream of smoke was getting thicker, the sparks had turned into a full-on blaze, the crackling and zipping were deafening, and below us people were running and screaming for their lives.
I’ve always been great at judging distances—just one of my innumerable talents, I guess—so I could tell that there were exactly 146 inches between the floor and the edge of the balcony. That’s 12 feet and 2 inches. And that’s a really long way.
For a normal man.
Thankfully, as you probably noticed, I am not that man.
Using my razor-sharp mind, I quickly did the math. I am six masculine feet and eight strapping inches tall. My pterodactyl-like wingspan is an incredible seven feet and three inches, and my standing reach is nine feet and one inch.
That meant that to grab the edge of the balcony and lift myself up to finally confront the evil Lord Hannn, I’d need a vertical leap of three feet and one inch—or exactly thirty-seven inches.
Are you with me? I know—you didn’t think you’d get a math test in the middle of a high-intensity kick-ass action scene. But excellence is earned!
Now, I’d jumped pretty high before. Once I’d been trying to swat a mosquito in my Top Secret Command Center, and I’d jumped thirty-two inches. Then another time I was walking up some stairs, lifted up my foot, and BAM—jumped thirty-three inches, just like that.
But that was just me fucking around.
To jump a full thirty-seven inches? In a high-pressure situation, with thousands of people staring and a fire blazing and knives
