Yeah, it was a lot to take in.
Now, maybe my brain got jolted by my fall—but maybe, just maybe, it was a sign. A message. A calling to be something great, to be something bigger and better than what I was. And to kick the crap out of the little turds who kept bullying me.
I thought about it for a sec, shrugged, and chose the call to greatness and ass-kicking.
My attackers were on me in a flash. I leapt up, computer box in hand, and smashed Ramrod over the head, knocking him out cold. Ugh!
I quickly disarmed Razor Frank, who was only carrying a disposable Bic. Shing!
I spun around and caught One-Eyed John right in his pudgy loose gut. Grunt!
And finally, saving my best for last, I walloped that little shit Steve right in his ass. For a second I thought about wedging my foot there for payback, but I decided I was better than that, and I settled for spanking him like the little bitch he was. Oof!
The rest of the mob—there must’ve been at least nine more—saw my utter, unstoppable dominance, turned tail, and ran for their lives.
Lying in the dust, Steve looked up at me and squinted. “Who—who are you?”
Which was kinda weird, because we all went to the same school, and my mom was actually their teacher, so they really should’ve known my name, but it was a powerful moment and I was sick of my old weak identity anyway, so I just went with it. I chose a new name. A name forged in the flames of the sun, born in the cry of the hawk, and suckled on the sweet teat of Victory.
“The name is Dr Disrespect.”
For some weird, supernatural reason, there was this amazing, badass reverb when I said it:
“The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”
Steve frowned. “Why are you making that funny echo noise with your mouth?”
“Shut up,” I said. “Or I really will shove this Commodore 64 up your butt.”
At that very moment, I felt my jawline harden and square up, my voice grow deeper by 2.3 octaves, and the first young tendrils of Slick Daddy sprout on my upper lip. Shit, I think my mullet even grew another couple inches in the back.
The punks ran in fear. I picked up the mysterious, fateful Commodore 64 to take home as my mighty prize. And then some old fat dude stuck his head out a door in the alleyway and screamed at me.
“Yo, you gotta pay for that fucking thing!”
Turns out I’d fallen right outside a CompuLand loading dock, and my mystical miracle machine was just part of a big new shipment. Not really sure how I missed that, because there was a giant CompuLand sign right above the door, but whatever.
The old me would’ve apologized and begged forgiveness, but the new me just flipped him off and stole it. Which was doing him a favor anyway, because the box was a gory mess and he really should’ve been selling Super Nintendos or IBMs or something. I mean, it was 1992, for shit’s sake.
Back home, I plugged the computer into our TV, this dusty old black-and-white RCA. I hooked up the joystick that I’d also stolen, and I turned it on.
As I started to play my very first game of Contra, I could feel the electricity running through my body. I could sense the spirit of the warrior twitching in my twitchy abdominals, and I could hear my destiny of greatness calling to me in the wind.
“Woooleee-woooo! Wooooddleeeeee-wooooooo! Woo-wooo!”
That’s what destiny sounds like, man.
Immediately I dominated.
My parents watched in awe from the other room. Honestly, they were pretty good parents, even if they were baby-butt soft. They even bought me a Super Nintendo the next day, because seriously, it was 1992. And also because they’d finally started to guess what I already knew: that their son was meant for greatness. For a reign of supremacy unprecedented in modern gaming. For a garage full of Lamborghinis and a vertical leap of no less than thirty-seven inches.
The Doctor was born.
A Short Break
Anyone else feel psychically exhausted by the First Dimensional journey of my creation?
What I like to do, during these rare moments when I’m overcome by raw sentimentality, I like to kind of shake it off, you know? Let the vibrations of the experience work their way through my stunning six-foot-eight frame.
So right now, let’s stand up together, okay? Get that lazy, flabby, book-reading ass of yours out of your chair and start hearing the music, all right? Yeah, that’s it—a super-badass electronic beatbox just running through your brain.
Bump-tsshhh.
Bump-tsshhh-tsshhh.
Yeah, there it is.
Now let’s add a sexy, smooth lyric. Just imagine this light, feathery whisper of a voice.
“They call him Doc!”
Oh yeah. There it is.
Now we’re gonna move our bodies, exactly like this:
Turn that head to the left, to the left.
Now turn it to the right, to the right.
Now flick that mullet to the left, to the left.
Now flick it to the right, to the right.
Now thrust those hips to the left, to the left.
Now thrust them to the right, to the right.
Bump-tsshhh.
Bump-tsshhh-tsshhh.
“They call him Doc!”
Congratulations, you’ve been emotionally cleansed. You’re welcome.
MY ORIGIN IN DIMENSION R
Why should Dimension One always be followed by Dimension Two? Trite conventions are for weaklings and runners-up.
My second origin took place in Dimension R, the coolest dimension of them all. In this dimension things started out very different than they did in the last one.
In this dimension, instead of small, I was big for my age. Instead of long luxurious hair, I had a crew cut. Instead of a cute face with a weak jaw, I had a strong jaw but I was ridiculously ugly because of my crew cut.
And I was a girl. And I had this big fighting robot spider I controlled telepathically. And I had a cartoon mallet I used to bonk bad guys on the head. And I called my enemies “turtle-slappers and
