So yeah, just like with Airwolf, I grew up watching these guys. I thought they were all badasses. All right, I never really liked Stephen Dorff, but everyone else—badasses.
I mean, Dolph Lundgren alone. We’re talking He-Man in Masters of the Universe. We’re talking Drago in Rocky IV. We’re talking the original Punisher of motion picture cinema. The man’s got a jaw almost as square as mine. He’s six feet five inches tall, so, you know, not as tall as me, but still pretty damn tall. And I don’t know what kind of mousse he uses on his hair—fine, I asked, it’s L’Oréal Studio Line with its patented Multi-Vitamin Formula for Protection and Shine—but those blond spikes are like indestructible nails of gold-plated solid gold.
Then, one day, we’re all hanging out at my mega-mansion, eating Papa John’s, pounding Pabst, and the dude farts.
Now, that, in and of itself, is cool, right? It’s like, “Whoa, mega action icon Dolph Lundgren just farted in my house on my jet-black Corinthian-leather sectional sofa”—like, what a fucking honor, you know?
And I’m expecting like this awesome riiiiiip. Like a ragged, raging chainsaw of a fart that revs up and roars, leaving a path of devastation and destruction in its wake. Like, I’m ready to be impressed, man.
But guess what?
This guy lets out the weakest, whiniest, most pathetic fart I’ve heard in my life. In my life!!! It’s this high-pitched, squeaky, mousy little paw just scratching at the screen door, pleading to be let in for a saucer of milk at suppertime.
The other guys there, Terry Crews and Jesse Ventura and Antonio Banderas and Kelsey Grammer, they all give each other this knowing look. Like, Oh—it’s one of Dolph’s embarrassing weak-ass farts again.
Then I look at Dolph, and he kind of shrugs and in his Swedish accent he goes, “Sorry, my bad.”
And that was just it for me, you know?
Like, all right, so you’ve got a clinically weak fart. I mean, it’s lame, it sucks, but whatever—it happens. But then to apologize for it???
NO.
Up on the big silver screen—or in syndicated television and various infomercials—these guys all seemed larger than life. They were men to be respected. To be admired. They were heroes! Almost—almost—as cool as me!
But in real life? They were average human beings who apologized for below-average farts.
I became disillusioned, to say the least. For the very first time in my life.
I’d accomplished everything I’d ever set out to accomplish. I’d climbed the highest mountains. I’d flown through the clouds and the smoke with the eagles. I’d hunted with the wolves and swum with the stingrays. I’d won every tournament, I’d beaten every challenge, I’d destroyed every so-called champion.
I’d had not just one origin story but three. I’d won the Blockbuster Video Game Championship—twice, in 1993 and 1994. I’d foiled the founders of Oogle, who turned out to be totally evil. I’d obliterated the world’s oldest crime syndicate, then established my own league of warriors called the Champions Club. And I’d become the greatest, most authentic, most real Hollywood star of all time, single-handedly rebooting Airwolf and Knight Rider and even giving Jean-Claude Van Damme a place to live.
I’d dominated every step of the way. And they were big steps, because I have massive feet.
But now? What was there? What was left to challenge me?
Nothing, that’s what.
Shit, I almost forgot. I guess Nigel the Editor did call me up and ask me to write a book to save literature. That was something. But now I’ve obviously done that too.
You’re welcome, literature.
So the Two-Time has officially accomplished everything there is possible to accomplish on the face of this earth. It’s time. Time to really retire.
Oh yeah. There is one more thing.
I. In this dimension—and this dimension only—Razor Frank and I speak the same language, but we have no idea what it is.
CHAPTER 14 WHAT I’M THE DOCTOR OF
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Oh, Doc, of course the last thing you’re gonna do is rescue Nigel the Editor from the evil clutches of the Brotherhood and save the day like the badass hero you are!”
As usual, you’re completely wrong.
I would’ve been willing to overlook all his sloppiness, all his arrogance, all his “indeed’s and “forsooth’s and his other pseudointellectual BS. I would’ve forgiven the way he crapped on my “yayaya” world record and gave me shit about selling my high-class merch. I would’ve forgiven—but I wouldn’t have forgotten, because the Doc never forgets.
But when Nigel the Editor quit my book, when he decided of his own free will to abandon Team Doc, he severed our bonds forever. I mean, I told the guy he might need my help someday—I told him!—way back on page whatever-it-was. And what did he do? He crapped a big steamy crap right on the face of everything we once shared, everything we once had.
And yeah, I know that metaphor is rough, but that’s how strong I feel about this!
And I’m sorry—hahaha, not at all—but there’s just no coming back from that, you know? Especially if “coming back” literally means I gotta fly a thousand miles in my chopper, battle hundreds of bloodthirsty knife-wielding henchmen, topple an ancient international criminal organization—again—and rescue your punk ass from a diabolical hunchback named Carl.
I mean, I haven’t even had lunch today!
I’m finally on my very last leftover chicken fajita plate from that first meeting at App Lebeés. When was that—four months ago? Five? Really amazing how well that stuff keeps. Can’t wait to dig in.
But because I’m a nice guy—seriously the nicest guy ever in existence—I have decided to honor Nigel the Editor’s last request. Or what will stand as his last request once the Brotherhood, you know, murders him or whatever.
That’s right. I’ll finally reveal to you, to the world, and to the memory of Nigel the Editor
