“It is quite simply the grandest of all the grand games the universe has ever known.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“And you’ll have to compete against the latest, super-advanced, high-performance, perfectly perfected version of the only opponent you’ve ever struggled against: Lord Hannn.”
The platform that Nigel the Editor is being tortured on slides to the side and he screams in terror, except no one really cares because the shit that’s revealed is fucking awesome.
A massive 146-inch 6K experimental Sony Trinitron plasma flat-screen TV with a Bose sound system the size of a semitruck. Holy fuck, do I love a good subwoofer! And connected to that is an advanced prototype PS7 that for no good reason is plated in twenty-four-karat gold and encrusted with diamonds and fine furs. And connected to that is a brand-spanking-new Lord Hannn robot. And this robot is like the Borg hive queen meets the ED-209 meets Number Five Is Alive meets the original Terminator with all his skin fried off. We’re talking polished black steel, we’re talking motherboards and wires and flashing lights, we’re talking human brains floating in vats of pink goo hooked up to tubes and blue lightning bolts randomly shooting from one electrode to another and smoke and steampunk dials and gears and AI and graphic equalizers, and I’m pretty sure I saw a flux capacitor somewhere in there too. Also? No Xbox-controller hand.
“All right, that does look cool,” I say. “But ‘struggled’ is a total stretch.”
“So, Dr Disrespect,” Carl the Hunchback says. “Do you accept this challenge?”
I look at what’s unquestionably the most advanced experimental computer in the cosmos, the greatest opponent anyone has ever faced. I look at Nigel the Editor, sobbing for his life. I look at the cameras, the press, the celebrities, hanging on my every word, waiting for my next move.
I think about all the adversity I’ve faced in my life. All the struggles. All the obstacles I’ve overcome. I think about all the times I’ve stared down the long, dark alleyways of fear. All the times I could’ve chosen to stay in the sunlight or hide with the crowds. All the times I pressed on despite the odds and just barely snatched death from the hungry jaws of life.
And I laugh, long and loud. Because was there ever really a question?
“Bring it on,” I growl.
My audience—the entire world!—roars its approval.
I walk over to the platform. Along the way I offer firm handshakes to a few of the onlookers—Fred Savage, Killer Commie Ivan, and, sure, even Stephen Dorff—because they are, after all, a part of my story, and that makes them lucky bastards.
I pause at my old comrade in fine literature, Nigel the Editor, still chained to the torture table, and I place my prototype Casio microcassette recorder in his weak hand.
“Take this,” I whisper. “Finish my book. And don’t forget—it was all worth it.”
I pick up the controller and take my position across from my component opponent. I look at him, eye to laser sensor. And the game begins.
Carl the Hunchback was right. It really is the grandest of all games ever created in the universe. And I know, because I’ve won them all.
The Violence. The Speed. The Momentum. Absolutely unparalleled. Like nothing I’ve ever experienced. This is truly the single challenge worthy of the Doc. The tallest peak of the tallest mountain in the universe, and there is no halfway up.
I fight harder than I’ve ever fought before. I give it everything I have and more. I move faster, I react quicker, I destroy with more precision and anger and energy. I leave nothing behind.
As I battle—tirelessly, furiously, desperately—I can sense something changing around me. The atmosphere is growing thicker, more charged. Clouds begin to gather not just above us but around us, black and purple and full of fury.
People are pointing at the sky, gazing in wonder, murmuring and afraid. Kangaroo Jack says something like, “That’s one baby-eating dingo!” and I chuckle. Good ol’ Kangaroo Jack.
The mists are swirling faster and faster in a crazy mess of angry electric chaos. The moon is blotted out, the stars nowhere to be seen. A deep bellowing thunder rumbles across the land, and I feel the very foundations of the building tremble. Giant eagles soar through the night, circling around, and I swear they’re screaming my name, calling to me over and over.
“DOC! DOOOCCCCCCCC! DOOOOOOOCCCCCCCCCCC!”
Is there smoke? You’re goddamn right there’s smoke. And it’s everywhere.
My artificial opponent is bursting with energy. His circuits are sparking and steaming, his sensors flashing blood red. He’s the one being in the galaxy that can possibly match my skill, and he’s closing in on his very first kill, the only kill that matters: me.
I feel myself slipping. For the first time in my legendary existence, I know that victory is falling out of my grasp.
It’s a strange feeling. Is this what normal people go through every day? How can their average bodies bear it?
Maybe losing has always been inevitable because of who I am. If you’re always hungry for a new challenge, if you’re always hunting for more, if you refuse to be satisfied with being the best, maybe someday you simply have to fail no matter how good, how perfect, you are. After all, without real risk, is there really reward? Without loss, does winning truly mean a thing? Maybe I’d grow stronger if I finally came to terms with my own mortality, my own humanity. Maybe, just maybe, in the never-ending circle of life, this was all meant to be.
Hahahahaha. Yeah right.
I’m Dr Disrespect. And I’m gonna win this thing.
I eye the life meter on my screen. My power level is shrinking, on the brink of doom, absorbing blow after blow after blow.
150.
140.
Clouds churning, electricity
