110.
95.
FUCK!
75.
55.
Buildings shaking, grown men weeping!
40.
30.
DAMN IT, COME ON, DOC!
10.
5.
Worlds colliding, dimensions bursting!
4.
3.
2.
RARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!
And then it happens.
One split second before I finally lose, one atomic instant before I, the Two-Time, the most dominant gaming superstar ever, experience failure for the very first time, a single bolt of lightning crashes down from the sky.
It slices through the air, cuts through the black of night, and strikes me. Electrifies every athletic molecule, ignites every devastating follicle, and irradiates the essence of my being.
And just like that, the Doc disappears. Vanishes.
Never to be seen again.
EPILOGUE FROM THE DESK OF NIGEL P. FARNSWORTH III
Greetings and salutations. My name is Nigel P. Farnsworth III, though I am perhaps best known to the readers of this memoir by the jocular sobriquet “Nigel the Editor.”
Indeed I am the editor of this intriguing, rather—dare I say—unique entry into the canon of Western nonfiction. And I am here to attest, as an impartial observer of the action herein described, that it is, indeed, a work entirely of nonfiction.
Perhaps I do indeed say “indeed” too often, and Doc and I did indeed have our, shall we say, issues. But everything he says here is true in the most Platonic sense of the word, and I should know, because I studied classical philosophy at Brown.
Dr Disrespect really was struck by a bolt of lightning, after which he mysteriously vanished off the face of this earth, never to be seen again. We’ll probably never know the real reason why. Perhaps the very concept of his losing was so anathema that the gods themselves decided to snatch him back to Mount Olympus. Perhaps his indomitable spirit simply soared to another, newer challenge on a higher cosmic plane, far from this world. Maybe he’s just plain dead. Whatever it is, I count myself truly fortunate to have witnessed such an act of courage, power, and competitive passion, even if it came too late to save my lower-hanging testicle of the two.
Moments later, an elite commando squad from Doc’s Champions Club took control of the area, arresting members of the Brotherhood, destroying what remained of the advanced AI Lord Hannn robot after the mysterious lightning bolt from the sky fried his circuits. Carl the Hunchback plummeted to his doom—again—and I am completely, absolutely, and sincerely convinced that this one will take and we will never ever see him again.
Thanks to Doc’s more or less timely intervention, I was able to escape with nothing more injurious than permanent PTSD, fourth-degree burns over 70 percent of my body, a scar in the shape of someone “flipping the bird” that covers the entire right side of my face, a limp that permits me only to walk in rectangles, and my higher-hanging testicle of the two still completely intact.
As soon as I could leave my hospital bed, which only took three years, seven months, and twenty-two days, I took Doc’s finished manuscript straight to Simon Schuster, the head of Simon & Schuster (the “&” is his middle initial). I slammed it on his desk and demanded that we publish immediately.
Yes, the book had already cost us millions in damages, and yes, the tallest building in the world had been razed to the ground, and yes, the democratically elected governments of several small nations and principalities had been overthrown. But in the process, hadn’t we borne witness to the greatest feats of gaming and athleticism mankind has ever known? Hadn’t we gained valuable tips on how to jump vertically, how to illegally drive a Lamborghini for a day, and how to comb a mullet with a switchblade comb safely? Hadn’t we been a part of history itself when we observed in real time an actual flesh-and-blood man evaporate into the cosmic ether without a trace, never to be seen again?
Indeed, to quote the Doc himself, it was worth it.
Well, my friends, the book that’s in front of you right now is evidence enough that Mr. Schuster agreed enthusiastically.
Of course, it probably didn’t hurt that, thanks to Doc’s mysterious disappearance, we didn’t have to pay him a penny of the millions we contractually owed him. And that 2021 Lamborghini Aventador SVJ we bought for him? Needless to say, we certainly didn’t have it repainted from red to black. I think we can all agree that cherry red is a far more festive color than dreary old black. Bleh!
In fact, as a small bonus for my troubles I even managed to convince Mr. Schuster to let me have Doc’s Aventador all for myself. It looks so perfect in my garage right next to my Hummel collection—
Wait. Did you hear that?
A strange sound from outside my window. I’m sure it’s nothing.
But wait—there it is again.
Here, I’ll just move aside my tweed curtain so I can see outside. STOP! Who’s there? Whoever’s out there, I’m warning you! When I get angry I write very scathing letters!
Dear God! Something in the distance, coming closer! Look at the size of that frame, so powerful! So athletic! And that mane of hair so black it is negative space against night itself! How quickly it moves toward my window, how decisively, how dominantly. Thank goodness I’m three stories up, no one can vertical-leap this high!
No! How—?!? It can’t be! I saw you disappear! I—
AFTERWORD DID YOU REALLY THINK I’D GIVE THAT PUNK EDITOR THE LAST WORD IN MY BOOK???
Oh, and the last word is…
YAYAYAYA!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DR DISRESPECT is the most famous, dominant gamer in the history of the world. The Two-Time Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion currently resides in his multimillion-dollar top-secret complex, where he spends his time closing monster deals on his flip phone, driving his slate-black Lamborghini Diablo, and intimidating his enemies with his mustache, Slick Daddy. Violence. Speed. Momentum. is his first book, and it’ll definitely be a huge, massive,
