Violence. Speed. Momentum., Dr DisRespect [motivational books for students TXT] 📗

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I dedicate this book to you, my dear readers. Hahahaha. Totally kidding.

I dedicate this book to my mustache, Slick Daddy, who’s silky and masculine and better looking than all of you put together.

AUTHOR’S NOTE I’LL NEVER WRITE THIS BOOK

Millions of people tell me every day that I should write a book about me.

“Help us, Dr Disrespect,” they beg. “You’re the only thing we care about in the universe. We won’t read another word about anything until you write something about yourself. Please, please tell us the secrets of your lore. All we want is to truly understand you!”

I smile.

“I’m a six-foot-eight freak of nature with a thirty-seven-inch vertical leap, the Two-Time, Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion, and the most dominant international gaming superstar in the history of the world,” I say. “Truly understanding me is impossible. Now leave, before I smack you in the mouth with my flip phone.”

They say, “Are you being serious right now?”

I say, “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. Maybe I don’t even know. Either way, I’m never telling you, you skinny punk kid.”

At that point, the millions of people run for their lives.

But the joke’s on them, because the Two-Time would never, ever do anything to hurt his flip phone. And the truth is, I already have dozens of books under my belt, including volumes 1, 3, 4, and 7 of the Knight Rider paperback series, which I wrote in my spare time under the nom de plume “Paul G. Fitzgerald.” All New York Times bestsellers.

Of course, none of those books is strictly autobiographical, though the character Michael Knight and Jean-Claude Van Damme’s actual personality were both loosely based on myself (lawsuits pending). And obviously the ravenous public is still desperate to know more about me.

So I wasn’t surprised when some guy named Nigel called me up from Simon & Schuster wanting to meet about publishing an exclusive tell-all memoir. I even told him I’d take the meeting, not because I gave a crap what he had to say, but because it was a lunch meeting and I thought it’d be funny to order a lot of expensive shit on his tab.

I landed my jet-black Kamov Ka-27 attack chopper on the roof of the restaurant, this posh, exclusive club in midtown Manhattan Nigel recommended called App Lebeés, which I think is French or Swahili or something.

“Well, Nigel,” I said as I eyed the restaurant’s sumptuous neon lighting and inhaled the aroma of rich fried onions and meat, “if you’re aiming to impress, you made a good start.”

He stood. He was skinny, he was pasty, he was wearing tweed. I’ll be honest—it felt a little on-the-nose for someone in the book biz to be wearing tweed. It’s like, why not toss in a monocle and a bow tie while you’re at it, you know? But whatever. So I started to give him one of my firm handshakes, but he and his fingers were so delicate and intellectual I was afraid I might crush them and miss out on my free lunch.

“Indeed,” Nigel said nervously, “sorry about that, we had to cut back on our expenses—um, why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

I snorted in contempt. My “sunglasses” were Google prototype scopes with built-in Sony 3D LCD technology and night vision, allowing me to scan even the darkest recesses of this dark, fancy restaurant for potential ambush by my thousands of enemies. But I didn’t want to embarrass the dude, so instead I just said:

“I don’t know. Why aren’t you doing squats every day?”

“What?” he said.

I laughed and ordered the boneless wings, chicken wonton tacos, brewpub pretzels with beer cheese dip, and a double helping of Neighborhood Beef Nachos™.

“You, uh, must be hungry,” he said.

“Nope,” I answered.

“Doc,” he started, then paused. “Hey—what are you a doctor of, exactly? I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Right,” I said. “You and everyone else on the planet. Now, what’s up? My chopper is waiting.”

“Doc, I’m going to level with you. We’re in trouble. People just aren’t reading anymore. Shakespeare, the Bible, the Knight Rider paperback series—we’re publishing all the great classics, but no one cares. We need something fresh, something new, something electric to save literature. We need you, Doc.”

I think he said something like that, but I don’t know. I was too busy ordering the loaded chicken fajita plate with extra lime wedges, a full rack of double-glazed baby back ribs, and the double-crunch shrimp.

“Um, you going to eat all that?” Nigel said.

“Look, man,” I said. “I’ve heard it all before. ‘Blah, blah, Western civilization is nothing without you, Doc. Blah, blah, blah, you’re the Chaucer, the James Patterson, and the Dolph Lundgren of gaming rolled into one.’ I don’t have time to save your pathetic humanities, okay? I’m too busy soaring with the eagles, I’m too busy climbing the mountain of success to the tippity-top, I’m too busy—”

I paused briefly to order the riblet platter, the eight-ounce top sirloin (extra bloody, because I knew it would gross out Nigel), the balsamic chicken apple salad (because I’m a beast but not a fucking monster), and the Triple Chocolate Meltdown® for dessert.

“Wait, where was I? Oh yeah. I’m too busy plunging down the waterslide of victory, all six-foot-eight inches of me Vaselined from head to tippy-tippy toe, with my bulletproof mullet dripping like black steel down