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

And it’s all explained in my unprecedented, never-before-revealed fourth—that’s right, fourth!—origin story. Which I will proceed to tell…

NOW!

This will be hard, maybe even impossible, for your mind to comprehend, but in Dimension Quark there was a time when the Doctor wasn’t the Doctor.

That’s right. This dimension happens to be named after the most fundamental particle of physics. A pillar of quantum mechanics. A cornerstone of the universe itself. It’s a dimension in which time, space, and probability all combined to create the most profound, fundamental manifestation of reality ever envisioned by god or man: me.

So anyway, I was about ten and the fam and I were on a fun little vacay, right?

No big deal, just driving our brand-new Dodge Caravan around the country, stopping at campsites, seeing the sights.I To be honest, I straight-up had no idea where we’d been or where we were going, because I spent the whole time locked on my Game Boy, demolishing one Tetris world record after another.

Except for the video games, most of the time I was bored off my ass. I mean, camping? Really? I was a ten-year-old mini-champion in the making. Ready for new worlds to conquer, new foes to obliterate, new Lamborghinis to purchase and then crash in awesome high-speed chases. What the fuck did I care about roughing it?

Until we arrived at California’s Mount Whitney, the biggest mountain in America.

And yeah, if you want to be a smart-ass you might be like, “But, Doc, isn’t Mount McKinley in Alaska bigger?”

Then I’d laugh viciously and be like, “Everyone knows Alaska isn’t really America. Also, shut up.”

This mountain was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen in my life. And at ten years old, I’d been around. We’re talking purple mountain majesty—WOW. We’re talking jagged cliffs with sheer drops of fourteen thousand feet—WOW. We’re talking snowy crags and lethal pines and snarling rabid wolves howling into the infinite blue sky—WOOOO-OOOOOOOOOWWWWW!

I knew, right then and there, as I looked up from my Game Boy—this time dominating Castlevania, another pretty sick Game Boy adaptation—that I was going to climb that mountain. I was gonna make it all the way to the tippity-top. And I was going to do it alone.

I waited till later that night, when we’d all bunked down in our tent. My folks were snuggled into their matching goose-down sleeping bags, me in my He-Man sleeping bag, which didn’t match a damn thing because I live life on my own terms, baby. They fell asleep at like 9:15, because they were lame and old, though I obviously loved them dearly because, you know, they did give birth to a man-god.

I looked one last time at my snoozing, snoring parents, turned to the fabric He-Man on my bedding, whispered, “Keep an eye on ’em for me, buddy. I might not make it back,” and escaped into the night.

My heart was pounding like the drum of a Celtic shaman. The stars shined brighter than the eyes of a cosmic eagle. The sky was the blackest black I’d ever seen. Blacker than coal, blacker than slate, blacker than the mood of my defeated enemies. Blacker even than my hair.

Just kidding, nothing is blacker than my hair.

I began my ascent. Even at a young age, I had the preternatural speed of a killer cheetah, so I moved quickly, confidently, never tiring, barely breaking a sweat, and always smelling great.

I could hear the animals of the ancient wilderness all around me. The guttural growls of the mountain lions. The subtle slitherings of the snake. The ghostly hoots of the owls. But none of them felt threatening to me. Instead, they seemed like kindred spirits. My wild warrior family. A source of additional strength and ferocity as I climbed higher and higher, hour after hour.

The air grew colder, thinner, and although my young skin was already thick and tough and leathery, I started to wish I’d changed into something warmer than my Spider-Man PJs. I was up so high I could see the clouds all around me, reflected in the moonlight. The mists, the winds, and the clouds swirled everywhere. Eagles soared past me, screaming in fury and brotherly awe at my boldness—it felt like I was flying with them, at a whole new level of greatness.

Time ticked by, and on I climbed. The lack of oxygen became like fire in my throat. I could sense my normally catlike vision starting to blur. My calves, usually so supple and springy, were growing slack. My glutes, usually so chiseled and firm, were becoming soft and spongy. My five-foot-four frame, usually so powerful, was beginning to wilt.

Shit, this mountain-climbing thing was tougher than I’d imagined.

Then, just as I thought it would never end, just when I almost—almost—began to know fear for the first time in my young life, I was there.

At the Top of the Mountain.

My energy returned to me in a rush, my power crashing through me like oceanic waves. I raised my fists in the air, tossed back my flowing masculine mullet, and shouted into the heavens with my brothers the coyotes:

YAYAYAYA!

And then, from behind me, I heard a whisper, like a rustling of leaves on the jungle floor.

“Ah, so you’re here.”

I turned and saw a grizzled old man, his back stooped with the passage of time, his twisted gray beard hanging down to his waist. He had a big-ass mole right above his left eye. It was disgusting, and the more I tried not to look at it, the more I looked at it.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’ve been waiting for you for many a year, child.”

“Yeah,” I said. “All this speaking in mysterious riddles? Super annoying.”

“Ah,” he chuckled. “The prophecy said you would be a bit of an asshole but in a funny kind of way. Let’s hope at least the second part is also true.”

Now I was really getting pissed. I was more than funny—I was hilarious!

“Look, man,” I said. “I don’t care how old you are