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

saw that!” I said. “Your fucking hands are sweating!”

“Hey, watch the language!” his mom shouted from the back.

“Sorry, Mrs. C!” I called.

Then to him: “Honestly, I have no idea what your mom’s name is, but I was feeling ‘Mrs. C’ so I just went with it. Hey, does that stringy thin mustache of yours just look like pubes, or did you actually have that, like, surgically transplanted from your nether region?”

This guy got so annoyed, he actually reached up to check his damn mustache—and at that moment I caught him with an uppercut that sent him flying, blood spurting and spraying everywhere.

“FINISH HIM!” the announcer commanded.

And that’s what I did.

I’d won the first round, but I still had to win another to get best out of three. And then, yeah, I went and lost round two.

Don’t ask for details. There’s nothing interesting about losing.

“I meant to lose that one,” I said, smirking. “Seriously, I totally did. I just did it to mess with ya.”

And you know what? I said it so seriously, with such amazing, ridiculous confidence, with such massive, gigantic ten-year-old balls, that somewhere deep down I could tell he believed me. Shit, I almost believed myself.

“More speed! More violence! More intensity! More momentum!” I bellowed.

Round three had started, and now I was just yelling stuff because I liked the way it felt.

“More RPM! More revolutions per minute! Per mullet! Per majesty! Pure SPEEEEEEEED!”

People were starting to worry about my sanity. But fuck it, this was the new me—and it was working. I thought Sensei Billy’s eyeballs just might pop out of his pimply head.

“MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE!” I demanded.

And then, right when he was most distracted, right when he was most confused, right when he was about to diarrhea in his sweatpants, I took my shot. I unleashed Raiden’s flying-torpedo move.

“Wajeee wajaa jayyyyy!” Raiden screamed as he shot through the air.

(Some claim he’s saying “Your mother’s from LA!” or “Get back in the car!” Others say it’s Japanese. But they’re all idiots and I’m right.)

Sensei Billy tried desperately to block me—but he was a tenth of a second too late.

Raiden slammed into Sub-Zero, smashing him into the wall. Sub-Zero stumbled, dizzy, and I hit him with the flying torpedo again and again.

“FINISH HIM!” the announcer commanded.

But this very last time, I held back. I decided not to use Raiden’s fatality, because I’m a gracious opponent and classy sportsman.

Totally kidding!

I blasted Sub-Zero’s head into a billion little pieces, reached my hands up to the sky, and shot lighting at the gods with a final mighty shout.

“Fuck,” Sensei Billy said.

“Talk, talk, talk,” I said. “All that matters is victory.” It was ironic because of before.

The crowd cheered, obviously. They wanted to lift me on their shoulders but I didn’t think it would look cool. Sensei Billy sighed, ran his switchblade comb through his dirty hair one last time, and handed it to me.

“You were the son I never had,” he said. “Or at least the son I shouldn’t have until I can support myself financially. Now go and never come back.”

I took the comb, shrugged, and turned to leave. I was done with this place. I had bigger, better things to dominate.

“Wait!” he said. “I never did get your name.”

“Really?” I said, stopping. “After all this time?”

“Kinda weird, right?” he said.

“The name,” I said, “is Dr Disrespect.”

For some weird, supernatural reason there was this amazing, badass reverb when I said it. So it sounded like:

“The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”

“Cool echo noise,” Sensei Billy said.

“I know,” I said.

I gave him a firm handshake. When all was said and done, he had been a worthy competitor.

Then I went home and immediately washed that damn comb—like literally boiled it in Mr. Clean—because, man, his hair was filthy. It’s the same switchblade comb I use to this day. At least in Dimension R.

And just like that, the Doctor was born.

MY ORIGIN IN DIMENSION #;K@1}`

So yeah, my Dimension #;K@1}` origin is pretty simple, all right?

I was born on this dying alien planet, and my parents launched me into space right before the whole place exploded. Then I landed on Earth and was adopted by these really, really rich parents who were both killed by these robbers in a dark alley after the opera, then I got bit by a radioactive spider, then my uncle got murdered by another robber when I was giving pro wrestling a try. Then I went to this secret island called Themychlamydia, where I was the daughter of Hippolyta with a cool prototype lasso, and I had the violence of Athena and the speed of Aphrodite and the momentum of Hera, and then I got this green power ring from some alien dude. Oh yeah, and I could talk to fish and I was all ripped and muscly and Hawaiian and spoke fluent Dothraki.

Then I was like:

“The name is Dr Disrespect.”

Except for some weird, supernatural reason that I totally couldn’t guess or understand, it had this badass reverb when I said it. So it sounded like:

“The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”

And with that, the Doctor was born.

I. Maybe you even heard of another origin story where I got my start in a small room with an old 1800s antique desk and a $300 Hewlett-Packard computer. Did it happen? Did it not happen? Is any of this real? OF COURSE IT IS. Every. Last. Word. Boom—that was just a fourth dimension. Yeah, try to keep up.

CHAPTER 2 LET’S SET A RECORD, BABY!

Did you think this was gonna be one of those stupid old-school books where you just sit around and do passive things like “read words” and “be entertained”?

Because if you did, you should probably just close this book and go back to your simple sheeplike life of grazing the tasty fields of mediocrity right now.

On second thought, I don’t want you returning the book for a refund. I mean, let’s not get crazy here.

But you should know that what we’re