Violence. Speed. Momentum. Dr DisRespect (websites to read books for free TXT) 📖

and just barely flash some of those funky bills. Wait till he kinda frowns, then laugh and casually say, “I really gotta start separating my yen from my rubles, you know?”

He’ll be so impressed by what a legit international player you are, he won’t even notice that colossally shitty address of yours. You’re welcome.

11. The Moment of Truth

By now, you and the posh slick sales dude should be walking toward your diamond-black-on-steel-black 2021 Lamborghini Aventador SVJ.

You are on the verge of having an experience of divine religious bliss without equal in your life.

Your heart is pounding like an ancient Druid warrior on a ceremonial drum. Your armpit sweat is gushing like the mighty tributaries of the Amazon. The neurons in your brain are firing like a nine-volt Duracell.

You’re about to reach a whole new level of smoke and thunder and speed and MORE SMOKE!

Your posh slick sales guy, on the other hand, is about to enter a whole new world of bleeding out.

His nasal passages are starting to feel a little crackly. There’s a slight tickle behind his eyeballs, right in a spot he can’t quite scratch unless he wants to pierce his retina. He’s feeling a warm, sticky mess of goopy red fluid build in his sinuses and start to work its way down his nose.

That goopy red fluid, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, is blood.

And the posh sales dude is looking at you, and he’s taking you in. He’s taking in your black ribbed T-shirt and your pure-gold-plated medallion. He’s taking in your normally flabby yet recently toned physique. He’s taking in your mullet and your mustache and your obvious mental imbalance and the fact that you had a bunch of what looked like Monopoly money stuffed in your middle-school wallet.

And he’s thinking, “Can I really trust this absolute tool bag with my precious, irreplaceable, literally million-dollar vehicle?”

And before he can say no fucking way, the dam breaks and an eruption of blood bursts from his sinuses. He’s trying to stop the flow by stuffing a fancy silk handkerchief up his nostrils, followed by deli napkins, gum wrappers, important legal documents, and crumpled paper from the garbage can, because now this is a fucking gusher. He looks at the precious, perfect Lambo and realizes the horror of even one drop of his blood touching that fine black Corinthian-leather interior. He screams, “DEAR GOD NO!” and just before he runs away sobbing and crying, in one world-shifting, timeline-twisting moment of truth—he drops the keys in slow motion. Right into your waiting hand.

And just like that, that Lambo is all yours. For at least five minutes, after which he will call every cop in the state to bust your ass.

So drive it, my man. Get behind that wheel, put the key in that ignition, and drive that baby like you’ve never driven before. Trust me—even while the cops are dragging you away, even while they’re slapping the cuffs on your weak wrists and tossing your flabby, sorry butt behind bars for grand theft auto, you’ll know it was all worth it.

And you’ll never, ever again want to drive anything other than a Lamborghini.

I. Whatever dimension you’re in, talk to your doctor to see if your lazy ass can actually handle real exercise. Because in my dimension, I’m not liable for any of that shit if you have a heart attack.

II. This is not my real address in any dimension. I’m way too smart to give out such confidential information to my thousands of enemies, and I’m way too cool to live on Rich Guy Street. I’d obviously only live on the much fancier Rich Guy Boulevard. Which isn’t, uh, my real address either. So definitely do NOT Google Map that also-fake address if you’re one of my thousands of enemies.

CHAPTER 8 THE SECRET BEHIND WHAT, EXACTLY, I’M A DOCTOR OF

Yeah, that’s right—it’s finally here.

The question Nigel the Editor has been bugging me about ever since we first met at the New York City App Lebeés.

The question everyone all over the world always wants the answer to—I mean seriously, people stop me on the street, in the middle of E3, and even at the top secret Ralphs I do all my grocery shopping at, and they really do ask me this question.

They all want to know—Doc, what, exactly, are you a doctor of?

And look, I’ll admit I’ve been a little cagey about it in the past, all right? I’ll admit that I kinda enjoyed giving you all the runaround.

I’ll tell people, “I don’t know, maybe I’m a doctor of philosophy, learned in the ways of Plato and Aristotle and The Secret, with a top degree from DeVry University. Maybe I’m a doctor of psychology, because I’m always in my opponent’s head. Maybe I’m a doctor of jurisprudence, because I lay down the law and then I break it. Or maybe ‘Doctor’ is just my first name on my birth certificate, designated legally by myself on the day I was born.”

Depending on the person who asks, depending on the mood I’m in, depending on the dimension, I’ll spew out a new answer like a fart in the wind.

Why not? I’m an arrogant dick, and it’s fun to mess with you—so what else is new?

But guess what? I’m not an arrogant dick. I was just kidding. I’m a nice guy, a generous guy.

And that’s why after all these years, I’m finally gonna give you and Nigel the Editor exactly what you want.

That’s right, Nigel the Editor, I’m gonna forget about all your annoying interruptions and your corrections and your idiotic redactions of my illegal poisonous substances. I’m EVEN gonna ignore the absolute CRIME you committed, that TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE AND HUMANITY, when you threatened me—ME!—by saying you’d take away my book if I didn’t stop hawking my merch. I’ll even forget that you wear tweed.

Because I’m such a nice, caring, forgiving dude, I’m gonna let all that slide and give