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

mullet through the air and screaming “YAYAYAYA!” at the top of my lungs—for the first time in my life I was wondering if maybe, just maybe, I should retire from professional gaming.

Hold on—did you catch that? Because that was huge. Fucking HUGE.

But finally something was about to happen that not only would challenge me, it would change the course of world history.

I heard a window break! My reflexes sharp as the claws of a jungle cat, I spun and threw my bowie knife.

“AGHHHHHHH!”

There, in the shadows, cowering against the wall, was this little hunchbacked dude with big bulging eyes. My blade was jutting out of his shoulder and he was bleeding everywhere.

“Ow, that hurts!” he whined.

“Stop crying like a skinny punk baby,” I said. “That’s barely even a flesh wound.”

To be fair, I’m pretty sure I severed an artery and he was bleeding out, but still—his mewling was totally annoying.

“Now, who are you and why did you break into my top secret lair?”

“I am merely a messenger, Dr Disrespect,” he said as he slumped to the floor. “I broke in because you are known to be a man who appreciates danger and combat and your doorbell wasn’t working.”

“That’s not a doorbell,” I scoffed. “That’s part of my advanced experimental Honeywell XP-7000 alarm system with laser-powered motion detectors and multisonic trip wires. Strange that nothing went off. I’ll have to contact ADT.”

“I need medical attention,” he groaned. “I don’t want to bleed out before I give you my message.”

I tossed him a single Band-Aid. “Sorry,” he grunted as he fumbled with it. “I always struggle with peeling the little white tabs off the sticky part on the back.”

“Hurry up!” I growled.

He put the Band-Aid on top of the huge gash in his shoulder. Honestly, it didn’t do much. If that blood ruined my black wall-to-wall carpeting, I was gonna be pissed.

“Dr Disrespect, it is my honor and privilege to bring to you a message from the most ancient, most infamous, most powerful multinational criminal organization in the world. An organization so diabolical, so vile, so devious, that the very mention of its name inspires terror in the hearts of all who hear it spoken aloud.”

He paused for, like, dramatic effect or something.

“The name of that organization is… the Brotherhood.”

I stared at him. “What? That’s it?” I said.

“That’s what?”

“Like, that’s the name? The Brotherhood? It’s not, like, the Brotherhood of Evil or the Brotherhood of Hellish Criminals or the Brotherhood of Venomous Battle Cobras? Or, I don’t know, the Brotherhood of the Traveling Black-Leather Pants?”

“No!” he said. “It’s just ‘the Brotherhood.’ That’s it.”

“That sounds hella friendly. I know a few brothers who live down the street—Tom, Jason, Tony. They’re pretty nice guys, they have barbecues, put on game-watches…”

“The Brotherhood does not host game-watches!”

“Really? They might want to. Great way to meet people in the neighborhood. I mean, they usually ask you to bring something, beer or sporks, but I never remember.”

“NO!” he said. “The Brotherhood does not want to make new friends! And if the Brotherhood was invited to a potluck, it most definitely would bring a keg!”

“Well,” I said, “as long as it’s not some microbrew bullshit.”

“But,” he said, “what the Brotherhood does do is put on the greatest, most elite, most cutthroat illegal video game tournament in the entire world… the Kumite Except for Video Games and Also It’s Real. Otherwise known as ‘KEFVGAAIR.’ ”

My eyes lit up like thunderbolts on Mount Olympus. Which no one saw behind my complimentary pair of Ray-Bans.

“Well fuck,” I said. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“To be fair, I tried, but—”

“I’ve heard rumors, of course. Who hasn’t? Losers, that’s who! But I never thought KEFVGAAIR was real.”

“Oh, it’s real, Doc. The last ‘R’ is for ‘Real.’ ”

Guess what? The little hunchback dude had a PowerPoint with him to explain the whole thing. Set his portable projector up right on my onyx dining room table. He moved pretty well for a guy with a hunchback and a knife wound, and the image he projected was high-definition, must’ve been at least 5K PPI DLP LCD OPP. I was impressed.

“Eons ago,” he began, “in the year 732, a great samurai warrior known as Takeo rose to power in Japan. He was a gifted warrior from a young age, trained in the art of the katana and winning forty duels by the age of twelve. He was ruthless, cunning, and he knew no fear. He killed other men in cold blood because it made him smile.

“But his true love was Sudoku. He was the world’s first gamer.”

On the wall flashed an image of Takeo. He wore elaborate lava-red samurai armor, his kabuto was adorned with mighty horns, and his face was hidden behind a vicious, demonic black menpo.

“Badass,” I said. “But I bet that mask doesn’t have any Sony technology.”

“False,” the hunchback said. “It had the latest prototype Ibuka Clan lacquer at the time.”

He switched to the next slide, of the samurai Takeo playing Sudoku and looking really pissed.

“Seeking out new competition, Takeo traveled to Hong Kong and held the very first illegal competitive Sudoku tournament, inviting champions from all over the region to battle him. He named the tournament ‘KEFVGAAIR’—which at that point stood for something completely different. We don’t even know anymore.”

He clicked to the next slide, a collage of various games and puzzles.

“Over the centuries, the games played at KEFVGAAIR evolved in technology and sophistication. Sudoku gave way to checkers. Checkers to chess. Chess to an early form of Trouble, with a prototype Pop-O-Matic Bubble. There were no electronics back then, of course, no flat-screens, no consoles, not even electricity, except when they rubbed their wool socks against rugs and shocked each other for sport.”

“Makes sense,” I grunted.

The next slide was an old-timey map with all these colorful arrows everywhere.

“And as its games evolved, the infamy of KEFVGAAIR spread—through the region, the continent, and eventually the world. Most people think Marco Polo traveled east for spices and silk, but really he wanted the Scrabble crown.

“Throughout history, the globe’s