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

case, not only did I not beg—WHICH I’VE NEVER DONE, DON’T FORGET THAT!!—but I didn’t even have to look very hard, because it landed right in my big-ass top secret backyard.

I’d just finished up my typical morning.

I’d street-raced one of my Diablos through the twists and turns of a nearby canyon, coming close to absolute destruction four times and laughing after every single one. I’d taken two multimillion-dollar business calls with industry titans on my flip phone. I’d polished both trophies from my back-to-back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Championships, which took forty-seven minutes, and then I challenged—and beat—Razor Frank in hand-to-hand ninja combat, which only took six minutes.I

After that I’d returned to my studio, I’d started streaming, and I’d dominated Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. Racking up thousands of kills, leaving skinny punks dying in my wake, ruling with ferocity, terror, and intimidation.

All before 10:30 a.m. Just another day in the arena. Yawn.

So I decided to check out what was going on around my estate. Of course I had my walls and my moats and my gun turrets and my genetically engineered super-piranhas. But I also had an advanced experimental closed-circuit HD video system with audio capabilities deployed throughout the grounds of the Top Secret Command Center.

I could see everything. I could hear everything. I could guard against even the slightest intrusion by any of my thousands of bloodthirsty mortal enemies.

I could also spy on my neighbors, which helped pass the time when I was bored.

So I sat back in my custom-designed slate-black Corinthian-leather La-Z-Boy, turned on my digitally enhanced seventy-inch 4K Toshiba flat-screen security monitors, and took a peek at what was going on next door.

I gotta admit, it was a pretty classy joint. A giant mansion with wide green grounds, some big Greek columns, and a bunch of fountains with sculptures of Cupid pissing. Now, usually I would’ve just moved on to spying on my other rich neighbors, but this time I saw something different.

A big-time Hollywood shoot for a brand-new, big-budget TV show. We’re talking ten luxurious trailers for the cast and crew. We’re talking four 8K RED digital cameras, smoke machines, and pyrotechnics. We’re talking hair, makeup, wardrobe, grips, dolly grips, gaffers, best boys, assistants to the producer’s assistants, and all the other millions of mostly useless people you find on a set.

And there, right in the middle of it all, a state-of-the-art AH-64 Apache attack chopper, as black and merciless as death, its sleek metal frame gleaming like a knife edge in the sun.

That’s right, when I looked closely I realized the new TV show wasn’t a new show at all. It was a reboot of a classic. The most iconic, influential syndicated television program of all time.

Yeah. I’m talking about Airwolf.

I was intrigued. I grew up watching Airwolf, of course, because I have great taste. As a boy I’d been riveted by the awesome tech, blown away by the badass aerial battle scenes, and thunderstruck by the thespian science dropped by Ernest Borgnine and Jan-Michael Vincent.

I’d also been a little pissed off. Since I’d never met the creators of Airwolf, how had they managed to copy my look, my energy, my vibe so well? I mean, even at the age of five I was obviously cooler than Stringfellow Hawke—that’s right, that’s the main character’s actual name. But still, they were totally ripping me off. Maybe I’d sue them once I hit puberty.

But life and world domination got in the way, so I never did.

Now, all these years later, maybe this was my chance to add my own legend to the Airwolf experience. To break into the A-list entertainment industry with all its trappings. Or at the very least to sue them into oblivion—because really, can you ever have too much money?

Maybe this was the new challenge I’d been looking for, or at least a decent way to kill an afternoon.

I zoomed in my security cameras on the production’s call sheet to figure out all the deets. It was the shoot’s very first day, and the stakes couldn’t have been higher.

This was the biggest original web production in the history of Snapchat, and that includes Bringing Up Bhabie. The budget was over $20 million. It was starring megastar Mark-Paul Gosselaar as Stringfellow Hawke’s wayward son, Hardtackle. And it was being directed by George Lukas. That’s Lukas with a “K,” so not the legend who created Star Wars—but this dude still looked pretty good.

They were gearing up for their first shot of the day. The first and the biggest—a stunt with that incredible, and incredibly expensive, Apache attack chopper.

I grinned and turned up my audio. This was gonna be fun.

“Hey, Neal,” George Lukas called to the stunt pilot. “You sure you got this?”

Neal the Stunt Pilot approached the attack chopper, and any idiot could’ve spotted the hesitation in his step. He looked like a good kid, the kind of son who listened to his mommy, who ran home whenever she ding-a-linged the triangle at dinnertime.

But in his eyes you could see fear. He preferred the light places, the comfortable zones, out in the open with various people, laughing and frolicking and eating brunch. He avoided the long, dark alleyways, ran from danger, and hid from the chaos of battle.

So yeah, Neal the Stunt Pilot had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

“Um, sure, Mr. Lukas,” he said with his voice cracking, like a soda jerk. “All good!”

“Okay, fantastic,” George Lukas said. “So you’ll be taking off nice and easy, nothing too complicated—then maneuvering past that radio tower, then dodging four drones as scorching pyrotechnics erupt all around you, then doing a straight nosedive at the cold, hard earth until you finally pull up at the last second without a scratch on you.

“Oh, and be careful around those drones, those are ridiculously expensive. But they’re not nearly as pricey as the multimillion-dollar helicopter you’re about to fly. Got it?”

Neal the Stunt Pilot gulped. “Totally.”

George Lukas patted him on the back, then turned to his assistant