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

I’ll be up there in the clouds, blowing shit up, combing Slick Daddy before my close-up, and emailing your lawyers all of my ridiculous contract demands.”

I turned and started climbing back into the cockpit of my Kamov Ka-27 Helix.

“Wait!” George Lukas shouted. “Wait!”

I paused, barely turning my head.

“Who—who the fuck are you?”

I pulled down my 3D prototype specs, and for the first time I looked him in the eye.

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

With the subtle wrigglings of a snake, I slid behind the control panel of my chopper.

George Lukas called after me, “Huh? I couldn’t understand you with all that reverb! Wait—there’s paperwork and W-9s and liability waivers! Don’t you want your script?”

Details. Maybe important to lesser men, but not to me. As my Kamov Ka-27 rose into the hot, smoky air, one sound rang out above the rumble of the engines, the whir of the blades, and the thumping bass of my own blasting theme music:

“Yayayaya!”

Anyway, I completely destroyed the shoot in two days.

Turned out these pussies wanted me to use fake ammo, fake air-to-surface missiles, fake cluster bombs, fake napalm—fake fake fake fake—for all my action scenes. I mean, the Doc doesn’t fake anything, man. And he definitely doesn’t fake high-tech mass destruction.

So I told them I’d fake it. Then I used the real stuff anyway.

All the cameras? Demolished. All the trailers? Obliterated. Mark-Paul Gosselaar? MIA. And the pissing Cupids? Pretty sure they pissed themselves in the split second before I incinerated them with my multi-warhead hypersonic missiles.

I had to pay for it all, which was fine, because I’m rich. And George Lukas was pretty pissed at me. Might’ve had something to do with the arm he lost, maybe. But it was all totally worth it. I had a hell of a good time. And guess what?

The few hours of footage they shot before I blew the shit out of everything ended up being the biggest hit in the history of Snapchat. Got a couple billion views. Won a dozen Webbys, whatever those are, plus five Emmys, all for special effects and hair and mustache styling. Got nominated for an Oscar but didn’t win—which I count as a win because we weren’t even a movie.

And just like that, same as in the rest of my life, I was a champion. A Hollywood megastar.

I got hired to star in the new(est) Knight Rider movie for this smash-hit new platform called Quibi. Bankrupted the whole operation when I blew up their entire fleet of advanced, talking AI Lamborghini Huracáns on the very first day.

I mean, what did they expect? Everyone knows I only drive black. So what if they were billion-dollar cars with next-gen 6G quantum-computing techno-brains that may have qualified as sentient beings and/or taken over the world like Skynet in The Terminator. They were all fucking red. They deserved to be eviscerated!

Then I got cast in—and became the only star in—The Expendables 7: Rise of the Doc. I say “the only star” because as soon as they found out I was gonna be in their little movie, Stallone, Schwarzenegger, and Statham all bailed because they knew I’d make ’em look like a bunch of skinny punks.

That one actually started out okay—it was gonna be this nice, sweet family film about the Expendables (me) overthrowing the democratically elected Nicaraguan government and installing an American puppet regime (also me). But then everyone got pissed when I really did overthrow the Nicaraguan government, not to mention Colombia’s and Peru’s, just for shits and giggles.

I’m not an unreasonable megastar, so I bought brand-new PlayStation 5s for the entire populace of each country, and that seemed to smooth things over for a sec. But then it went to shit all over again when I told the director he’d have to ditch the title The Expendables—because the Two-Time clearly is irreplaceable. Just wasn’t believable, you know?

Anyway, both Knight Rider: The Fall of Quibi and The Mustachables 7: Rise of the Doc still ended up being huge blockbusters. The people want what they want, you know? And what the people want is real destruction, real dominance, real athleticism, real onyx-black mullets. Even if that means I have to bruise a few egos, bankrupt a few companies, and blow up a few small countries to get it done, all right? Because what the people want is Dr Disrespect.

I understood that, and soon the entertainment industry—or “the Biz of Show,” as we insiders call it—did too.

I built myself a swanky new complex in the Hollywood Hills—to make room, I had to tear down Vin Diesel’s mansion and Jet Li’s and the Rock’s, but none of them seemed to mind once they realized how much taller I am.

I was the main draw at all the red carpets. I hosted exclusive invitation-only Call of Duty battle royales at my pad with all the biggest A-list stars—Dolph Lundgren, Wesley Snipes, Billy Zane, Stephen Dorff, Michael Madsen, Jean-Claude Van Damme—and a couple times I even let Billy Zane almost win, just for fun. Hell, JCVD moved into my guesthouse and I didn’t even know about it for five weeks—my estate is so damn huge I’d never even seen my guesthouse.

It was a fucking blast. For a while, anyway.

But it got stale real quick.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get any of the red carpets changed to black. Which, I mean, unacceptable. Billy Zane got mad when he found out I was only letting him almost-win, and then he got super mad when I wouldn’t hire him to play my chauffeur in The Mustachables 9: Slick Daddy’s Revenge. And JCVD and Razor Frank did not get along. JCVD was a toilet-paper-under guy and Razor Frank was strictly toilet-paper-over. I mean, unforgivable.

JCVD is a tough guy and all, but they don’t call him Razor Frank for nothing. Meaning he will cut your punk face with a razor blade if he doesn’t like the way you hang your TP. I felt so bad for JCVD I gave him the chauffeur part.

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