Thinking back, it must’ve been hard on the other kids in my class, having to walk the tiled halls in the shadow of a national celebrity like me. By the time I hit my teens I was already six foot four with the baby-oiled body of a Greek god, a fully grown Slick Daddy, a glorious, silky black-on-black-on-black mullet, and, of course, full body armor.

Then you had everyone else. A bunch of pimply turds in khakis and blue jeans. Their midsections flabby, their upper lips soft and sweaty, their faces covered in stress rashes from their next AP Calculus exam. I almost felt sorry for them.

Just kidding, I fucking loved it! And I aced AP Calc because I’m a Mensa-certified genius.

When that weekend rolled around? Man, I competed everywhere. I went to every tournament I could find, no matter where, no matter when, no matter how big or how small. I dominated the Radio Shack Videoganza in Orlando. I kicked ass at the Menahga, Minnesota, County Fair and Pinball Social. And I took no prisoners at the South Bronx Cyberdome, which for the bonus round had an actual back-alley knife fight.

My reputation grew. My fame grew. I grew—six foot five, six foot six, six foot seven, six foot eight. I was one big-ass dude.

But my bank account? That didn’t do shit.

By the time I graduated, all I had left from my winnings was a cool scar above my kidney from the knife fight in the Bronx, the prizewinning 452-pound pumpkin from the Menahga County Fair, and all the time in the world to watch Fred Savage in The Wizard over and over again because I owned my copy.

Now there I was, sitting in a shitty little studio apartment I couldn’t even afford, playing Shaq Fu all alone, doing the most uncool, un-Doc thing I’d ever done in my life. By which I don’t mean playing Shaq Fu all alone—I mean feeling sorry for myself.

I’d always dreamed of having my own multimillion-dollar Top Secret Command Center, but instead I had a hot plate for a kitchen and an old shower curtain as a bathroom wall. I’d always dreamed of owning the most advanced Sony prototype audiovisual technology, and maybe even getting HBO, but instead I owned a fourteen-inch black-and-white Sanyo with tinfoil on the antennas. I’d always dreamed of owning forty-seven Motorola flip phones, but instead I only owned three, and they were Ericssons.

Also, I was hungry. That sucked the most. Hell, I was a growing boy-god and I didn’t have a thing in my mini fridge! What was I gonna do—eat my prizewinning pumpkin? Of course not, pumpkin is disgusting, everyone knows that. And I couldn’t eat my vintage autographed copy of The Wizard, could I?