I thought about my parents. Maybe I shouldn’t have screamed “I’m gonna be the richest, most successful champion in the history of the world and I’m never gonna ask you for money! NEVER!” right before walking out the door forever.

I thought about my old friend Razor Frank. Maybe I shouldn’t have shouted “I hate your stupid nickname and I’m never gonna ask you for money! NEVER!” right after he’d bought me breakfast that morning. Then again, I was pretty sure he only spoke Portuguese in this dimension, so maybe he didn’t understand me anyway.I

I thought long and hard, and I had just started to open Ericsson flip phone number three to call my parents for help, when suddenly I heard a knock at the door.

Knock knock knock!

Who was that? No one interrupts the Doc when he is busy feeling sorry for himself, which is practically never. No one!

Knock knock knock!

All right, exception to every rule.

I stood up from my sofa, which was also my bed, dining table, and Top Secret Research Laboratory. I looked through the peephole and saw these two skinny little nerd-punks standing there looking totally harmless, kinda nervous, and mostly just really nice.

So I drew my eleven-inch hunting blade out of its sheath because I thought it would be fun to mess with them.

As I threw open the door I waved my razor-sharp knife and screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!”

They squealed like little pigs and the one with the bushy eyebrows actually peed his khaki pants! And I laughed my ass off.

“I’m just kidding, guys,” I said. “But seriously, what the fuck do you want? I am, like, super busy making diabolical plans to dominate the universe with my fleet of armored Lamborghini Diablos.”

“I’m Larry,” eyebrows guy said, “and this is Sergey. You must be Dr Disrespect.”

Now I got suspicious again. The location of my Top Secret Command Center was top secret. How did they find me? There was only one rational explanation: they were government spies, sent to steal the secrets of my superhuman speed and reflexes.

“How the hell,” I said in a low growl, “did you find my Top Secret Command Center?”

“Well,” Sergey said, “first off there’s this sign that’s Scotch-taped to your door that says ‘Dr Disrespect’s Top Secret Command Center.’ It looks like a dot-matrix printout with, I don’t know, a clip-art graphic of Nyan Cat or something—”

“That’s a vicious puma!” I snarled. “And I’ve been telling the library they need a laser printer!”

“And second, you’re listed in the phone book. First name ‘Dr,’ middle name ‘Dis,’ last name ‘Respect.’ ”

I looked Sergey dead in the eye for five. Long. Minutes.

“So,” I finally whispered, “you’re not here to steal the secrets of my superhuman speed and reflexes?”

“Um, no?” Sergey answered.