by Evan Sinclair

Hello, 

My name is Evan Sinclair. Something I like to do for fun is write fake fan letters to different celebrities and mail them out. I use my real name and personally sign every letter. My ultimate goal is for a written response back and/or a signed headshot. Unfortunately, I’ve received neither. 

I mailed Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson a chapter from a book I wrote called, “Between Me and a Hard Place: The Unofficial Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson Autobiography.” I included in the package a letter about how I was a huge fan who unfortunately knew nothing about The Rock’s real life, so I wrote what I thought his upbringing was probably like, based off the roles he plays in movies. Below is the chapter I sent, enjoy….

CHAPTER 4

Now that you know that I was born in Nairobi, Africa and that I was raised by the virgin daughter of our tribe’s Shaman and a wild Lion, I feel that this is the best time to explain to you how I came up with my catch phrase, “Can You Smell-l-l-l-l-l what The Rock Is Cookin’?”

It was an insurmountably hot summer day in the year of 1980, and I was up to my ankles in swamp mush on a reconnaissance mission in the Jungles of Thailand. I led a four man group of mercenaries on a mission to assassinate the Iraqi Billionaire, Ahmed Hussein Taleed. We were following a lead that he’d been in Thailand to explore his sexual palate for the young, Thai lady-boys of a small village several miles away from Bangkok. The sick bastard. The thought of him and those lady-boys together made me want to slip my elbow guard off and slam the peoples’ elbow into his chin/neck area, after leaping off a ladder and body slamming him.

Our group was made up of Explosive’s Expert Tony “LeadFoot” Toggleson, Judo Black Belt Randy “The Bear” Berkowski, our Sniper Ace, Sniper “Michael” Thompson and myself, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Between the men and me was a combined 50 years of brutal combat experience. Of course, I was only 8 at the time, so my 8 years of experience made up a smaller amount of the previously mentioned 50 years experience. But still, in those 8 years, as explained in Chapter 2, I had already killed an elephant, graduated from the Naval Academy and lost my virginity. Twice.

Bear looked up at me from his map, “We’re about two clicks away from target.” “Clicks” is Bad-Ass for “just a little bit longer.” And we were two of those away.

“Set up a perimeter! Bear, head north of target, check out the scene with your binoculars. LeadFoot, get those hand cannons ready, and Michael, set up your sniper rifle.” I commanded.

“Where you gonna be, captain?” asked Michael. 

“I’ll blast in, head first, because real men think about shit after they’ve done it. Plus I’ll look fuckin’ awesome doing it.” I said. He agreed with a wink.

Our team spread out and followed orders perfectly, like a group of trained dolphins. Super ripped dolphins that can walk on land, and can’t stay underwater for very long. Except for me, considering that by age four I swam to the bottom of the Marianas Trench to do daily water cardio for two years straight. With everyone in position, we listened closely for Bear’s scan of the situation.

“Alright boy’s, just like we suspected. This place is crawling with guards. He’s even got a couple inside with him.” said Bear.

“In numbers, Bear! How many guards exactly?” I gruntled (mix of grumbled and grunted.)

“Ok, we got 6 outside, and 4 inside. Each have an Afghan AK and two 9mm glocks. Taleed appears to be unarmed, aside from the massive erection tenting up his dress thing he’s wearing.”

“It’s called an Abaya, you dumb cracka.” said Michael.

“Looks like a dress to me.” said LeadFoot.

Just then, the crack of a single gunshot pierced the silence that shrouded the jungle. The Guards looked out and started firing in our direction. Our plan had been jeopardized, but by who? There was no time to think about it, which was fine by me, because my plan involved very little thinking, and a lot of ass shredding.

I moved in like a violent bi-racial tidal wave, bullets flinging by my head, bouncing off the coarse stubble on my chin. I chose my shots wisely and picked off each guard with one shot each. I do this because I’m an excellent shot, and It hurts to pull the trigger too much due to the Carpal Tunnel I had from fingering so many chicks. Bear had started hurling grenades left and right, like some god of loud explosions and shrapnel. He took two to the chest but never went down. Michael was nowhere to be seen, which is what made him such a great sniper, and an even better repeat home invasion offender. LeadFoot had rigged a turtle he found with C4 and chucked the shielded reptile like a frisbee straight into the lady-boy hut. I remember saluting the turtle right before it landed, which all happened in slow motion. If you don’t believe me, LeadFoot took a picture of it on his BlackBerry and would be glad to text it to you for a small fee. BOOM! The hut was demolished. Bits of blood soaked Iraqi pervert dress fell from the sky like crimson snow flakes. Luckily I had grown accustomed to eating blood, being Nairobian and all, and let them land on my tongue.  It tasted sweet. Sweet and Bloody. (Alternate title of book)

The boys celebrated, like every time we completed a mission, with their signature trademarks.

“Signed, sealed, delivered!” said Bear.

“Shoot ‘em up! Light ‘em up! Blow ‘em away!” shouted LeadFoot.

“Whoo-Haw, I love this job!” exclaimed Michael.

And then, silence, as usual. Their eyes toward me, waiting, wanting, hopeful for my shout. But what was I supposed to say? Sure, I’d tasted a man’s blood before and knew what it was like to take a life with my bare feet, but I was only 8 years old. Writing wouldn’t become one of my strong points until I realized it wasn’t faggy anymore and received a Pulitzer Prize for my work in Fiction. But that wasn’t to happen for another 4 years!

But something happened inside of me that day, something indescribable. Like the feeling you get in your junk when you go too high on a swing or when your leg wakes up after you’ve been sitting on it for too long and it gets all stingy and hurty. It was the feeling of growth. The feeling of maturity. I opened my mouth, tilted my head to the sky, pulled the microphone from my cargo shorts’ pocket to my mouth and shouted…

“Can you SMELL-L-L-L-L-L-L-L WHAT THE ROCK IS COOKIN’?!”

And the rest is history.

Literally.