The Expendables

The Expendables

The movie ended. We were speechless for several minutes.

“That was some messed up shit,” Dennis said.

“That part with the shotgun?” I ejected the DVD and slipped it into the protective sleeve. Back to Netflix for you, you beastly little film!

“Oh, no. That was killer. I’m talking about the whole thing with the woman. He came all the way back, damn near got himself killed, blew up that whole castle, and she’s sticking around. Even worse, she’s going to reject his money like she’s better than him or something?”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” I told him. “Pretty much I just ignore the love interest stuff.”

“She wasn’t a love interest,” he said. “She was just some other kind of interest.”

I sat down and lit a joint. “She was his redemption,” I said, smiling.

He laughed. “It’s always like that, ain’t it? The favorite theme of Hollywood. Redemption.”

“Everybody wants a clean soul.”

He looked out the window and stared up at the Hollywood sign. “What do these people think got them so dirty anyway?”

“Money, I guess.” I took a long drag and waved the joint at him. “You want some of this?”

He shook his head. “Money ain’t dirty.”

It’s nice to have a whole joint to yourself. Especially after watching a mind-numbing action movie. “I don’t know. Sex, then.”

He shook his head. “Sex ain’t dirty either. There’s too much sex out here for sex to be dirty. This is where porn is a legitimate business.”

I nodded. “You got a point there, brother.” But he was after something deeper. Why did all these people in Hollywood feel so dirty?

“Look at Sly,” Dennis said. He walked back from the window and sat to make his point. “This whole movie’s his idea, right? The story, the plan, everything. You know, the whole time I was watching his last Rocky movie. Which one was it? Six? Seven?”

“Balboa,” I told him. “It didn’t have a number. It was just called Rocky Balboa.”

“Yeah. Rocky Balboa. Anyway, through that whole movie, I couldn’t help but thinking, this movie ain’t about Rocky. It’s about Sly.”

“Sure, sure.” This was some joint. Rutabagh had brought over this stuff he called Blue Dream. It had a hypnotic quality and tasted like blueberries. “Heck, the first Rocky movie was about himself. Maybe all of his movies are about himself. Like how all Spielberg’s movies are about family.”

“All the ones he writes and directs, sure.” Dennis settled into the sofa to think. He’d seen every Stallone movie probably twenty times. That was why I invited him over to see this one.

“You know, he’s like Mel Gibson but with brains and not crazy.”

Dennis looked at me. “Why the hell would you say something like that?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s the weeb talking.”

“Weeb?”

“Did I say ‘weeb’?”

“What the fuck is a ‘weeb’?”

“I don’t know. A Weeble?”

“What the fuck is a Weeble?”

“You know. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.”

He shook his head. “You smoke too much of that weed, man.” He sighed and looked at me with his sad brown eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that about Mel.”

There wasn’t any point in arguing. The weed was too good. I was too high. The movie was too outrageous and ridiculous for serous conversation. Besides, he was right. I shouldn’t say bad things about Mel. He can’t help it.