Cry Now Cry Later
- Story by J. Bennett
During Rocky IV, Dolph had hit me so hard I had swelling around the heart and had to stay in intensive care at St. John’s Hospital for four days.
—Sylvester Stallone, in a January 2008 interview with Ain’t It Cool News
I’ve taken to lifting weights with my eyes closed and tooling on the speedbag until my knuckles bleed. Either way, all I can see is red. There’s a hammer, a sickle and a quick, horrifying flash of Brigitte Nielsen with Flavor Flav in a headlock. Then I imagine myself smashing Sly Stallone’s face in like it was 1985.
Yeah, those were the days. When we soared like eagles, juiced like Barry Bonds and partied with the dudes from Survivor. I was Drago. I was He-Man. I was the Punisher. Grace Jones and I would hit the Strip in my DeLorean and slam Absolut protein shakes ’til last call. Then we’d go back to my place, take some poppers, put on Nightclubbing and she’d take me from behind.
But then Stallone went and made Rocky Balboa, and I didn’t get so much as a phone call. Pedro Lovell gets a call, but not me. I had thought Sly’s performance in Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over was faggy, weak—but I was too busy working on Fat Slags to make my move. The other night, though, I saw the writing on the wall. Anette and I attended a screening of the new Rambo picture. When the killings began, I became excited. Just 15 minutes in, I felt that all-too-familiar, oh-so-muscular swelling between my legs. The body count was impressive; the final disemboweling, glorious. From front to back, it was a scintillating ballet of Third World violence and extreme justice.
Stallone, though, he looked soft. Puffy. Droopy. Like maybe he caught Down Syndrome. The sad contour of his sagging jowls made me think the time to strike is near.
Hello, my name is Dolph. Hear me roar.
Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be in movies. Everything else I did—the karate championships, the master’s in chemical engineering from the Royal Institute of Technology—all preludes to my true calling. Grace (my first true love) got me through Hollywood’s cruel revolving door with a bit part in A View to a Kill; Stallone put me on the map with Rocky IV. But now, after two decades of watching my mentor multiply his fortunes with massive killing capacity in Cobra, Tango & Cash and Judge Dredd while I endured an ever-flowing stream of lower body-count fare like Silent Trigger, Sweepers and Storm Catcher, it is obvious to me that the student must overthrow his master.
Do you hear me, Stallone? I must break you.
I have undertaken an intense training regimen, aided by the magnificently homicidal sounds of my countrymen in Entombed, Unleashed, and my personal favorites, Dismember. As I pound out another set of power squats, pec-thrusts or my patented Thunder Presses, I curse your name. As I blast Wolverine Blues and clear another 700-pound deadlift, I repeat my mantra: “Stallone infuriates me in a thousand different ways.” As I achieve Iron Cross formation on the gymnasium rings, holding it for a full 30 seconds, the sounds of Casket Garden stoke my hate. By the time I squeeze off my thousandth preacher curl (as you know, I only rep in the thousands) and the veins bulge obscenely in my perfectly tanned 20-inch biceps, I have imagined twisting your fat orange head off of your waterlogged torso so many times that it is encoded in my muscle memory.
Consider yourself warned, Stallone. Vince DiCola’s training montage will not help you.
The Swede is coming for you. Drago is coming for you. I am coming for you.
And you will lose.
