By 1987, Paul Kersey was a shell of his former self. Sure, he hadn’t lost a step in terms of his desire to kill, nor his near-legendary taste for much younger women, but he was getting lazy. Incredibly lazy. Would the Paul of yore have resorted to MacGyver methods when a gun barrel to the face would do? Bombs and booby traps were for the other fellas; Paul was known far and wide for looking a man in the eye, taking stock, and ending his life with verve. The personal touch, because a dying man deserved it. A man’s way, because death was never a game. But as the 80’s neared their end, Paul, though ever ageless, was tempting fate. Bones creaked. Fatigue, more familiar. Christ almighty, the man had to nap, perhaps for the first time. He had to get cute, which was never his style.
So when three drug dealing gangsters, slaves to routine, hit their neighborhood Italian eatery most known for catering to the greaseball set, it was time for Kersey to act. Not with the usual firepower, mind you, for that would have gotten him little but an early trip to the morgue. These were professionals, eyes wide open, and they’d know an armed fanatic when they saw one. Kersey had to become Kimble – Jack Kimble – a nimble alias that still rolled off the tongue and made us believe. We knew what PK could do, now it was time for JK to chart a new course. Criminals still had to die – they always would – and if justice is to be served, our favorite assassin must play with the hand he’s been dealt. Retirement is for suckers. Cue the deadliest wine bottle of the era, perhaps ever.
Impeccably dressed, coiffed, and certain to impress, Jack Kimble, wine connoisseur, comes bearing gifts. He’s here representing a new winery; a Napa up-and-comer set to challenge the big boys. I believe it’s of Sottell vintage, right off the goddamn vine. The bartender, less than impressed. If he’s seen one grape, he’s seen ‘em all. He just wants a buzz to conceal the pain, not some high-falutin vino with delusions of grandeur. He sips. “Not bad,” as if he’s nursing a warm Pepsi. But he’s not the intended audience. The barbarous trio is his ultimate prize, and by god they’ll love it. “Today’s your lucky day,” Kimble announces, only the best and on the house. But before he can make his quick getaway, a familiar face. A grab. That line that almost always spells doom: “Don’t I know you from someplace?”
Has Kimble been in San Francisco recently? Not a chance. He’s from Idaho. Boise, in fact. Or so he claims. We all know the Big Apple sent him to the coast, having taken everything and everyone he ever loved. But there’s a suspicious eye afoot, and it belongs to Danny Trejo. No way Kimble gets out of there without a grilling. Intense scrutiny, as Trejo didn’t climb the ranks because he’s beautiful. Mind like a steel trap, with an unchecked rage to match. Kimble has but seconds to improvise. Think, man! Whatever works, and a quick exit. A drink in the face! Yes, that’s it. A cinema staple for a century, sure to release that iron grip. Done in an instant, and right in time. No room for error, because that bottle is rigged for death.
The explosion is cataclysmic, as it must be, for all three men must be reduced to ash. Because a simple visit to the hospital means guards, and those guards will be armed. Sure, the bartender also met his end in the blast, but he wasn’t sufficiently enthusiastic for the wine, so Kimble won’t miss any sleep. Neither will Kersey, to say nothing of the world. Had he gushed, he may have been sent to the kitchen to check on a dish. A shrug, you’re collateral damage. Because there’s a war on, and we know how mafia hangouts work. Innocence hasn’t sniffed the joint since the foundation was first poured. Sure, we don’t believe in the filmed conflagration, and the men, well, more waxwork than flesh and blood, but the point is made. It’s a new day, and Kersey has upped the ante. He has a new tool in the toolbox, and he won’t be as easy to predict. Most of all, it sets the stage for the killer cannoli of the fifth installment. And that glorious murderous soccer ball.
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