First: Required viewing.
Bruce Willis stood alone on a balcony inside the abandoned Los Angeles Planet Hollywood. Visions drifted like haunting melodies beneath the fierce protection of a taut, gleaming scalp. Bruce looked down towards the decrepit dining room and saw the grandeur that once was: a galaxy-print carpet out front, lit up with Tinseltown’s biggest stars. Matching black satin Planet Hollywood jackets reflecting wave after wave of flashbulbs. All this dazzling frenzy leading into a vibrant establishment filled with gold lacquered dining booths, towering palm trees, all manner of animal-print surfaces, and shimmering reliquaries that triumphantly displayed their captured memorabilia.
“What a time to be alive,” Bruce sighed.
Wistful daydreams were swept from his mind as Bruce heard the front door groan open. Finally. Demi was always running late, and today was no exception. Her cryptic text message that morning had summoned him to a discussion about an urgent matter regarding their eldest daughter. Bruce knew by now that these things needed to be contained quickly and quietly.
To his surprise, Bruce did not see the other half of a once-indomitable power couple that had reigned over Hollywood in the bygone era when Twitter feuds hadn’t even been invented yet. Standing at the foot of the leopard-print staircase was none other than Bruce’s former business partner.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sly?”
Sly Stallone slurred that he, too, had received a text message from Demi Moore telling him to meet at the old Planet Hollywood. Something about a revenge hookup. Bruce could see that Sly had brought with him a variety of sensual oils and a bottle of raspberry Champagne. Before he could properly admonish the mush-mouthed Lothario for trying to sleep with the mother of his children, Bruce was interrupted by yet another arrival.
“Arnold? This has got to be some kind of joke.”
“What second love child?” Arnold Schwarzenegger said. “There’s no second love child.”
“Gentlemen,” Bruce began while removing a small firearm from the holster on his right ankle, “it appears we have all been lured here under false pretenses.” He scanned the cavernous ruins of the dining room. The three aging action heroes saw a figure emerge from the dismantled gift shop to their left. Ashton Kutcher tepping into the light of the dim bulbs on a low-hanging chandelier. An intricate necklace made from dozens of Planet Hollywood collectible pins hung from his neck. Wrapped around his waist was an XXXL Planet Hollywood t-shirt, fashioned into a sarong.
“Hello, boys!” Ashton greeted them with a grin. “Please take a seat,” he said, motioning towards a bobsled painted with the Jamaican flag that had fallen from the rafters. Sly obliged and immediately uncorked the champagne. Arnold loosened his tie and set down the briefcase filled with hush money. Bruce lowered his weapon.
“Why did you call us here?” he asked.
“We are creatures of the spring, you and I.” Ashton perched himself atop the hydraulic velociraptor beside them. Arnold popped a blood pressure pill, not certain if he should be relieved or concerned by the turn of events.
“I’m not afraid of you,” the sagging Austrian mass said.
“You’re scared as hell. Of yourself. Of the body you once knew,” Ashton said with a chuckle. “This is life’s ultimate cruelty. It offers us a taste of youth and vitality, and then it makes us witness our own decay.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Bruce asked, with squinted eyes and furrowed brow.
Ashton stuck an index finger and thumb into his mouth and whistled sharply. Two Doberman Pinschers wearing doggie tuxedos materialized out of the shadows. The dogs were tethered together by a strap of leather which connected them to a plank of fine mahogany wood. On top of this plank was balanced a giant, white metal box that read “CHINESE FOOOOOD” across the side. Ashton reached down to pick up the box and the Dobermans retreated.
“Do you not recognize this iconic piece of movie memorabilia?” Ashton asked the group.
The three puzzled men looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, then turned to Ashton.
“And then? And then?… And then?” He prodded the men with this repeated question in hopes of jogging their memory. Still nothing. “Fools!” he muttered before collecting himself. “Never the matter. It is what sits inside this box that concerns our meeting here today.” Ashton reached into the drive-thru speaker that had played a pivotal role in the seminal film Dude Where’s My Car to retrieve a glowing vial of liquid.
“What’s that, perfume?” Arnold asked with a chuckle as he elbowed Bruce Willis.
“This, gentlemen, is what you have been trying so desperately to attain with all your cosmetic procedures and ridiculous hormonal regimens. It is a magic elixir that will halt and reverse the aging process. Drink this, and you will regain all the virility and stamina of your youth.”
Bruce, Sly, and Arnold slowly approached the mysterious potion that balanced precariously on the tip of the velociraptor’s snout. Ashton snatched it back.
“You’re so full of shit, Kutcher,” Bruce scoffed.
“Yeah, how do we even know this stuff actually works?” Arnold inquired, eyes firmly locked on the glimmering vial.
“How old do you think I am? Go ahead. Guess,” Ashton dared them.
“I don’t have to guess, dipshit. You’re 35,” Bruce answered with disdain.
“Yes, that is what it says on my IMDb page. But IMDb pages can prove to be fertile grounds for subterfuge. I was born in the year 1942. I am seventy-one years old.” Bruce rolled his eyes as Ashton continued. “That’s what this does. It stops the aging process dead in its tracks and forces it into retreat. Watch.”
Ashton whistled again and the two Dobermans reappeared. This time he grabbed one by the scruff of its neck and jammed a Planet Hollywood collectible pin right into its superficially cropped ear. The animal let out a yelp as Ashton took a drop of the elixir and dabbed it on the bleeding flap of skin. Instantly the dog was enveloped with an iridescent radiance. His limbs shrank, his body shriveled, and even his pointed ears returned to their natural floppy state. Wriggling to get free of the now too-big doggie tuxedo, like some sort of reverse cocoon, a puppy emerged before them. There was silence.
“How much is it?” Sly asked, pulling a roll of sweaty hundred-dollar bills from his pocket. A used syringe fell out, still dripping with anabolic toxins. “How’d that get in there?” He laughed nervously and kicked the needle underneath the Jamaican bobsled.
“Ah, the sordid topic of coin,” Ashton sighed as he dismounted the velociraptor and sashayed over to where the three men were standing. “Unfortunately, I only have enough for one person, and no more. If eternal youth is what you most desire, it is eternal slumber that must befall the other two. Last man standing gets the juice!”
Without hesitation, Arnold grabbed his steel briefcase and violently smashed it against Sly’s skull. A loud crack sent the veiny giant crashing to the floor. Stacks of crisp bills fell from the opened case and began to absorb the growing pool of blood. Arnold turned his fearsome, gap-toothed grimace to Bruce, who quickly darted up the leopard-print staircase, while Ashton let out a squeal of delight.
“Let the games begin!” he howled.
Arnold chased Bruce up the stairs. “Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker,” he managed to grunt between breaths.
Scanning the empty balcony for something, anything, with which to defend himself, Bruce realized he was cornered. Quickly, he jumped onto the thin balcony railing and then off of it, onto a dangling pirate ship that hung from the ceiling. Creaking echoed throughout the dilapidated restaurant as the cables suspending the ship gave way and snapped. The famous Disney movie vessel dropped onto the floor below with a thunderous clatter. As the dust cleared, Bruce stumbled out of the wreckage and sought refuge in the surrounding debris.
“I don’t even want that potion, Arnold! I had a good run. There’s no shame in getting older. I mean fuck, I’ve still got a hot young wife and an infant daughter. I don’t need that magic bullshit!” Bruce shouted as he tried to find a good hiding spot. He bumped into the Jamaican bobsled and dropped to the ground, scuttling underneath.
“That’s real nice, Bruce. I wish I could let you go. But without two dead bodies, I can’t have that elixir. I’m sorry it has to be this way, buddy,” Arnold said as he descended the stairs and picked up the blood-soaked briefcase. He cautiously made his way through the dining room, tightly gripping the handle. He stopped to notice the trail of foot prints in the dust leading from the decimated pirate ship to the bobsled beside him. “Listen, Bruce, maybe you’re right. Screw eternal youth: let’s just be pals!”
Bruce could hear the hollow attempt at deception. He spotted the steroid syringe that Sly had dropped earlier and grabbed it. Coming out from beneath the bobsled, Bruce locked eyes with his former friend. Arnold raised the steel briefcase, but before he could bring it down, Bruce lunged forward and stabbed him right in the eye with the needle. Arnold let out a howl of pain.
Bruce snarled as he snapped Arnie’s neck like he was snapping into a Slim Jim.
The room was quiet now. Too quiet. Bruce surveyed the scene. Two dead bodies, a ruined treasure trove of Hollywood memorabilia, and a whimpering puppy licking its ass, waiting for salvation. Nothing out of the ordinary for any one of the abandoned Planet Hollywoods that blighted the landscape of every major metropolis. Bruce rested his head in his hands as he contemplated all that had transpired on that fateful afternoon. He was startled by the sound of a slow clap behind him.
“Well done, my friend. Well done. It appears you have earned the right to immortality,” Ashton purred, dangling the glowing vial in front of Bruce’s face.
“Fuck your immortality, pretty boy. I’m outta here,” Bruce said with a sneer, lifting himself off the ground and heading for the door.
“Drink it! It’s the only way you’ll survive in this youth-obsessed town! It’ll be you and me, Bruce. You and me forever!”
“Sorry, kid. You’re on your own.”
Kicking open the front doors, Bruce was temporarily blinded by sunlight as he started down the tunnel of stairs that led to the parking lot below. Upon exiting the mausoleum of Hollywood past, a text notification came up on his phone. It was from his agent. “All systems go for Die Hard 6. The studio is thinking maybe this time we can get Bieber to star as McClane’s grandson!”
Bruce tossed the phone behind him into the Planet Hollywood and lit a match. He dropped it on the old, dry red carpet. Bruce felt vindicated; ready to start over. Now he could pick up where he left off, before all this acting career bullshit had taken over. He got into his ’68 Firebird and pulled an old harmonica out of the glovebox.
“Bruno is back, baby,” he said with a smile as he glanced in the rearview mirror to watch the Planet burn in the hot California sun.
