Flattened like a manatee by a Hal’s speedboat, the collective had a bit of trouble making sense of it all. Hal’s last dance was brutal to all but one, so we best just call it a Swan song. When the movie call was rendered contentious by the dunce hats, I had to call sh#tcans and E.P.T. SA still sore and sniping from trivia crackback? Zulu chiming in as if his participation was not steeped in past absentia? Dubs and Chair swapping bikes for planes? Kong ignoring us, Guster blaring in his headphones? Shape up, collective! The slog now behind us, the prepack is on, complete with a Sassy’d and hijacked Ben as the fourth at the Sandy. Hey Ft. Meyers! Don’t Run Over the Manatees. Bezzo makes five. Swan and Gato cash in for the 7 psychopaths while SA and Kong join the Hut faithful. The movie is a game-changer; A tack-smart, self-reflexive assassin movie; An undermining double-edged tribute to Tarrantino & Hollywood that simply demands post-movie Beulahland pie and whiskeyed coffee. The EBMB, fresh from the runway, uncloaks in a clandestine vest, lady in tow, toes just behind the transgression line, anxious to slip out unnoticed. SA arrives to pie remnants and a reluctant willingness to slip some more inspired talk under the night cap. Riding south through the intruding cold, I just managed a hijack of the last 75, cutting the icy return in half. Gome by 1:30.