Dalton runs the show. Completely. It’s his way or the highway. What he says? Goes. He’s a philosopher—man’s search for faith, that sort of shit. He’s not a nice guy. He has three simple rules, but he’s only good at one thing: He never loses. He’s pretty much always better than they are. He’s never really been put down. He’s ready for trouble. He knows nobody ever wins a fight. He lives some kinda life. He’ll keep you in the good graces of the church. He appreciates his devoted fan club. He’s not facing anything he’s not used to, but it’s amazing what you can get used to, isn’t it? He killed a man in Memphis—ripped his throat right out—and he said it was self-defense at the trial. He’s got balls big enough to come in a dump truck. If you fuck with him, he’ll seal your fate. He takes his coffee black and leaded. He thinks it’s time for you gentlemen to leave. He’s fuckin’ Dalton, man. He wants you to be nice until it’s time to not be nice. He’s the best damn cooler in the business, and he knows pain don’t hurt.

When I first wrote about James Dalton, I focused on his notoriety. As the second most famous bouncer in the business, his reputation preceded him. That, and his youth relative to his mentor Wade Garrett, is what got him the gig that made Road House happen as a story. But when you get to know Dalton, really get to know him as we have over the past 365 days, it’s not fame that drives your affection. It’s familiarity. Spend enough time with Dalton and his personality becomes as dependable to you as a granddad’s pocketwatch. Over time Dalton begins to make sense to you the way any of your friends make sense. Do all the parts of their personality fit together neatly? Probably not. But you can see how to get there from here, usually. And the elements that really stand out as jarring simply rearrange the rest around them until the picture clears up again. All the contradictions resolve. All the flubs in the script become endearing quirks. You start to make sense of the nonsensical until you marvel that it ever didn’t make sense to you to begin with. Three parking scenes? Why, Dalton is a thorough man, that’s all. Dumping a polar bear on a guy? Did not also Christ demonstrate mercy? Some see shirtless tai chi and ask why; we ask, why not?

It isn’t really pain that hurts, in the end. It’s the uncertainty that attends pain. How long must I endure? How bad will it be, and will it get worse before it gets better? Give me answers and I can take it. Road House gives you the answers you seek—it’s just a matter of figuring out the right questions to ask, and Dalton is our guide to them. That’s the story of Road House, a film I’ve now written some 150,000 words about, give or take. Doing so is how I made sense of something that makes no sense. “If you think this sentence is confusing, then change one pig.” I did it, mijo, and so can you.

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This concludes Pain Don’t Hurt. Thank you for reading.