Brad Mayfield (Kurt Angle) is a vicious criminal who takes pleasure in kidnapping, assault and deranged murder. Officer Dan Burk is trying to stop hist lust for blood, while the stakes of the game quickly rise because of Burk's romantic involvement with a beautiful woman. She is Mayfield's next victim. When Burk's girlfriend and his daughter are kidnapped, the case goes from just a job to a race against time to save his family.Where do I begin with this little gem. End Game is the story of a serial killer Brad Mayfield (WWF/TNA wrestling legend Kurt Angle) who begins a killing spree, starting with a beautiful dancer. An ugly-douche detective is hot on the killer's trail, who begins playing mind games with him as well as on the victim's stripper roommate (Jenna Morasca). Lots of talking ensues, a bland murder happens here and there, a lot of sex and strip club scenes occur (fully-clothed the entire time), and so much other nonsense that I honestly could not believe while I was watching this piece of garbage. Let's see, what else went on. Our lead girl wears the same outfit sleeping, at a funeral, and casually. The killer calls our "hero" in the middle of the night from outside the city limits where it's a gorgeous sunny day. The swat team consists of 4 guys in jeans and t-shirts that say POLICE on them. Um, our "hero" is an insufferable moron that treats his family like crap, cheats on his wife with the lead chick, and gets away with his douchbaggery scott free; no comeuppance. Apparently, the retard child is the REAL hero of the movie. Our lovely director, Bruce Koehler and writer McCartney James (BOTH of whom do NOT deserve those titles) apparently did absolutely ZERO research into how the police/detectives run serial killer cases. It's as if this film was made my young, ambitious children. Here's a guess on how they did this film: whatever budget they came in with, 75% of it was given to Angle and the remaining 25% was used to create this abortion of a film. There is a TINY list of films I tell people to avoid and this is definitely one of them. I don't think critics should be allowed to tell people what to and what not to watch, and I hate being in that sort of position, but god damn, this movie was awful. Bad acting, bad writing, TERRIBLE continuity, horrible directing. I wish that none of these people would ever work in the movie business again.
*/*****
1/5 Stars








A collection of ruggedly stylish wine racks, booze holders, and various drink-centric accessories all meticulously carved from large pieces of timber, Aspen's from a Coloradan who describes herself as a farmer/artist, or, more hilariously, a fartist. Made from solid pieces of sustainably sourced, naturally burled, waterproof-lacquered aspen/cedar, the meat of the collection are vertical standing wine racks holding anywhere from two to five bottles, with tweaked jobs including one outfitted with a stemware-hanging plank, and a wall-friendly three-bottler that arrives ready to hang, much as is dictated in Mr. Cooper's contract. The booze gets harder on sets equipped for specific liquor bottles, like a flat-sitting horizontal piece with a cavity for Crown Royal bookended by two tumbler-sized receptacles, and a standing joint that holds two 750ml square bottles (Jack, Jim, Jose, etc), and rocks space for four shot glasses, which can be used by friends, or used by you to alienate all of yours.
Recently started by a Chi woman who collects vintage marriage and pleasure manuals, Hersteria runs only the best excerpts from a history so filled with sexual ineptitude, it's incredible you were ever born. A few tasty tidbits:












Setting up shop in the former Sonotheque space, this outpost of the NY-based fleet of wild, multicolored watering holes mashes up an old timey beauty salon and a dance-heavy dive bar, and serves up specialty hair-themed cocktails like the Perm (Sailor Jerry rum, fresh lime, cranberry, orange) and the Platinum Blonde (Three Olives Vodka, Malibu, pineapple). Hit this Thursday's Vampire Weekend afterparty to soak it all in, plus vibe to the spinning prowess of bassist Chris Baio, who unlike his brother is only in charge of your Charleston.



