The fight started easy enough.

Seven in the morning at the White Hill Café kicked off like always with the overnight shift getting off at the state prison and about a dozen of them heading straight to their bar stools. Mitch the bartender had the first Rocky movie on when the twins got there.

“I could watch this movie every day of the week,” Larry said.

Barry ignored his brother.

The guards at the bar, who called themselves correctional officers, griped about work, wives, ex-wives and worse. Everybody got along for the most part. The twins carried an edge on the job but usually lost it by the end of the tour. Ten years inside ate at them more than when they worked at Lowe’s, mental stress and all, according to the prison psychologist, but, at 38, they seemed in decent enough shape physically if not mentally. You didn’t really notice the paunch.

Their mouths were another story.

“I seen all the Rocky movies,” Larry said.

He ordered three Slim Jims, eating the first one in two bites. Barry ordered four hardboiled eggs Mitch spooned from red beet juice in a big jar beside the Canadian Club. Larry once ate a whole box of Slim Jims. Barry could easily eat two dozen red beet eggs.

Barry smirked.

“How many Rocky movies are there?”

“Eight,” Larry said.

“Bet you twenty bucks you can’t name them all.”

The guys at the bar turned their heads at the same time.

Larry spit out the list.

“Rocky one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” he said.

“I win,” Barry said. “Give me my money.”

“No way,” Larry said.

“He’s right, Larry,” Mitch said. “Later movies had different names. Some of them are in those Italian letters.”

“See, told you,” Barry said.

“There’s Rocky, Rocky Two, Rocky Three, Rocky Eye Vee, Rocky Vee, Creed, Rocky Balboa, and Creed Eye Eye,” Mitch said.

“That’s eight. That’s what I said,” Larry said.

“The titles are wrong,” Barry said.

“There’s only one title,” Larry said. “Heavyweight champion of the world.”

Tilting back his Bud, Barry drained the quart bottle.

“Rambo would kick his ass,” Barry said.

Larry stared. The correction officers turned on their stools to face the action. Mitch reached for the remote and turned up the volume to try to distract from the brewing conflict.

“Rambo would kick Rocky’s ass,” Larry said.

Barry lit a Newport.

“Rocky’s from Philadelphia, right, where they got that furry green Phanatic running around the baseball games hugging women and dancing,” he said. “When was the last time you saw Rambo hugging and dancing like that goof in Saturday Night Fever?”

“That’s got nothing to do with Rocky. Rocky don’t hug. Rocky don’t dance. Rocky wasn’t even in Saturday Night Fever,” Larry said.

“Rocky Balboa danced with Adrian before she died, didn’t he? Hugged her, too.”

Larry wasn’t sure.

“Shit,” he said.

Barry made up that part on the spot because he knew Larry wouldn’t know.

“So what if he hugged his wife when she was dying?”

“Like he was a candy stripper,” Barry said.

Larry struggled.

“Whadya expect from a guy with hair like Michael Jackson?”

“Rambo got the Medal of Honor. Wha’d Rocky win, a cheesesteak eating contest?”

The guys at the bar laughed but not for long when they saw Larry’s face go pale. He put his quart on the bar. Larry didn’t do well in a corner. Time to come out swinging.

“Rocky’s the champ.”

“Chump.”

“Champ.”

“Rocky dated Mr. T.”

Mitch stepped between the brothers right after Larry threw the roundhouse. Like always, Barry saw it coming and ducked, using both hands to push Larry and Mitch against the beer cooler.

“Jesus Christ, it’s just a movie,” Mitch said.

Barry and Larry turned brotherly ugly.

“What’s just a movie?”

“Yeah, what?”

“Stallone plays both roles. He’s the same guy,” Mitch said.

Larry glared.

Barry grit his teeth.

“Sylvester Stallone is an actor,” Mitch said. “He’s the leading man in both movies. He’s Rocky and Rambo.”

“Yeah, right, Rocky and Rambo are the same person,” Larry said.

“Yeah, right,” Barry said.

Catching his breath, Mitch went behind the bar, pulled two fresh quarts from the cooler, opened the bottles and set them in front of Larry’s Slim Jims and Barry’s Newports. These two spent more money on beer in a month than Mitch spent on rent. Despite disagreements, customer service still meant something at the White Hill Café.

 “On me,” Mitch said.

Like longtime residents in the Smithsonian primate exhibit, Larry and Barry instinctively went for the treat.

“The Flintstones are on channel 55 at 8:30,” Larry said.

“Barney takes way too much shit from Fred,” Barry said. “He ought to smack him.”

“Yeah, smack the piss out of him,” Larry said. “Trade you a Slim Jim for a smoke?”

“I thought you quit,” Barry said.

Both men looked at the TV where cave baby Bam Bam was pounding a boulder into pieces with his club. Mitch stood holding the remote, smiling from behind the bar. Larry and Barry laughed so hard they had to hold on to each other.