Escaping Handcuffs in Mexico
*So this story hails from a bro of a bro of a bro of mine, he's great story teller, trust me read this.*
This is the story of how Jesus saved me from getting ass-pounded in a Jalisco state prison by a corrupt mexican cop, with a mustache, named Enrique.
The night was off to an auspicious start when the Dow Jones gained 6%. The natural response to this, clearly, was to throw a champagne party. So I went with my Norwegian friend, Älferd, to the store to pick up some frozen strawberries a 550 peso bottle of Moet and Chandon. We were going to buy some Mexican coke, pick up a couple strippers, and turn our hostel full of hippies and an Aztec warrior named Reuven who spoke Hebrew (another story) into Wall Street 1986. This was before we stumbled across the 80 peso (6 dollar) bottles of Chambrulé, probably brewed in some Baja California bathtub. Since finance is fucked anyway, I reluctantly gave up the Moet and decided to go local. I bought six bottles and glass champagne flutes to celebrate the occasion in style.
>>>
Since NAFTA is the laughing stock of modern economic diplomacy, Mexico is dirt poor. But for some reason my hostel had a set of enormous JBL speakers installed on the roof. Probably financed by my hostel’s side business of growing marijuana plants. On the roof, the hippes and Hebrew Aztec were stoned out of their minds, listening to Bob Marley, and talking about how “hella rad” it was that Capricorns and Scorpios were getting along so well tonight because of the full moon. Quite enough. I got my ipod out and started blasting some serious electro.
A few bottles of champagne deep and encouraged by Armin van Buuren, I fucking owned that city. Just to show everybody how baller I was, I threw one of the unopened bottles off the roof. Before getting into the taxi, a very Aryan Alferd and I smashed the champagne glasses, just for good measure, shouting “Mazel Tov, Motherfucker.” Mexico is, by the way, the most Catholic country ever.
Things pretty much went downhill from there.
As I stumbled home from the club a few hours later, I decided it was a good idea to take a piss off a suspension bridge into a little stream. On reflection, that probably wasn’t the most courteous thing to do given that I saw a couple Mexican children bathing in it the day before. Not to mention, it’s probably my hostel’s primary water source. This is where our friend Enrique enters the story.
I go to zip up my pants to find the good officer waving handcuffs in my face and shouting, “vamos al carcel, amigo!” Translation: you are going to prisÒn buddy. The rest of our exchange takes place in Spanish, which I can speak strikingly well after 12 drinks. He blatanly wants a bribe, so my first strategy is to convince him that I am actually poor. I offer him the peso content of my wallet, worth only 20 USD given our masterful exchange rate. He wasn’t impressed. I told him you can’t put a price on libery but that mine was certainly worth more than 20$. I don’t think he got the joke. So, I ask him, sweetly, what (the fuck) would I be doing in the local slum if I could afford a room in the hotel resort district. He’d be better off finding some preptastic frat boy wandering around wasted on the private beaches. A second later, I realized the absurdity of my statement. There I was, hammered: seersucker shorts, oxford polo unbuttoned down to my waist, aviators, a cuban tucked behind my ear. And . . . my collar was popped.
Not buying it, the officer says “esta bien, vamos al ATM.” Clearly, I am not excited by the idea of empyting my checking account into Enrique’s pocket. <<
All of a sudden, I get extremely serious. I look him in the eyes and ask him if he believes in Jesu Christo and la Virgen Maria. I cross myself – hoping to God that up, down, left, right is the correct order – and ask him if robbing a helpless tourist is really what Jesus wants him to do. I tell him I believe in sin and forgiveness (my ecclesiastic spanish is getting a little shaky now) and that he should release me for the love of Peter, Paul, and Mary – the only saints I know, not to mention, Mary was a fox in the 60s before her obesity. Jesus would have turned the other bare ass cheek.
Since I’m running out of Christian allegories, it’s time for a hail mary play. I take the money out of my wallet, put it in his hands, and offer him my wrists to be cuffed. If this is the Christian thing to do, I say, steal my money and arrest me. But if you have any doubt . . . . . I cross myself in the other direction. Not only does he let me go, but he returns my money.
For a Jewish atheist named after two Israelite kings, I’d say it was a pretty olympic effort.
A hooker probably would have been equally effective at coercing Estaban, something like ‘tengo una prostituta en mi cuarto, vamos amigo’ – translation: I have a hooker waiting in my room, lets do this buddy’
don’t know whatd you do once you got alone with a Spanish hooker and Estaban though, depends what your into
I’m no longer positive where you are getting your information, but great topic. I must spend a while studying much more or understanding more. Thanks for great info I used to be looking for this info for my mission.