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Spring Break In Mexico, Cocaine, And A Prostitute Named Molly

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Spring Break In Mexico, Cocaine, And A Prostitute Named Molly

The following story may have had names, places and dates changed to preserve certain reputable characters from losing their fancy new jobs. But know this: Every detail is true.


It was sophomore year of college. One of my pledge brothers, let’s call him Victor, had decided that the usual debauchery of partying our nut sacks off in PCB or tearing it up on the slopes of Colorado for spring break wasn’t quite going to cut it that year. Rather, he took it upon himself to set up what could quite possibly be described as the greatest spring break trip that has ever occurred.


And not just anywhere in Mexico, but to the Mecca of all spring breaks: Cancún.

Now, Victor was one of those trust fund baby types, and he made us a deal. If we could cover the down payment for the trip, he would cover the rest of it. So, after selling enough drugs to kill a Clydesdale, I managed to cover the initial down payment. The rest, as they say, is history.

Four of us ended up going on this trip: Victor, King, Marsh, and me. An important detail to note is that Victor was actually from Mexico, and as such, spoke fluent Spanish. Now I don’t like to brag, but I took Spanish 3 four years prior to this trip, so I know a little Spanglish myself. It is with this grasp of the Mexican language that I now tell you this story.

We landed in the Cancún International Airport and were greeted by a small Mexican fellow named José (real name). José immediately cracked open four Coronas and passed them out, welcoming us in broken English. Victor immediately begins speaking to José in Spanish, asking him at first for all the best places to go and what we should do, etc. Then he drops a phrase that I definitely have heard before in a shady back alley near a taco truck.

“Dónde está la mota?”

For those of you who don’t speak Spanish, that was him asking about that green. That good good. That Afghan Kush. Weed. José tells us we need to go talk to a guy named “Tire Iron,” which is basically what a law-abiding citizen uses to change a flat, also a weapon gangsters use to break kneecaps. Good start.

We arrived at our hotel, The Crystal, which was nestled right at the corner of Cancún about 100 feet from the beginning of all the clubs and bars in the city. It was an all-inclusive resort, but of course that’s not good enough for Victor. He proceeds to walk up to the bar, which at this point was empty (it was a change over day between trips) and chats up the bartender. We find out this guy’s name is Manny, and Victor pulls out a crisp benjy. He tells Manny we will be in all week and to remember us when we come to the bar. But that’s for a different story. After having a couple cocktails, we decide it’s time to go find this Tire Iron guy and get the party started.

We approach the taxicab guys who are all lined up along the street and ask where to find our guy. Just our luck, he was only three cabs down. We approach the cab driver and cautiously ask, “Tienes la mota?” Tire Iron gets a big grin on his face and tells us to hop in.

All four of us pile into the cab, with Victor up front to make the deal. We figured if he spoke Spanish we wouldn’t get ripped off. The negotiations started with how much we wanted, pricing, etc. — the usual details involved in an American drug deal. Tire Iron then pulls up to a gas station, tells us to wait and walks inside. A few minutes later he walks out with what has got to be some of the worst looking weed I’d ever seen in my short life. He passes the baggie back, which has got to be at least 10 grams, and tells us its twenty bucks. At this point we say screw it, and we buy the stuff. But now we need something to smoke it out of. Well this begins a whole new deal, which ends with us somehow paying ten dollars for four rolling papers. Not rolling paper packs… four papers. We don’t let this get us down, though, as there was an EDM festival going on that week at some of the clubs we had VIP access to, so of course we were trying to party with Molly. Now if you’re in the good ole US of A, you have probably heard of my girl Molly. She’s pure, she’s fun, and she’s a guaranteed good time. Well, in Mexico, Molly has a slightly different meaning. After about fifteen minutes of trying to describe Molly to Tire Iron, he finally exclaims, “Oh! I know Molly!” and proceeds to drive.

We are about two minutes down the road when it happens. Dude straight grips the wheel with his knee and pulls out this clear little baggie filled to the brim with white powder. He then pours himself a nice bump on his hand and rips it. With the calmest look I’ve ever seen, he turns to Victor, passes him the baggie and goes, “Hit this.” None of us have ever hit the slopes before, but were not about to look like a bunch of pussies in front of a guy named Tire Iron, so one by one we pass the baggie around and pour ourselves a generous bump.

OH. MY. GOD. This. This is it. The good stuff. That direct from Columbia pure. We are feeling good now. Tire Iron asks if we’d like to buy some for ourselves, and we were hooked. We started out with a gram, paid the man, and continued on to find Molly.

We pull up to the very edge of Cancún right as the sun is going down and Tire Iron backs up an alley, parks the car, and tells us to get out.


We didn’t even make it one day in Mexico. I could see my father shaking his head telling my mother, “I knew we shouldn’t have let them go. All those gangs down there… they’re gonna cut off his cabeza.”

Fortunately, this was not the case. I was going to keep my head. We walk down this dark brick alleyway and come to an indiscreet metal door. Tire Iron does some type of secret knock, a slide opens, he says a secret password, and after a series of locks and bolts are undone, we are led into what I can only describe as what I imagine a five-star hotel lobby in Mexico would look like. Marble floors, granite counters, a crystal chandelier is hanging in the middle of the room, and an impressively dressed Mexican gentleman is standing behind the counter. He greets us in perfect English and directs us into a room down the hall.

The room itself was nice — same marble floor, but this place had a king size bed and a jacuzzi. We position ourselves around the room with a look of confusion. This guy walks in and explains, “This is how it works. We bring in the product, you view it, then we discuss pricing after,” and then leaves. Now I’m really lost. I’m thinking this has got to be the nicest drug deal I’ve ever done.

The guy comes back, and with him is the sexiest Columbian girl I’ve ever seen in my life. The guy then goes, “Gentlemen, this is Molly.” I look around the room. King and Marsh are trying to control their laughter because they too have just realized what is going on. Victor however, is in it to win it. He chats the girl up in Spanish, tells her everyone but King is in and he needs some convincing. She then proceeded to give King a trial run lap dance, with the rest of us cheering him on. She leaves, and a new girl comes in. Victor runs this same game, but with different target, not once, not twice, but 27 times, with women from all over South and Central America.

By the end of this, I’m ready to start handing out green cards, when the guy from the beginning comes back. He tells us it’s $300 for all night with any one of them. Victor swindles him down to $200 for him, $250 for the rest of us, and at this point we are highly considering it. At the last moment the guy tells us to come back after 10, because the girls were hotter. That was a good enough excuse for us to dip out of there and get back in the cab. Tire Iron drops us off back at our hotel, after what should have been a $1,000 cab ride in Mexico, free of charge.

All in all, we ended up getting some smoke, some blow, met some beautiful ladies later at the bar, and had a hell of a good time. And that was just the first night.

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