On My Last Night in Jamaica, the Hooker Had Mace
Editor’s Note: Yesterday we asked you to submit your crazy stories from Spring Break or your college’s big spring party. Shortly after, this gem from BroBerry Pancakes landed in our inbox. We’ll occasionally feature other stories and spring party posts as they trickle in. If you think your story trumps it, write it down and send it to firstname.lastname@example.org. We’ll send swag if we like it.
Jamaica can do some crazy things to the average Spring Breaker, and if you are not careful, you might not make it home in one piece. Well BroBible Nation, we weren’t careful, but we managed to escape a potentially horrible situation that could have cost us our lives. The story begins at 2 p.m. We were sitting on the beach, playing Kam Jam — our favorite game — and drinking some only-acceptable-10-feet-from-a-palm-tree fruity beverages. The day was fading into night, and we were getting ready for our final evening of mayhem. Since this was going to be a more relaxed night, we had to make sure we were flying high and touching all the bases. To keep the juices flowing, we set up a pub crawl among our group for the various bars throughout the resort. The prize was bragging rights for the rest of the night. After a race of three laps and nine drinks, people were definitely feeling the Jamaican vibes. We were still at 20 strong and everyone was getting excited for the night.
Since we had been clubbing all week, we decided that this last night was about just getting crushed together, and enjoying what Jamaica had to offer us. Different things ended up happening, though: some people went out in one direction to smoke, others went to a different bar to chat up single moms, and the rest of the crew just straight up disappeared. It was only myself and two of my fellow bros left in the upstairs “classy” bar with our favorite bartender, Garfield, pouring the drinks nonstop. There was an older gentleman there, around 40 years old, sitting by himself to our right. I overheard his heavy Scottish accent when he was ordering a Red Stripe, so I made a comment. One of the bros with me — let’s call him “James” — was also from Scotland, so we sparked up a conversation. It ended up that they were both from the same part of Scotland, so they just chatted the entire time about why different American things are better in Scotland.
The bars on site were closing down, and we were getting bored anyway. We were absolutely lit at this point, and anything sounded like a good time. Tim, the 40-year-old Scot, had an idea. He jingled his keys, and said, “Boys, lets make some moves.” So we did. It was James, Mike, and I, with our old Scottish friend behind the wheel, and it was quite the interesting ride. We sparked a joint, and were now rolling through downtown Montego Bay. Pimps and prostitutes were lining the streets, and everyone was screaming various things at us as we drove through, trying to entice us with anything they could. At one point we saw these remotely attractive local prostitutes, and stopped to say whatsup. They proceeded to get in the car, and direct us to a dark back alley where the entire local community had their own hooker.
It was just three college bros, a 40-year-old Scot with a wife back at the resort, and two Jamaican prostitutes. Us three college bros took one broad behind a bush, and proceeded to all get dome in exchange for two cigarettes. The prostitutes put condoms on all of us, so it was only sort of absurd and mildly retarded. We were just lined up, all going at it. The Scotsman had taken down the other prozzie (as he called them) in his car and we could see the car rocking from left to right. We kinda got bored, because head with a condom is horrid, so we started walking back to the car. Tim was in an argument with his prozzie. Apparently he had a wad of $600 cash in his pocket, it had fallen out mid-smash session, and now it was gone. He was claiming that the girl had taken it and was demanding to take a look inside her purse. The girl absolutely FREAKED out and started throwing shit at us, kicking and punching, and screaming at the top of her lungs while threatening to call her pimp to kill us. Tim reached out to grab the girl’s purse to look for his $600 and was immediately maced with two heavy shots in both eyes.
“Oh shit,” we said. The guy was trying to get back behind the wheel, but his eyes were already swollen shut, and the girls were kicking and screaming, so my bro hopped behind the wheel. We blew out of the alley and on the main road, where an all-black car immediately began to follow us. We knew it was the girls’ pimp because he had a silver pistol in his hand and was swinging it out the window trying to show it off. Seeing this, we threw the rental car into overdrive and blew away. We rushed the guy back to the resort to wash his burning eyes out, and then we went to go smoke a blunt and relax. As we settled down, we began to recap what had just happened. We had traded two cigarettes for three blowies right next to each other, so we were fine. However, our Scottish buddy with a wife back at the resort had just been robbed of $600, f*cked a local prostitute and didn’t nut, got punched in the stomach, and maced in the face. We just sat there until the sun rose and howled. What a story.