Caught in the Sun: Five College Players and a cartel's web

I suspect it all started with the girl. The one with the face of a porcelain doll, the hair of a Renaissance princess and the body of an Amazon warrior goddess.

That’s why we were in Africa in the first place.

It was supposed to be a simple spring break road trip from New York City down to the Caribbean. Beer, babes and beaches for five young baseball players trying to escape the cold and snow for a few weeks. And for three weeks, that’s exactly what it was.

But then we met her at the bar in San Juan and something happened to us—something that can only happen when you find yourself alone with a woman who makes your blood boil and your heart pound. I don’t remember much about that night beyond how badly I wanted her, but I do know this: when she invited us back to her hotel room we went without hesitation. And when she had us all on our knees while she rode our faces like they were jockey’s sticks, we didn’t complain. But when she left us there with no way to contact her or even get back to our hotel, well…that was when things got ugly.

The next morning we found ourselves hungover and naked in a strange city with no money, no cell phones and nowhere to stay—which is why I decided to steal the phone from the cab driver who took us back to our hotel so we could call home for help. It worked like a charm until he noticed his phone was missing and chased us down the street with his tire iron before Fred managed to swipe it away from him by knocking him out cold with a single punch. Which turned out not to be such a good idea because now we were charged with assault and battery which meant we had to skip town immediately or risk being extradited back stateside where it didn’t look too good for any of us since none of us had ever been convicted of anything worse than underage drinking or vandalism before.

Which is how we ended up in Marrakesh—a place none of us knew anything about except that it was far away from New York State where nobody would think to look for us and nobody would know who we were anyway—where we rented some cheap rooms at a hostel called “The Pillow Palace” (because nothing says luxury travel like staying in someone’s spare bedroom) and took turns watching over our stuff while the others tried their best to find work doing whatever jobs they could find around town.

And that was when things got really weird because even though none of us spoke more than one language (English) none of that mattered because within days those jobs never existed in the first place and somehow our hostel had been transformed into a high end hotel called “The Pillow Palace Hotel & Casino & Gold Incorporated” which was owned by a man named Mr Valdemar who insisted on calling me Mr Malone because apparently I looked like an old friend whose name he couldn't quite remember but who used to live in Massachusetts...and that's when everything started becoming crystal clear because if I looked like this guy's friend then he must have been called Mike or Bill or something else that had four letters starting with M just like my last name...so I did what anyone would've done if they thought they might be talking to their dead grandfather...I demanded he give me all his money or else I'd tell his wife what happened between him and my grandmother during their honeymoon at Disney World in 1961...which worked great until there were three Mike Malone's who died before 1965 when my grandfather finally showed up looking older than ever but just as rich as ever...and speaking of my grandfather...when did he turn into an African American? Why wouldn't he pay attention to me? And why did everyone call him "Mr Valdemar" anyway? And why did he keep calling me "Malone"? And why did everyone else kept calling me "Mr Malone" when they should have known better because unless there was another Mike Malone around here somewhere then obviously I was NOT an older version of this guy! So why wasn't anyone listening? Why weren't they paying attention? Why wouldn't anybody tell me what was going on?!? And why did it take me so long before I realized that my grandfather wasn't really my grandfather after all? That's right folks: I'm not talking about drugs here! Not cocaine, marijuana or crack! No sirree! This is MUCH worse! Because somehow I'd been transported back in time! Somehow these people had convinced ME that THEY were MY GRANDFATHERS AND UNCLES! How could this be happening? What kind of evil magic could've rendered me unconsciousness long enough for them TO DO THIS TO ME??? GOD DAMN IT!! WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS?????? Those bastards!!!!!!!!! They're gonna die so bad!!!