There is one thing I love more than pussy, and that is weed. Therefore, I was understandably excited when my supervisor told me I would be going undercover at the FBI. My mission aimed to secure the infamous Bob Marley Joint. The archaic joint is said to reveal the meaning of life itself and unlock parts of your brain otherwise inaccessible. 

The holiest of holy blunts has been an urban legend for many decades. The Bob Marley Joint was made by a master jointer. It is said to be as powerful as one million magic mushrooms and that Bob Marley spent half of his net worth on building the best strain combination. Following Marley’s death, it went missing for multiple decades. It was finally found in the home of one of Bob Marley’s ex-baby mamas, who paid her bills by playing the banjo at a local chicken wing restaurant. The baby mama agreed to sell it at auction. She planned to spend some of her newfound wealth on a boob job so they wouldn’t dangle in front of her banjo while she played it. 

Finally, I got a date on when I would be flying out. A welcome change from the stuffy New York apartment I was sharing with my mum. It wasn’t like I was a lady’s man, but even if I did pull some girl. I couldn’t take her to my mum’s home and bang her while my mother is watching the Property Brothers on the Discovery Channel. Things were about to change for sure. 

My undercover backstory was that I was a young cryptocurrency multimillionaire. To back up my alias, the FBI will give me an unlimited budget. I could do anything I wanted. I heard King Salman of Saudi Arabia was coming to the auction. Not even his dynasty’s fortune worth hundreds of billions of dollars was a match for the FBI’s very own money printers. 

I stepped off the private jet in Kingston, Jamaica, at 2:00 AM. It was pitch black, besides the citrus orange rays of light projected from the busy and highly populated coast that likely never slept. As I stepped off the cold metal stairs of the plane, I jumped into a 2009 Toyota Prius. A dramatic downgrade from the cozy jet I was chilling in earlier. The visibly worn-out taxi driver just said, “Bumbaclot,” as he peered through his mud-splashed side window at the winged behemoth. Following a bumpy ride through Kingston, which felt like a tour of every pothole in the city, we arrived at the Ritz Jamaica. A VIP-only hotel that costs thousands of dollars per night. 

I thought to myself, “What is the point of staying in a gold-plated room when there is no pussy plating my dick.” So, I did what every man that wants some nice ass in Kingston would do. I called Andrew Holness, the former prime minister of Jamaica, hoping he would provide me with all the ‘HO-lness’ that I needed right now. Andrew quickly picked up and invited me to what he called the Bone Zone. There he presented me with a lineup of the hoes that I could have. Mr. Holness had everything, from strippers, porn stars, beautiful black girls, and even the cab driver that dropped me off at the hotel. I guess giving people rides around Kingston wasn’t the only riding he was doing for a living. 

Anyway, I went with this native Kingston girl that looked like Lindsay Lohan on crack. I swiped my American Express card to get some membership rewards. Unfortunately, I only had an unlimited budget for the duration of the mission. Her pubes resembled a ganja field. She told me that her name was Bugsy and that she dreamed of one day moving to New York where she could rent a shoebox for $4,000 a month. 

It was fun, but I had to get down to business. I was worried that my mum would make me pay half the rent. Therefore, I needed to make sure that I completed my secret mission. I put on my James Bond-esque suit and bow tie combo before heading out. However, before I would do any work, I was lured in by some fat ass. It was wrapped up in a luxurious silky robe. I shouted out, “Damn girl, where did you get all that ass?” Then the ‘girl’ turned around, and she had a thick black dry beard. It was King Salman! 

To my astonishment, King Salman was on his way to the beachside restaurant where the auction was taking place. Juicy King Salman was surrounded by 35 wives, but none had junk in the trunk like him. To my surprise, I also saw Pope Francis. I guess when he was giving speeches about saving extinct animals, he had fat roaches in mind. Other famous faces included Xi Jinping wearing a Rasta costume, Jimi Hendrix pretending that he is actually dead, and Mark Zuckerberg getting advice from Kim Jong-Un on how to treat his employees. 

I pushed through the thick crowd up the spiral stairs tightly aligned on both sides of the restaurant. I was still thinking about King Salman’s ass. I got to the attic and went up a ladder to the roof that verged to the see-through glass dome of the restaurant. And I found a rope that Mark Zuckerberg used to tie up his wife so she couldn’t escape. Carefully, I stepped over the metal frames of the roof that held the large pieces of glass in place. A semi-circle formed from the crowd of rich bastards around the bulletproof glass holding the Bob Marley Joint. Sexy Samurai Babes removed the coverings and stood firmly around as the auctioneer rattled off the bids. 

Now was my time to strike. I tied the rope to the decorative pole sticking out from the tip of the dome and jumped down through the glass. I used all 3 hours of my FBI training, due to Republican budget cuts and slid down the rope elegantly before landing on my feet. The Samurai Chicks had no idea what was happening. Before they knew it, I had grabbed the world’s most expensive joint and dashed down the hall leading to the garden. Sounds of shock and amazement were coming from behind me like a tsunami. 

Outrunning the Samurai Chicks would be futile. After running past three rows of doors, I jumped into a room before locking the door. Sitting in front of a wardrobe blocking the entrance, I was breathing heavily and could feel my hands shaking from stress. I knew I had no choice but to take a few hits of the Bob Marley Joint to figure out what to do next. After doing so, my mind raced frantically. Suddenly, I had the brilliant idea of pulling down the chandelier above me. This opened a hole big enough for me to climb through. 

I was now in another room on the second floor. I had to be quick. I jumped out of the balcony into the palatial garden. Dashing through newly planted trees and lush bushes, doing everything to get away from my pursuers. I generally love being pursued by hot bitches but not in this way. Suddenly, I felt a precise kick to my right foot. I tumbled and could see one of the Samurai Broads standing above me with a katana raised above her head, ready to strike. “Game Over,” I thought to myself. Then out of nowhere, Bugsy, the girl I had slept with the day prior, body-slammed my adversary. Bugsy cracked her neck and turned to face me. I told her, “You will always be one of my top 10,000 hoes.” I ran into the busy street to get away as she stood sturdy against the oncoming horde of people racing towards her.