Timofey Mozgov sat in the locker room, browsing NBA headlines on his phone. If he was being honest with himself, he was looking for stuff like “Mozgov leads Nuggets to victory,” but there wasn’t anything of that sort. There was, however, a story about Jonas Valanciunas’ recent DUI charges.
As Timofey read the story, he became more and more agitated. “Just a few open bottle of alcohol? Pfft. That not even crime in Russia,” he mumbled.
Teammate Aaron Brooks overheard Timofey’s grumblings and laughed. “I doubt that anything is a crime in Russia.”
“American media has no clue. Antics of sportsperson are tame, but made to be very sensational!” Timofey yelled. After a pause to gather his thoughts, he declared, “Come with, Aaron, and we show them how it done in Russia!”
Aaron smiled. “Yeah, I’d be down with that.”
“I call some hot women, they join us, OK?” Timofey said, dialing a number on his phone. “Then we have fun in the Russian way!”
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Aaron’s eyes grew wide when Timofey opened the trunk of his car. “Man, do you got a license for all these guns?”
“Nope,” Timofey answered proudly. “When I go out in mountain to shoot bear, nobody know it me.”
Uncertainty spread across Aaron’s face as Timofey grabbed armfuls of assault rifles and piled them in the backseat. “Where are the chicks gonna sit?”
“On our laps, hopefully without clothe on! Now get in car, and we go for ride!”
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“We need stop at liquor store,” Timofey was saying, his words garbled by the fact that he was trying to kiss the prostitute on his lap at the same time. “Then party can really be starting.” He swerved erratically in and out of traffic, barely able to see the road around the voluptuous woman in front of him.
“Yeah man,” Aaron replied, without enthusiasm. They pulled into the parking lot of a seedy-looking store called “Denver Liquor Land” and, ten minute later, Timofey walked out with four bags of booze.
Back on the road, Aaron looked through Timofey’s selections. “Man, it’s all vodka! What the hell?”
“Vodka is only I drink,” Timofey explained, one hand on the wheel and one hand chugging a bottle of the beverage. “Hand me a gun, I want shoot some stuff.”
Aaron didn’t move, so one of the street-walkers, whose name was allegedly “Emerald”, reached back and grabbed a random gun off the pile. “Here you go, babe,” she said sultrily.
Timofey dropped the vodka on the floor of the car and stuck the gun out the window. “Now fun begin!” He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger, unleashing a stream of bullets into oncoming lanes of traffic. “HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”
This pattern of random shooting lasted for a few minutes until the police found their trail. “Dude, maybe you can just drop me off somewhere,” Aaron pleaded.
“I can shake them off,” Timofey reassured his frightened teammate. “If they anything like Russia police, they drunk as I am and hate life lot more.” Speeding his sports car up to 90 MPH, Timofey continued to drink while receiving “personal attention” from “Emerald”. Now four police cars were chasing after them.
Aaron was very close to just opening the door and jumping out when Timofey, swerving hard to avoid a car stopped at a red light, flipped the vehicle. Women, basketball players, booze, and guns were tossed about as the car did several flips and eventually came to rest upside-down.
“Uuuuuunnnnnhhhhhhhh,” Aaron groaned, having taken a bottle of vodka directly to the forehead. Meanwhile, his teammate laughed and hooted, seemingly unharmed from the violent crash.
“I tell you Aaron! In Russia we not even make newspaper, but we will be talk of town in America!”
Aaron roughly pushed an unconscious prostitute’s butt out of his face. “Timofey, shut up.”