Spring Breakers Would Break Me

Spoiler alert. This article contains elements or reimaginations from the film.
Content warning: Graphic violence, substance abuse and sexuality

Being surrounded by an abundance of sex, drugs, and proverbial rock and roll sounds like a dream. Imagine this: starting your morning with a beer-bong in hand on a hot summer beach, splashing in a crystal-blue ocean to cool off and ending the night in a neon oasis surrounded by half-cut partygoers who, much like yourself, are ready to throw their inhibitions out the window. The air smells of sensuality and weed, your body feels like jello and your frequency is tuned to operate at a different level. Welcome to Spring Break.

A smorgasbord of LSD, ecstasy, cocaine, and cannabis is available under every rooftop with some goon ready to shove it all down your throat, into your lungs or up your nose. For a full week, life is one big party where you get to explore, experiment, relax and relapse with no qualms about the repercussions. That’s for your future self to worry about. Right now, it's all about living in the moment. And this moment is bliss. 

Fast forward. You’re drenched in sweat, the sun is scorching and your head pounds like a bottle of Jack Daniels over your skull again and again and again. You’ve vomited in your mouth, the taste of liquor, pizza and pretzels curdles at the back of your throat. You swallow it back so as not to make a mess. All you want to do is go home, but there’s one problem. You’re not in your comfortable luxury hotel bed. You are instead lying on a cold cement floor in the clothes you wore last night. You’ve been arrested and can’t remember why.

I personally don’t know how I would handle jail under such circumstances. Being encircled by troublemaking strangers in a cell with no idea of why I’m there. It would probably stink, though my body odour would be nothing to brag about either. I’d try to recollect my thoughts, digging deep into my brain to piece together any sliver of dizzying memory I can, to minimal avail. It’s a claustrophobic experience. “What did I do? How long am I going to be stuck here? How am I getting home?” And the burning question everyone asks themselves as soon as they wake up from a substance-fuelled blackout, “Where is my cellphone?!” This hangover is a horror film in real time. 

But then, a police officer opens the cell door and summons me with unexpected grace. I’ve been bailed out. I don’t know why or by whom, but I am grateful to high-tail my ass out of there.  Little do I know, this brief moment of relief is merely a calm before chaos.

I’m greeted by a random dude who calls himself “Alien.” Immediately I think his parents were in a cult and birthed him in the forest while high on acid, or he’s probably a drug dealer. I don’t think I’ve ever met him, but it’s hard to tell. Last night was a void. He’s tattooed from face to toe and his silver smile glares grills. He’s polite, friendly even, but my guard stays up. There’s something off about him. He tries to convince me the bail was out of the kindness of his own heart, but we all know nothing in this world is free. And my caboose isn’t for sale. 

He wants to give me a ride home. I reject it at first, but he’s persistent. He refuses to take no for an answer and I am the type of person who, especially amidst a mind-numbing hangover, can be worn down. Besides, I just want to get out of here and go home. I reluctantly hop into his luxury vehicle. We chat along the way and I admit, there’s something weirdly intriguing about the dude. He has this hypnotic Bob Marley meets Charles Manson panache. Trust is growing and that feels dangerous. There’s an internal juggle of being avoidant yet curious. 

Alien wants to party and wants me to join him. All expenses paid for a plethora of substances, alcohol and many sensual social opportunities. He threatened me with a good time and I took the bait. Last night was a blur, I needed to make up for it. It’s Spring Break, I came for an adventure. That’s how I’d justify it, at least. Everybody knows the only way to cure a hangover is with an afterparty.

We started the evening at his place to catch a buzz. The outside is mansion-esque. In his backyard sits an ivory piano looking into the ocean. We drink and play songs as the sun begins to set, expelling a sepia hue across the horizon. It’s fun. 

I asked him again why he decided to bail me out and bring me here.

“You looked like the right person to help,” he says. “And I was overdue on a good deed.” My senses might be subdued in the moment, but that answer feels fine enough. 

We head inside to get ready for the night. His mansion is part man-cave, part frat house, part drug lab/ An architectural shit-show that somehow perfectly represents his personality. Neon lights buzz from mounted LED strips, a massive leather sectional dominates the living room, stained with god-knows-what, flanked by empty liquor bottles and a few crushed energy drinks. Movie and music posters are haphazardly scattered throughout the home with no rhyme or reason. Pornography loops on a mounted plasma screen television and he brags about having 24/7 access to PlayboyTV. 

In his bedroom. he flops onto a bed made entirely of cash and drunkenly spouts in vanity. His hippie vibe flips to one of capitalist bravado, showing off his expensive clothes, colognes, and extensive gun collection that decorates his lavish cream-coloured walls. 

“Look at all my shit! Look at all my shit,” he shouts in his stupor, relishing in materialism. His bedroom has a wall covered entirely of mounted guns. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, it’s like a military base. He draws a magnum off a wall and points it at me. “You know, I could kill you right now if I wanted to.” 

It’s happening. Everything I feared. I stand there, cold and silent, staring at his eyes. 

“I’m just fuckin’ with ya.” He chuckles to himself. “You should see your face right now. I have some extra clothes in the next room. Whatever you want, it’s yours to keep, so pick something expensive. I’m going to introduce you to some hunnies tonight. If you’re lucky, they might do this to you.” 

Alien takes the magnum and starts fellating it. Not jokingly either. He shoves the barrel of the gun in and out of his mouth, licking around the bore before deepthroating it. No gag reflex. In less anxiety-ridden circumstances, some might even consider it impressive. He pulls the now saliva-drenched weapon slowly out from between his oval lips. Strings of spit swing from his mouth upon the gun’s exit.

“And if you’re man enough, you’ll do this,” he says.

Without warning, Alien fires several bullets into his ceiling. Bits of drywall dance down from above like snow. He laughs maniacally. 

“Now go get ready, we don’t got all night.” 

We roll up to a strip club around midnight in one of Alien’s drop-top whips. The bouncers welcome him in with open arms. He’s a king here. Or maybe a wizard with spells that cast cash. Either way, the red carpet rolls itself out for him and we walk straight in as envious eyeballs waiting in line hawk us down. It’s not fair, but that’s life I guess.

The club is nothing special. Poles, girls, perverts and a cigarette vending machine are all that’s worth noting. The walls are cracked, carpet torn, stained and sticky. In the bathroom, after using a crooked, half-broken urinal, I see a mobster-looking guy in his fifties slap a kid who probably just turned eighteen. Apparently, the kid was trying to sell ecstasy to one of the dancers. I turn into a ghost. I wash my hands, say nothing, and float out.

Alien introduces me to his “crew.” One guy is bug-eyed and talks in riddles. Another dude keeps a margarita in one hand with his hand firmly placed on an exposed pistol near his pocket. I don’t think they like me, but they tolerate me as Alien’s “new friend.”  I get the vibe they don’t take kindly to new faces. 

The women of the group are friendly and flirty. A cute blonde named Candy pulls a stool up beside me and asks how I know Alien. I tell her the story. In the background, I notice Alien looking over at me, he puts his hand into a gun-like position and “pulls the trigger” into his own mouth. 

Drinks keep coming, pills are passed around like breath mints. Alien tips waitstaff in $100 bills. I’m just going with the flow, but the flow somehow feels like a river headed straight off a cliff.  

Then everything changes.

I don’t know who he is at first, but the energy drops the second his boots hit the floor. The entire club’s gaze moves towards this man, large and stocky. Very serious and dressed to the nines. Alien’s gleeful face turns cold. The man comes by our table, towering over us. 

I overhear the man tell Alien things like “You know what happens when you step on my turf” and “You think you’re a big shot now, huh?” Alien seems dismissive. After a few tense minutes, the man leaves. The vibe of the evening has clearly shifted and we leave not long after that.

A group of us meet back at Alien’s place. He is visibly enraged by the encounter at the club. Lines of cocaine are chalked onto a handheld mirror, which he rips with a $100 bill. He takes another not long after, yelling about how he owns this city. Nobody will be speaking down to him once the night is over. He grabs a rifle off his wall and fires it throughout the house. Bullet holes puncture his walls as he yells “You think I give a fuck? You think I give a fuck?” The women are scared. The men try to calm him down, but he won’t listen. He punches Bug-Eyes in the face, looks like he’s going to be Black-Eye for the next couple of weeks.

Everyone leaves, I’m alone with this maniac, heavily intoxicated. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “It’s time to take care of business.”

I tell him I’m ready for bed and he gets offended. The guilt trip begins. He’s been a gracious host, giving me booze, giving me drugs, getting me, a complete stranger, out of the slammer. The least I can do is this one little favour. It won’t take long and he’ll take me to the airport tomorrow morning. We just need to do this one thing. Fine.

At this point, the night gets blurry. My vision fades like a camera losing focus and my speech is slightly slurred. Behind the wheel, Alien is visibly enraged. There’s a vein in his head ready to pop and his drunken-driving is swervy, yet focused. I start to feel like I’m going to throw up. He asks me to reach into the pocket behind my seat and I do. I feel something metal and draw a gun from the seat.

“Pass that to me,” he growls.

We roll up to a mansion deep in the Florida swamps, the kind of place that looks like Pablo Escobar built it during a manic episode. Marble lions snarl at the gate, their eyes glinting under LED rope lights that pulse pink and blue. I see a fountain gushing what looks suspiciously like red wine. Or blood. I can’t tell. I don’t ask. Alien’s eyes are in a trance, hyperfocused on one task. He’s never said it out loud, but I already know, and I should have seen it coming.

Alien slams his foot on the break, lurching to a stop. 

“Get in the driver’s seat,” he says. “This is going to get messy. We’ll need to make a clean getaway.” 

He grits his teeth and steps out of the car. I slide over to the driver’s seat, watching him walk forward. He hocks a thick and vile loogie, spitting his snot onto the property. He didn’t care if nobody saw it, only he needed to know this sign of disrespect. His silhouette is framed against the mansion’s neon haze. Two men approach like shadows in iced-out chains glimmering beneath the moonlight, yelling at him to get lost. Without words or warning Alien fires two shots. As each pop echoes into the atmosphere, both men crumble to the ground. Alien looks back at me with a wicked smirk, his silver grills reflecting in the moonlight.

“I made them bitches look easy,” he chuckles before continuing to pace forward.

Suddenly, the mansion doors spring open. Several armed men scatter throughout the area, each taking a new angle to take Alien down. One of them runs right towards Alien. POP, the man falls. Another bolts to take cover behind a Jeep. POP.

“That’s four!” Alien taunts.

It’s difficult for me to comprehend what’s happening. I’ve spent the last several hours with a lunatic. I’ve never seen anyone die in front of my eyes, much less get killed in cold blood. To see the sadistic smile on Alien’s face, the joy he gets out of this, makes me wonder how many times he’s done it before. I shouldn’t be shocked or surprised, but I guess the intoxicating fog of the party clouded my senses. I was an innocent bystander with compromised morals. I let the thrill of adventure skew my sense of safety. And now I feel stuck in a dangerous predicament. I could hit the gas and get out of here but, whether manipulated into feeling this way or not, I owed a debt to this madman. So instead of driving off, I sit at the wheel questioning my choices, but ready to get us both out of here.

Suddenly, gunfire erupts from all angles. It’s like a New Year’s Eve of bullets, muzzle flashes strobing the courtyard into a violent rave. Gunpowder chokes the air and I can taste it. A bullet zips past my head, nearly clipping my ear, causing an audible ringing that only amplifies the commotion. Alien is outmanned, but carefree. He waves his gun like a ballet dancer, firing almost aimlessly yet hitting several targets. For Alien, this is a party, for me, it’s a slaughter. But then…

POP. A single bullet kisses his temple. His fall feels like slow motion. His body twists towards my direction, his euphoric eyes staring back at me as blood gushes from his third eye. He paints the green grass red as he collapses. Motionless.

Before I can comprehend what I just witnessed, gunshots blare towards me. Bullets clink against the vehicle, my windows crack. In a panic I ignited the engine and hit the gas, speeding off. I swerve in distress, my hands tremble at the steering wheel. I take every turn I find, zig-zagging my way out of a dire situation, hoping to lose a vengeful army ready to find me. 

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I don’t know where I’m going.

But Spring Break is finally over.