Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike

by Brad Stephenson

  The website also recorded the call, which put us both in tears just listening to it. The plot thickened when Justin's phone started ringing ... it was Chris.

  "So I get a call from her, and I'm like what the hell? On the voicemail, it's like some scratchy ass like distorted voice. Like they had a voice machine, but it was from her phone. And the voice message said, 'Yeah hey Chris, um, I miss you so much, I want you to fuck my pussy so bad. I need you to fill my asshole up. I miss you so bad, I want you to dig inside of me again' and I'm like 'what the fuck?'" explained Chris.

  "Damn dawg! Forreal?" Justin replied, in a high-pitched voice.

  "It wasn't her voice though and Lindsey don't even talk like that," said Chris.

  "She don't talk dirty to you like that?" Justin asked.

  "Not like that, she never told me she wanted me to fill her asshole up," Chris explained.

  "Damn, hahaa. So you gonna beat?" responded Justin.

  "I'm trying to make sense out of this, what could that be? It's like a distorted voice, like a voice machine, but it's from her number. Like who would go through her phone, call me and leave that voicemail?" asked Chris.

  "I mean, it's gotta be her right? Maybe ... is she out of the country? If she's out of the country, it'll sound like that. Can you call your voicemail from your phone?" Justin asked, while he leans back to hold in his laughter.

  This is when Chris called his own voicemail and played the message, the one we actually left, on speakerphone.

  "Dawg! What the fuck? That's her!" Justin insisted once the voicemail ended.

  "That is not her!" said Chris.

  "You don't think so?" asked Justin.

  "Does that sound like her to you?" Chris asked back.

  "It sounded like the way she talks but it didn't sound like her voice. You know, like her dialect, it kinda sounded like her dialect but it didn't sound like her voice," explained Justin, poorly.

  "Really?" Chris asked.

  "Yeah," Justin confirmed.

  "I don't know what to think of that," Chris said.

  "Maybe she just woke up, I don't know," Justin told him, after I whispered in his ear telling him to do so.

  "You think she's tripping like that?" asked Chris.

  "I don't now what kind of meat you gave her. A? A+? Masters degree?" said Justin.

  "Hhahahahaha. She said I need you to come over and dog my pussy out!" replied Chris.

  "She said I want you to dig my hole out from behind! Maybe she misses your meat!" suggested Justin.

  "I mean I did my thing but shit..." said Chris.

  "The last time you beat it up you must have given her that A+++++ masters degree in pussy pounding," Justin said.

  "I gave her the truth!" replied Chris.

  Chris hung up saying he needed to call his friends and tell them about it. So Justin and I decided to call him back again, from Lindsey's number. Keep in mind; Justin's voice was scrambled during the entire call.

  "Hello?" Chris answered.

  "Chris, you gave me that A+ meat didn't you? You beat it up didn't you?" said Justin.

  "Who is this?" Chris asked.

  "You beat it up good didn't you?" Justin asked.

  "Who is this?" Chris repeated.

  "Hey, why don't you come over and fuck me? You in Arizona? HAHAHA. PLAYBOY!" said Justin, losing his composure.

  "Who is this?" an angry Chris repeated yet again.

  "PLAYBOY! Who else call you playboy?" said Justin.

  "Who is this?" Chris's confusion grew.

  "You got hustled! Playboy, you got hustled! Haha, he's confused as fuck B-bad!" said Justin, commenting to me at the end.

  "Who is this?" Chris asked, still unaware.

  "IT'S JUSTIN MAN! HAHAHAHAHA. YOU GOT HUSTLED PLAYBOY!" explained Justin.

  "Hah," Chris briefly let out.

  "You couldn't have got hustled any worse than you just got hustled. HAHA. You gave Lindsey that A+ meat didn't you?" asked Justin.

  "Hah, what you talkin bout,'" replied an embarrassed Chris.

  Justin reached his tipping point so he hung up and spent the next ten minutes rolling around on the couch; crying and repeating 'He got hustled!'

  Admittedly, the story is much funnier in the audio version, which I saved and will be releasing on PlayerSeason.com.

  Later that day, BJ said he wanted to go to the blackjack table, so David Price ushered us to the casino in his new Bentley Flying Spur. When we pulled up to the valet – a fortunate PR moment awaited.

  "Heyyyyyy Brad!" five girls hollered from the front entrance.

  After they ran up and gave me a group hug, BJ dragged me inside shaking his head.

  "I don't know how you do it, you probably fucked all of them too," he explained, even though I didn't slept any of them.

  It was difficult to keep up at the blackjack table when you're playing with three multi-millionaires. Their stacks were endless and mine was on loan, with each win being returned to Justin, my investor.

  I took $500 and lost it all. I took another $500 and turned it into $2,000; returning the initial debt. Then, I walked away, but I wasn't done gambling just yet.

  Everyone says 'do not play slots', and for the most part, they're right. Never being one to listen, I entered the high limit slots room and sat down for a terrifying game ... $25 per spin.

  Benjamin Franklin slid himself in and I gave myself four chances, the first three came up dry. However, the fourth struck gold and awarded me with a $2,500 jackpot. As I waited for my payout, I walked two machines down to the same exact game and took another spin. Unbelievably and against all odds, I hit it for $2,500 again!

  I texted Dave to brag about my winnings and he reminded me to save my money; a policy I should have followed. When it was time to leave the casino, I blew another $4,000 trying to keep up with them on the blackjack table. I would learn my lesson one day.

  The role I played, which allowed me to seemingly live their life, also came with expected limits. One of them–I soon learned–was to not bring a girl around who is much better looking than their own. In enters "Natalia".

  While I stopped to fill BJ's G-Wagon with gas, I stood petrified and utterly breathless at the sight of the girl parked in front of me. She was taller than most, with long chestnut hair and an unrivaled hourglass figure.

  I laid on the charm more than eve, for what turned out to be a historic session of gas pump pimping.

  "Hey, do you go to school here?" I asked, the only line that came to mind.

  "Yeah," she replied, gently moving her soft lips.

  "Well I think you're very pretty and I also think we should hangout," I told her.

  "Ha, ok I guess," she shyly countered.

  "Tonight," I insisted.

  She gave me her number and I invited her over BJ's that very night. I was upbeat, and rarely did I get this way over hanging out with a girl, something which normally happened nearly every night. Only her arrival wasn't taken as well by BJ or Justin – they didn't like me having the most attractive girl.

  I sat on the couch with my tanned goddess and soaked in the grimacing facial expressions emitted from Justin and BJ's face. They couldn't accept it and I knew one of them was going to pull a stunt.

  "Brad, go get my phone out of the car," Justin demanded, firing off first.

  "No," I responded, rejecting the power play.

  A power play is a derivative of nature. It's when someone wants to assert their dominance over another, and in this case, Justin wanted her to think I abided by his commands. Normally I would have retrieved his phone, but she was different and I wasn't going to allow it. In fact, when she looked away I silently mouthed 'FUCK YOU' to Justin, letting him know I was privy to his plan.

  "If you want to pull power plays on me, you better put me on salary otherwise, I'm standing my ground," I told Justin, while we were alone on the back porch.

  He accepted, and probably respected my point of view on the topic; sometimes you have to put your foot down and t
his was that time for me.

  She ended up coming back to the Plaza with us and it was my lucky night – she brought her bathing suit in the car. When she came out of the bathroom and presented her sleek and somewhat revealing apparel; I was at a loss for words. Most girls have a few above average attributes, but lack in other areas. Not her, she was flawless in every way: legs, lips, face, hips and everything in between; she was PERFECT .

  The closer we were to one another, the more I wanted to pinch myself. A moment I thought I'd never reach; this was quite possibly the pinnacle of my pimping.

  After a long night, I woke up on the couch, the same one we shared together just hours ago, and couldn't believe it she was gone .

  Justin and I boarded a flight back to Arizona the next day. I was certain of one thing – I wanted to see her again.

  Mandalay Bay & Charles Barkley

  We weren't in Arizona for more than a day when the itch to gamble resurfaced. Although it's typically against the Vegas code, Justin decided to invite his female friend along, and asked me to do the same.

  I knew better than to bring a girl to Vegas, so I called Kyle and asked if he wanted to meet us there instead. Not surprisingly, he agreed.

  Droves of potential Spanish suitors flocked across the casino floor. They were in town for the Latin music festival that was being held at Mandalay Bay; our trip was off to a promising start.

  I ventured out alone to scout the blackjack tables and stumbled across the holy mecca. A dance floor, poles included, with models dancing in the center and ten blackjack tables surrounding it. One of which was being huddled by the masses and I figured out why ... Charles Barkley was there. I didn't have the balls to approach him – at least not yet.

  "My mom's in town," Justin announced upon entering our suite, which didn't come as a shock.

  Mrs. Upton was an avid gambler and moreover, a comedic genius. Whether she's intentionally funny or not is still open for discussion, but either way, her interactions are greatly entertaining. A fact she'd soon prove when we met her for dinner.

  "When my mom orders her food, I bet you $20 she will send it back. She does it every time," Justin predicted as the three of us awaited her arrival (Kyle's plane having not yet landed).

  "I'll take that bet," I told him, marking the first wager of our trip.

  Mrs. Upton walks in, draped in white gold, and says hello to everyone while simultaneously canvassing the area. She was quite intimidating to those she was unfamiliar with; the very category Justin's new lady friend Ashley fell into. I knew I was in for a treat.

  After hardly recognizing the existence of the girl sitting beside her son (a form of comedy in itself), she meticulously surveyed the menu while I sat tightly in my chair, reading her every expression.

  The waiter brought our meal to the table. I didn't even look at my food, I was too caught up waiting to gauge Mrs. Upton's reaction.

  She looked at the plate, smirked and began prodding her food with a fork, as if it were a dead animal on the side of the road.

  "Is everything OK?" the waiter asked.

  "Unh-uh! I don't like this, you need to bring me something else," Mrs. Upton replied, looking away from the waiter in disgust.

  "SEE! I TOLD YOU!" Justin yelped, reaching his hand in front of me to collect his winnings.

  Kyle arrived soon after dinner and then came the moment I was waiting for; it was time to hit the blackjack table.

  Only now I was more prepared. I read a book on counting cards during our flight and adopted my strategy from it...with a few additives. I would only sit in the first chair, closest to the deck. By doing this, I heavily increased my odds of predicting the first card to be dealt, and I also predicted the first card by reading the other cards from the previous hand. If they were low, it elevated my chances of getting a high card; thus raising my bet.

  I placed $500 on the table and went to work as Kyle sat nervously beside me with the same amount. Within minutes, Kyle was down a few hundred dollars, so he retreated to the room; this is when my game took off.

  The low cards were flowing like Niagara Falls, so I tripled my bets and after a few hands, my stack was looking like the Eiffel Tower. My $500 investment was now a mountain of $4,000 in chips. However, an aspect more essential than counting cards is having the discipline to walk away when you're up...so I did.

  This same discipline could have saved me if it applied to more facets of my life than blackjack, but we'll get to that.

  I paid off my outstanding Tampa debts to Justin, which he was more than pleased with, and put $2,000 in my suitcase; leaving me armed with $1,000 for a second run on the tables.

  Once again, I placed $500 down and Kyle stood behind me. His money was now frightened, and we all know scared money doesn't make money.

  When the conditions were primed, I struck again. My stack was growing exponentially and I was becoming bolder with my bets by the second. What was once a lone $100 bet was now $400 being played concurrently on two hands. This type of action will catch the casinos attention, so they sent over a man in a suit to oversee me swindling their money.

  I waited for him to swoop in and accuse me of counting cards; I thought he must have known, but he had other plans in mind.

  "Your style of play qualifies you as a VIP member with our hotel. I'm Travis, your new host so let me know if you ever need anything," he said.

  "OK, sounds good," I told him, an offer I would undoubtedly accept.

  He gave me his card and walked away. It's too bad he missed the next deck of cards – my stack flourished to $13,000 before deciding it was time to give up and celebrate.

  I was curious to find out what Travis really meant about asking him if I ever needed anything, so I went to ask.

  "What benefits do I get as a VIP member?" I asked my new host, who was about the same age as myself.

  "We can get you a free suite, free drinks, free food, free limo rides and free concert tickets anytime you come in town," Travis said, standing in front of a golden painted wall inside a room identified only by Chinese symbols on the door.

  This was a puzzling contradiction; I was basically broke with almost no money in my bank account, yet I was technically a VIP member at one of the largest casinos in Las Vegas.

  I laughed about it on my way up to the room, before inviting my cohorts out for a night on the town. Justin wanted to stay in bed, so Kyle and I set out on our own.

  Standing in front of the casino, resting against a shiny new Lexus was a character with slick backed hair, whom I would soon know to be "Russian Mike" – our personal driver.

  "You tell me where you go ... I take you!" Russian Mike said with a strong accent and a devious smile.

  Our first stop was the Bellagio, where I lost over $1,000 in the blink of an eye.

  "Brad, you must stop!" Russian Mike insisted.

  Then we were off to the strip club, but not your average place. It was a dark and gloomy establishment on the outskirts of town; a Russian Mike strip club. After blowing several hundred on lap dances for Kyle and myself, I wanted to kick it up a notch.

  "Mike, do you know where we can get some girls?" I asked.

  "Of course! Come!" he said, leaving me no reason not to believe him.

  After the strip club he took us to, I wasn't at all surprised at the sketchy apartment buildings–apparently filled with hookers–he parked in front of.

  "Girls are inside! You follow me!" Russian Mike enthusiastically said.

  I glanced at Kyle in the back seat; he had a terrifying look on his face.

  "Dude, there is no way I am getting out of the car!" said Kyle.

  He was wisely cautious but personally, I like to live on the edge.

  After scaling a flight on stairs, Russian Mike knocked on the door and yelled something in Russian. An Asian girl answered the door and guided us in, but this wasn't a regular apartment. Other than two beds, there was no furniture at all. It was just four sex-slaves and two beds; I was inside the walls of a mode
rn day brothel.

  "Which one you like?" asked Russian Mike.

  "Her," I said, pointing at the only one who was remotely attractive.

  Suddenly, I was overcome with the same uneasy feeling as Kyle, so I signaled Russian Mike to speak with me alone.

  "I can't sleep with this girl here, it's too weird. But I'm not against taking her back to the hotel," I told him.

  "Lili, you get dressed! You come with us!" Russian Mike demanded.

  I met Kyle at the car, and he was eager to find out what happened.

  "How was it?" he asked.

  "Sketchy as hell," I explained.

  "I told you man! I'm uncomfortable just sitting here," Kyle claimed.

  Russian Mike walked out shortly after, with the silk dressed hooker on his trail.

  "Mike, I thought about it and I just can't do this man," I explained.

  "Lili, you go back inside!" Russian Mike ordered.

  "I know something I do need ... can you find me some weed?" I asked.

  "Of course!" he said.

  On our way back to the hotel, Russian Mike got on his phone and the conversation to follow was yet another instant classic.

  "Yessss, I was wondering if I could put in an order for sushi," he said, while Kyle and I exploded in laughter.

  "Mike! What the hell is sushi?" I amusingly questioned.

  "Weed! You don't expect me to call and ask for it by name! We have code words you know," explained Mike.

  Mandalay Bay immediately and graciously followed through on their offer for a free room. My night came to an end while looking over downtown Vegas through my window...enjoying a freshly rolled batch of sushi.

  I woke up the following morning, packed my suitcase and was, for once, happy with the decisions I made the previous night. Having no girl was better than a hooker, but my trip wasn't officially over.

  At the same EXACT time I stepped out of my room, a brunette with fair skin and an unbelievably fit body stepped out of her room on the other end of the hall. We met at the elevator and I had no choice; it was game time.

  "What's your name?" I asked.