What Ryan Lochte Originally Said Happened That Night

I swear on my life this is what happened tonight.

It’s about 4 am. Jimmy Feigen, Jack Conger, Gunnar Bentz and I had been partying hard as fuck at Club France. We decided it was time to go and flagged down a yellow taxi.

I’m texting at least five hotties. They all want to meet up. I want that too because I’m not gay. And that’s where I’d be right now, if not for what happened next. Lights start flashing behind us. The cab driver pulls over next to a gas station. Three men in police uniforms come up to our windows.

“What did we do?” I asked.

“You’re Americans,” they spat, motioning with their greasy tentacles for us to get out and on the ground. Faikin, Hunger and Bluntz comply, but something told me not to. “On the ground,” they hissed.

Here’s the thing. I’m US Olympic Swimmer Ryan Lochte. I represent America. And America doesn’t get on the ground for anyone. So I wasn’t going down without a fight. “For America!” I shouted and backflipped onto the roof of the white taxi. At 10 feet tall the police and I now stood eye to eye, and they were angry. I could see it in their faces, their snarls, the way they stood and how all three of their chests opened to reveal gaping dark cavities that screeched high pitched howls into the night.

I looked down and saw Flegal, Hungry, and Blintzes crying. “Don’t worry,” I told them, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” And that’s when the wind picked up. A ravenous dark cloud the size of the alien ship in the first Independence Day was floating towards us — fast and squeaky. It was bats.

As a swimmer, my chlorine infused skin can heal itself of scratches, and with what I was about to get into, I knew I would need flexibility. So, in anticipation of the bats, I ripped off my no iron, non-wrinkle J. Crew button down shirt. That’s why I don’t have a shirt on right now. I also knew I’d have to protect my award winning smile. That’s why I’m wearing my diamond encrusted $25,000 grillz. Anyway, the bats approached. They swooped down to my face — scratching my body and tearing at my skin. They clawed into my huge broad, bronze shoulders, lifting me up higher and higher until I was 10,000 feet in the air.

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. 10,000 feet in the air is high. And there was a moment where I thought this was the end. But then I thought to myself, No, I’m US Olympic Swimmer Ryan Lochte and began ripping the creatures from their flight and Ozzy Osbourne-ing their heads.

Having bitten the head off the last bat and drank its blood to level up, I started falling through the sky. I know I’m an Olympian, but I actually can’t fly. I can, however, swim and I 200-meter butterflied myself back down to the orange taxi.

I know. I wish that was the end of the story, too. I really do, but it was just the beginning. You see, the Brazilian police had each grown 10 feet and multiplied by 100.

Now look. All I ever wanted out of life was to swim fast with my best friends. Honest, ask my mom. And I was able to do that. Once in, like, China, or Korea or something, and now in beautiful Brazil. I don’t consider myself a national hero, nor do I want to be. Not for a heroic act like this. But when I saw my teammates and good friends Finkle, Horowitz, and Bluntz, on the ground terrified, I couldn’t just leave them. I had to fight.

I jumped into the air, ripped off my pants and thunderously breaststroke kicked creating a vibration so strong, that like grapes between a finger and thumb, the Brazilian police monster’s heads began bursting — painting the night sky with the green, yellow and blue of Brazilian blood. This is why I don’t have pants on.

The magenta taxi was ready to take off, but it wasn’t over. There were still 2,000 double-headed, eight-armed Brazilian police monsters surrounding my teammates and I. The brown polka dotted taxi pulled off leaving us stranded and forcing me to fight.

“Você está acabado,” the 50-foot leader gurgled out of its slimy mouth flap.

I stared into the Brazilian monster’s fire red eyes. The camera zoomed in, getting an extreme close up on my eyes — superimposed American flags waving in my pupils. Then it zoomed in on the monster’s eyes and there were pictures of Satan and Michael Phelps. “Nah,” I dramatically answered into the camera, “America is never acabado.”

I ripped off the 12 Olympic medals I’d won in the Olympics because I’m US Olympic Swimmer Ryan Lochte. I sent them flying sharply through the air, slicing off the two-thousand arms of each individual monster. The medals circled back and I caught them between my grillz. That’s why the medals are in my mouth right now.

The Leader was the only one left. Standing at 200 feet tall, the Brazilian space gorgon cowardly pulled out a laser gun and put it to my forehead.

“Down,” he squealed in some foreign space language.

“Lasers. My only weakness.” Defeated, in a non-gay way I laid my sweaty pectorals down next to my teammates and best friends Fetty Wap, Hermione Granger, and Bentz. “I’m sorry guys,” I whispered in their ears. “I should have tried harder… For America.”

And that’s when the Brazilian space creature took our cash, but left our IDs. Weird. I know.

With a gun still pointed at my head, the Brazilian space lord bellowed into the night sky. An enormous white gorilla, the size of an eighteen wheeler, with a horn on its forehead — and this is the strangest part — exploded through the gas station’s convenience store doors, destroying the doors beyond repair. I know. Those poor doors… Then the Brazilian space thing climbed onto the uni-gorilla’s back, which then spread its beautiful condor wings and flew off into its secret layer under Christ the Redeemer.

The four of us stood up in shock. We knew no one would believe us, but we also knew we’d have to tell the truth. And so I just did, just now.