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Imagine the following scenario... you are attending a con in Southern California.
On a smoke break outside, people start discussing plans for the evening. No one can decide where to go for the best party.
Before you know it, Dan Kaminsky puts forth a suggestion...
"Let's head down to Tijuana!" he shouts. "We'll have some cheap tequila, maybe see a donkey show... it'll be great!" In a collective effort of half-formed logic and poor planning, everyone is on board with this idea. South of the border you go.
And sure enough, it's a blast. Things get into full swing and everyone's partying hard.
By the end of the evening, however, it's completely out of control. You pass out, hoping that no one writes on your face or sticks anything in any body orifice.
You awaken in a small room in the back of what appears to be a run-down police station. You become vaguely aware of uniformed individuals speaking to you in a threatening manner.
Making references to violation of laws against public drunkenness, your captors describe monumental fines and penalties. With a sneer, they imply that unless you clean out your bank account using your ATM card you will face considerable jail time.
They slam the door, saying that they're going to give you some time alone to think about their offer.
Your mind races, your brow sweats. Is this really happening? If you comply, what's to stop them from just dumping you in the desert somewhere? Are these people even really police officers? You come to the determination that you have no intention of going along quietly with their plans. Your captors may have confiscated your wallet and passport... but they didn't notice the lockpicks that you were carrying.