Does 0 and 00 Count As Even In Roulette? - Professional ...

Many years ago, back before I went into business for myself as an IT consultant, I worked at an MSP help desk doing some contract work while I was between jobs. It was a short term contract of 3 months with a pretty high hourly rate considering low technical level of the job. The recruiter had trouble filling the position and was delighted when I accepted. The online research I performed suggested it would be an OK place to work for just a few months and, heck, I needed to money. So off I went for my first day.
Did You just Move In?
I showed up at the address and was astonished to see an office full of boxes, clutter, and half set up workstations. It looked like the company had performed a quick relocation over the weekend and was still unpacking half way through Monday morning. After waiting for about 15 minutes at reception (staffed by a temp, never a good sign...) the manager finally greeted me.
IT Guy: "My name is (IT Guy) and (Recruiter) placed me here. I'm sure you got all the paperwork. Happy to be joining the team."
Manager: "Oh yeah, that all came over the weekend, but I was so busy I almost forgot. As you can see things are sort of hectic around here. Let me show you to your workstation. We are swamped this morning."
This place was more disorganized then a failed state. Office furniture was partially assembled. Wires strewn all over the place. People running around chaotically. And no organization readily apparent at all.
Finally after navigating the maze of clutter, we get to my "workstation" which is a card table, folding chair, laptop, and IP phone.
"You Have One Client"
The manager gave me a rundown of their system and login credentials. The briefing took about ten minutes. I was "VIP Support" for one of their "Preferred Clients" and my sole job was to take calls from their staff. My instructions were clear. Tickets will be routed to me from this one customer and I am to resolve them as quickly as possible. If anything needs to be escalated I have one point of contact (which I found out later was the owner of the company). That is it. I am to do nothing else than support this one customer. The manager gave me strict instructions NOT to help out anyone else and to stay close to my area. I was to ONLY respond to tickets for the customer, period. If I left my desk I was to notify my point of contact and I should keep that to a minimum. Otherwise, I could do whatever in my downtime - listen to music, read a book, browse the internet - the manager made it abundantly clear he could care less as long as I was on top of any call from this client.
"I have to run....your point of contact should be reaching out to you sometime this morning...if you have any questions just call that number," the manager said while glancing at his watch.
The Phone Rings
To say I was a little perplexed by the situation would have been a mild understatement. This was an odd setup, but not unheard of in the MSP business. Figuring it would all make sense in awhile I settled in and took a tour around the environment.
My workstation was locked down. Just an internet browser, some documentation for the client on the desktop, remote administration software, and a few other odds and ends. Ticketing system interface only showed me any open ones for the client I was assigned and the documentation of their systems was bare bones.
About an hour in, the phone rang, so I picked it up. Not knowing what to say I just made something up on the fly.
IT Guy: "Hello this is the Help Desk for (company) my name is (IT Guy). How can I help you?"
On the other end was a billowing voice that sounded like he was screaming into a speaker phone. For the sake of the story we will call him Ed.
Ed: "Hey IT Guy...this is (point of contact)...I am the owner of the company...glad to have you on board...let's break down what your next three months will look like..."
I was surprise that my sole point of contact for this client was the owner of a rather large MSP. That was also unusual, and it was about to get a little stranger.
Ed ran down the client details. It was a small boutique shop that did a lot of data analysis. They paid big bucks to keep their users up and running. Support issues were mostly routine - password resets, lockouts, VPN issues, and software installs. It was, in fact, one application in particular that would give me the most tickets.
Ed: "So the client uses this one proprietary program that is really advanced. It is their primary analysis tool, but the problem is that it is unstable. Crashes all the time. Throws out false errors. Does weird things like that. We have tried to work with the developer to address the various issues, but for whatever reason we can't get them resolved. So, the main troubleshooting you will be doing is fixing this application."
Ed then ran down the main techniques that would be used. The first step was a simple uninstall, run a custom script to "clean up" junk files, and then reinstall. I was to perform this action twice and if it still didn't work direct the client to overnight, early delivery, their workstation which would then get a new image and sent back out the same day.
Ed: "The most important thing about the whole troubleshooting process for that application is the license codes. They are on a Word doc on your desktop...."
Then he stressed, "IT IS EXTREMELY IMPORTANT THAT ANY TIME YOU INPUT ONE OF THOSE LICENSE CODES THAT YOU COPY AND PASTE IT TO THE BOTTOM OF THE LIST. ALWAYS USE THE TOP CODE AND ONCE YOU HAVE USED IT PUT IT ON THE BOTTOM. JUST CYCLE THROUGH THOSE CODES UNTIL ONE WORKS ONLY INPUTTING IT ONCE TIME EVEN IF IT FAILS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
IT Guy: "Yeah, sure, sounds easy enough. So is this all you want me to do?"
Ed: "Yes that is it. Your job is to only do what I have told you. Fill in your downtime doing whatever, just stay by your desk if at all possible. And if you have any questions call me directly at this number. No one else there will be able to answer your question so just call this number if you need anything. Got it?"
IT Guy: "Yup. Sounds easy enough."
With that Ed got off the phone which left me sitting all alone at my card table desk, among half unpacked boxes in an empty area of the huge office.
"Ok...this is weird..." I thought to myself.
My First Ticket
The first day flew by and not a single call or ticket. It was rather boring seeing that I was unprepared for all the free time, so the next day I brought in a few books and my personal laptop, wondering if most of my days would be so uneventful.
About an hour in the phone rang. The caller was ANGRY.
Caller: "My M-F-er F-ing POS computer locked up again. This always happens!!!!!"
IT Guy: "Hello there, lets take a step back and see what I can do to help."
Caller: "Oh great....a new guy here....I can tell you what you need to do. Reinstall this stupid program. This happens I swear every week or two and always when I have a deadline coming!"
I got on a remote desktop session and quickly was able to diagnose the issue was the proprietary program Ed had told me about. The error said something about invalid license key and a few other random codes.
IT Guy: "As you identified I am new at this, but according to my documentation I need to reinstall this program to get it to work. This is my first time doing this procedure so I don't know how long it will take me to go through the troubleshooting guide, if you hang with me we will get through this..."
Caller: "I can tell you it will take about an hour because this happens like once a week. Let's just get this done. I need to finish this report by 5pm."
Over the next hour I walked through the step by step guide that was on my workstation desktop. Mostly just a lot of clicking and cleaning up. Ran the custom script Ed told me about and then reinstalled the application package. Most of the time was waiting but the caller wasn't interested in small talk.
Finally got to the last step which was to enter the license code. Remembering the specific steps Ed imparted to me I tried to first code. The program attempted to register for a few minutes then kicked back an error saying "license code in use". Thinking that was odd I asked the caller if he has seen that before. "Oh yeah, happens all the time...something to do with a bad developer key I am told..." he said. So I tried the next code after copying the failed code to the bottom of the list. This time it worked. "Great I think that is it," I thought to myself.
IT Guy: "OK try to open up the application and let me know if everything seems to be working."
Caller: (after clicking around a lot) "Yup seems to be up and running. Thanks IT Guy. I will probably be talking to you in a week or two with the same issue though so until then..."
I opened up a ticket, documented it according to the guide, and then closed it out.
"If this is the extent of the work I have for the next three months this is going to be easy street," I said to myself.
The Next Few Weeks
The caller was correct and over the next few weeks my ticket log was mostly just the same issue with the same fix. About three a day and one out of four times I would have to direct the user to send in their workstation for a full wipe.
It was around the two week mark that I started to notice a pattern. I would "fix" a workstation and then a few hours later I would get a call from the next person with the same issue. Then I noticed that I could make a list of the users that would call in and it was a regular rotation. After I "fixed" their problem and put them on the bottom of the list they would cycle through. I could even use that list to predict who would be my next call.
Of course, I was naturally curious to the entire situation, but the one time I asked Ed for some clarification on one of his many check in calls he blew up at me. Told me that my job was to fix the error using the procedure I was given and that was it. And if anyone asked about anything I was to give them this number to call. "End of story, understood," is how the conversation ended.
I needed the job, the pay was good, the work was easy, so that was the last time I asked any questions until a few weeks later....And I had my suspicions as to what was going on, but even if I was right it didn't matter...
One Day After Work
It was about a month into my contract and I was walking out of the office. One of the techs got my attention in the parking lot to tell me some guys were going to happy hour. Now my work area was in an empty part of the office and because I wasn't supposed to leave my desk I had interacted very little with the others who worked there. And when I did it was mostly pleasantries. They knew I was a contractor and would be gone soon enough leaving little interest in getting to know me.
But today was different and this outgoing guy told me to come along and grab a beer with him and the team. Only having an empty house waiting for me, I went along.
The conversation was light until the alcohol started flowing. These guys weren't in it just for happy hour. They were clearly hunkered down for the night like this was an almost daily ritual. And around hour two is when the lips started to get loose.
Drunk Tech: "So you are the guy who has 'the client'" (making air quotes when he said "client.")
IT Guy: "Yeah I guess that is what you mean...It is just one company and all I do is work supporting them,"
Drunk Tech: "Oh yeah that is 'the client' we are never supposed to talk about and if they ever call the main number always just send it to the owner."
IT Guy: "Sounds like my assignment...guess it must be a big money account to get such attention.." (I asked trying to pry)
Drunk Tech: "Oh it is something....Ed (the owner) thinks we have no clue what he is up to, but the last guy figured it out..."
IT Guy: "Figured what out? The work is a little....odd to say the least..."
Drunk Tech: "Yeah it is going to bite Ed in the behind one of these days, but let me fill you in..."
The Scheme
Turns out my suspicions were right. The proprietary software used by the company was expensive with a license costing upwards of $100,000 per yeaper user. The company had about 20 analysts using it on a regular basis and through some happenstance figured out that they could be running more than the number of paid licenses usually for a few days before the program "called home" and registered the duplicate code in use then locking the application up.
It didn't take long for the President of that company to figure it was cheaper to contract with an MSP to play "Russian Roulette" with the license codes instead of just buying one for each user. All the MSP had to do is keep cycling through the license codes by constantly reinstalling the program, using scripts to clear all the log/registry files, and as a backstop measure just doing a complete wipe in the event the scripts didn't catch an updated fraud prevention measure. Ed (the owner) was being handsomely paid to keep this scheme going, enough so that he could hire rotating techs that were paid enough to not ask questions and cycled out frequently enough that they would not care.
What surprised me is that the central registration server didn't spit out red alerts when the same codes were being used over and over again despite the fact that it would disable access to the application if a duplicate appeared. Guess not every fraud prevention system is fool proof. (Or maybe something in the scheme addressed this point. If so I never uncovered it.)
The End
I finished up my three month contract and happily left for another gig that was more engaging. It was partially all the downtime I had while doing this job though that led me to consulting work which would later turn into my own business and that is what I remember most about this job.
What happened to Ed, the MSP, and the revolving license code scheme? I have no idea other than about a year later the same recruiter called me up to ask if I was interested in the position again. I respectfully declined.
TLDR
Took a short term contract at an MSP doing help desk work. Ended up being involved as an unintentional conspirator in a minor software piracy scheme where the MSP worked with another company to avoid purchasing the number of licenses for those who were actually using the software, probably "saving" that company hundreds of thousands of dollars in the process

Gambit is a lesson about the Hunger for Life

I live in a small mining town in the mountains of Colorado. Someone is building a massive casino nearby, Pictures Included

I grew up in a small mountain town named Eureka. It was founded in the late 1800s during the gold rush, but after the mines dried up the town began its slow descent into decay. Half the houses are empty or abandoned now.
You can see a picture of the kind of houses here in Eureka:
First house
Second house
When a massive construction project began nearby, it was the talk of the town for weeks. Why would they build something in a sleepy dying town like Eureka? It wasn’t until my sister Selene talked to a few construction workers that we discovered they were building a casino.
A casino up in the mountains, over two hours away from Denver. None of us could understand why they’d chosen here of all places. After a few months of work, the casino was done.
I took a picture of the town with the completed casino in the background to the right. The ten-story-structure sticks out like a sore thumb off in the distance.
Town+Casino
After the casino opened, they hired a few dozen members of the town, offering high paying jobs to work as dealers or cleaning staff. I was already employed as a firefighter, but my sister Selene got a job as a blackjack dealer. She’s a widow with two young kids, so the paycheck was a real lifesaver.
Still, something about the situation seemed too good to be true. The jobs over there paid far too well, and the management was far too accommodating. The fire station where I work is located high on a hill overlooking the town, so I began watching the casino from a distance each day.
I had initially thought that the casino was located in a terrible location, but I was apparently wrong. True, Eureka was hours from any major city, but despite that, a bus full of people arrived every morning and left every evening.
One night I was over at my parent’s house and had dinner with Selene and her kids. I asked her about her experience as a dealer.
“It’s Ok,” she said. “Just a little boring I guess.”
“Boring?” I asked. “I’m surprised you don’t have your hands full.”
“Why’s that?” she asked. “It’s like you said, Eureka’s too small. I never have people playing cards. The casino is almost always completely empty.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that. If the place was always empty, what happened to the people who I’d seen arriving on buses? “I’ve been keeping an eye on the building,” I said. “A bus full of people typically arrives around 9 AM every day.”
“Really?” she asked, looking confused. “If that’s true, I’ve never seen them.
“I can see it from the fire station,” I said. “If you head out for a smoke break at 9 AM, you’ll probably see them arriving.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I’ll do that. If they’re being processed for their organs or something, I’ll let you know.” She laughed.
“Har har,” I said sarcastically.
The next night she sent me a text calling me over. When I arrived, she was nearly breathless with excitement.
“Orin, You were right,” she said. “A big group of people did arrive, but they didn’t walk into my part of the casino. Instead, they all walked into an elevator at the back of the building. I’m not sure where that goes.” She looked thoughtful. “It was weird. They looked… How can I say it? Desperate? Something about the whole situation was very off. I’m gonna check out the elevator tomorrow.”
I told her to be careful, though, to be honest, I was excited to hear about what she discovered. When I visited my parent’s house the next night, I found her two kids there alone. They told me that Selene had never returned from work.
I called all her friends, then all our neighbors, but no one had seen her since she left for work that morning. Our conversations regarding the casino flooded my mind, then a plan began to form.
Early the next morning I walked across town in my nicest pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. I pushed through the door to the casino and saw that Selene wasn’t lying. The place was all but deserted. Three dozen slot machines crowded the walls surrounding a few tables interspersed throughout the floor of the casino. The only players in the whole building were Bob and Donald, two locals.
I walked up to a nearby table where Bridget, a girl I’d gone to high school with, was shuffling cards. She broke into a grin when she saw me. “Hey Orin, you here for a few rounds of blackjack?”
“I wish,” I said. “No, I’m here to ask about Selene. She never made it home last night.”
Bridget’s expression darkened. “Really? Have you asked around?”
“I already called around. Have you seen her?”
She shook her head. “No, our schedules rarely line up. I’ll be sure to let you know if I--” Her eyes focused on something behind me, and she cut herself off.
I turned around to see the casino’s pit boss watching us both. He was a tall thin man in an impeccably clean black suit. When I turned back towards Bridget, she was looking down at the table and shuffling cards absent-mindedly.
“Well, if you hear anything, let me know,” I said.
She nodded, so I turned around and headed for the pit boss. I stuck out my hand. The temperature of his hand was so hot that I had to pull my hand away after a few seconds.
“Have… have you seen my sister Selene?” I asked. “She hasn’t been seen since her shift here yesterday.”
He smiled. “Sir, this floor is for players. You’re more than welcome to head to the tellers for chips, but barring that I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
I stared at him for a long second before stalking towards the door. When I looked back, he was talking with Bridget.
I checked my watch. 8:55 AM, just as I’d planned. I walked around the back of the building and waited as the morning bus pulled around the building. I waited for the telltale hiss of the opening doors and the sound of people descending before I rounded the corner and joined the crowd. None of them paid any particular attention to me as I walked with them into the casino.
The crowd walked through a side door down a hallway to an elevator. Small groups of people entered the elevator as the rest of us waited for our turn. I shot a glance at the casino patrons, surprised at their diversity. There seemed to be people from all different countries and ethnicities. I heard one speaking Japanese and another speaking what sounded like an African language.
My turn came along with a few other patrons in the elevator. A sickly woman hobbled into the elevator beside me carrying an IV that was still connected to one of her veins. We piled in and rode up to the top.
The elevator rose for a few long seconds. I wasn’t sure what I would find, but I steeled myself for something horrible. The elevator’s speaker let out a TING, then the doors opened.
We all walked out onto what looked like a standard casino. Another few dozen slot machines ringed the walls, but on this floor, they were almost all occupied by customers. I took in the scene, confused at why they’d have a ground floor that was almost completely empty when this place was almost--
Selene was dealing cards at a nearby table.
I jogged over and sat down at an open seat. None of the players around me paid me much attention.
“Selene!” I said. “Are you OK? Did you spend the night here last night?”
Her eyes were glassy and confused. She looked up at me with a dumb expression and didn’t respond to my question.
“Selene?” I asked.
“What’s your bet?” she asked me. “This table is for blackjack players only.”
“I…” I trailed off, looking at the players around me. None of them were betting with chips of any kind. “What’s the minimum bet?” I asked.
“Three years,” she responded.
“Three years then,” I said, not knowing what that referred to.
Selene nodded, then began dealing cards. I shot a look down at my hand. King and a 9. Selene dealt out cards for herself, showing a 9. I stood, then leaned forward again. “Should I call the police? Are you--”
“Congratulations,” she said tonelessly.
An almost impossibly warm hand grabbed my shoulder. I spun to see the pit boss I’d spoken to earlier. He gave an impressed smile. “Orin, was it? I’m impressed, truly. Would you mind if I had a word with you?”
I shot a look back at Selene who was dealing the next round of cards. Then I got to my feet, balling my hands into fists. “What did you do to her?”
The pit boss clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing more, and nothing less than what I’m going to do to you. That is, offer you the chance to play.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The pit boss nodded his head towards a nearby slot machine. A woman in a wheelchair pulled a lever and watched the flashing numbers spin. They exploded in a cacophony of sirens and flashing lights. “WINNER WINNER WINNER!” The machine screeched.
The woman in the wheelchair put her feet on the ground and stood up on a pair of wobbly legs that had clearly never been used before.
“As in any other casino,” the pit boss said, “you must wager for the chance to win.”
“She... won the use of her legs?” I asked, feeling light-headed. “Wait,” I said. “I played blackjack just now. ‘Three years,’ Selene told me. What does ‘three years’ mean?” I asked.
“Three years of life, of course. Did you win?”
My mouth felt dry. “I-- Yes, I won.”
He smiled warmly. “Congratulations. I hope you enjoy them. I can tell you from personal experience that watching the decades pass is a bore. Give it some time and you’ll be back to spend them.”
I watched the pit boss’s face. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, and I was in my early thirties. I looked around at the casino. No one was playing with chips of any kind. “So what?” I asked. “I won years of life. That woman won the use of her legs. What else can a person win here?”
“Oh, almost anything. They can win almost anything you can imagine.”
A cold feeling settled in my stomach. “And what do they wager?”
His eyes flashed with greed. “Almost anything. They can wager almost anything you can possibly imagine. Anything equal in value to the item they want in return.” He nodded towards a nearby roulette table.
A man stood by the table, cradling his hands. “Another finger,” he called out. He only had three fingers remaining on his left hand. As I watched, the ball came to a stop, and another finger disappeared from his left hand.
The pit boss extended his hands. “Feel free to try any of our games. Bet and win whatever you’d like.” He reached out and snatched my hand. A feeling of intense warmth passed up my arm to my chest. “There,” he said. “I’ve even given you some house money to get you started. An extra decade of life, on me.”
I ripped my hand away, staring at him in horror. Then I looked back at Selene. Something clicked in my mind. “You offered her the chance to play. What did she want?” I asked.
“Her husband,” the pit boss said. “Quite the sad story. He died two years ago. She wanted him brought back to her.”
“What did she wager?” I asked.
“She wanted the chance to win a soul, the most valuable object in existence. I’m sure you can imagine what she needed to wager for the chance to win it. What she wagered is unimportant. The important question is: What do you want, Orin?”
I stared at Selene with a flat expression. “I’m sure you can imagine.”
His eyes flashed with greed again. “How wonderful. The casino could always make use of another dealer. Feel free to make your wager at any one of our games; I’ll be eagerly awaiting the results of your night. Oh, and do take advantage of our waitresses. We always supply food and drink for ‘high rollers’.” He walked away.
I spent the next few hours trying to decide which game to play. I was going to be wagering my soul, so I wanted the highest chance possible. Slots and roulette were out. I’d done some reading online about counting cards, so I figured that blackjack gave me the best odds.
I walked up to Selene’s table and sat down. “Bet?” she asked with that same toneless voice. “Three years,” I said.
I spent the next hour or so doing my best to remember how to count cards. I knew that low cards added one to my count and high cards decreased it by one, but the casino used three decks. I had read something about how that was supposed to change my calculation, but I couldn’t quite remember how.
Every time I won a hand, I cursed myself for not putting everything on the line. Every time I lost, I breathed a prayer of thanks that I’d waited. And all the while, I kept track of the count.
I had lost fifteen years of life when the count finally reached +5.
“Bet?” Selene asked.
“I wager my soul so you can be free,” I said.
The table around me fell silent. Selene’s eyes flickered, but she showed no other emotion as she dealt the cards. I watched my first card, punching the air in excitement when I saw a Jack. My excitement turned to ash when my second card was a four. Fourteen.
I looked at her hand. One card was facedown, but the faceup card was a King. I swore loudly, staring down at my hands.
“Hit?” she asked. The entire table was silently watching me.
“Hit,” I said, not looking down. The table erupted in cheers. I looked down to see a 7 atop my two other cards. 21. Blackjack.
I looked at Selene who flipped over her facedown card to reveal a 9. 19. I won.
The glassy look left her eyes immediately. She looked around in surprise, then her eyes locked on mine. “Orin?” she asked, then almost immediately began to cry. The entire casino broke out in cheers.
I grabbed her hand and headed for the elevator. The doors had begun to close when the pit boss reached out with a hand to stop them.
“Congratulations,” he said, beaming. He seemed to be honestly excited.
“Shouldn’t you be upset?” I asked.
“Not at all. Casinos love it when we have big winners. It inspires the other players to make larger bets. I imagine I’ll gain two or three dealers before the night is through from your performance.”
“Great,” I said flatly. “Now let us go.”
“Not yet,” he said. “You didn’t just win, Orin. You got a blackjack. And blackjack pays out 1.5 times your bet. You won your sister’s soul and more.”
I stared, not sure what to say. “What are you saying? I won half a soul extra?”
The pit boss grinned wildly. “Just remember what I said. You’ll find living for decades and decades to be a boring experience. After a few centuries, you’ll be back to gamble that half a soul away. Congratulations!”
He removed his hand, and the elevator doors slammed shut.
I helped Selene back to her house. Her children were relieved. I watched them cry, then moved into the kitchen to start making dinner.
It’s been a few days since that experience. The casino is still out there, and buses full of people still arrive. I… I cut my hand pretty bad a few days later. When I checked it an hour later, it had already healed, no scar or anything. I’m not sure exactly what I won at that casino, but there’s no way I’m ever going back.
X

JB's Old Grumpy Bastard Weekend Rant - "This is not investing, this is gambling."

What a crazy week it was in the stock market! I'm not going to give a recap on what happened, if you missed it, you're an idiot, go away.

But I am going to talk about that oft-repeated phrase by long-time investors who have never in their many years of investing seen or imagined what happened. "This is not investing, this is gambling."

There was even a reasonable and well-thought out article by Brett Arends on the subject in "An open letter to Gamestop's "Reddit Army" featured here: https://www.marketwatch.com/story/an-open-letter-to-the-reddit-gamestop-army-11611871658

What he says is true about people who get involved in the stock market making risky plays, they lose a ton of money, think that's what investing is, and they pull out, never to invest again.

That squared with my beliefs because that's one thing we're trying to preach here at the TLSS subreddit - get invested early for the long term, and more opportunity will befall you to make money.

But make no mistake about it - our brokers have tons of ways for us to try to make money that have absolutely nothing to do with investing, and everything to do with gambling. So why is it such a surprise that so many treat investing like gambling and then walk away from it frustrated when they lose?

Let me define first, what Investing and Gambling mean to me.

Investing is paying money to own something, with the intention of that thing appreciating in value so that you can make money off that future value. That doesn't have to be stocks, maybe you own a pre-rub Optimus Prime from the original 1984 Transformers and you kept it in pristine condition in its original box expecting you can sell it for over a grand (which you totally can.) I've never really understood why people would say things like, "I'm going to start running, so I have to go invest in a good pair of running shoes." Ridiculous! Maybe in some sense you are "investing" in your health by running a few days a week, but those shoes are not going to appreciate in value, so it's not an investment, you dumb shit. Maybe if you had the original Air Jordans and have never run in them, but that's the only way to "invest" in footwear.

Gambling is paying money not to own anything material, but simply for the chance to turn that money into more money. Classical examples are playing Roulette and betting on Brady and co. to beat the Chiefs in Super Bowl 55.

To me, the main difference in Investing v Gambling in the stock/bond/etf market is the ownership of something that you can sell/gift/will to someone, or lose in a divorce settlement to your cunt ex. Betting on Seattle to cover against the Rams so that you can turn 100 dollars into 250 is not exactly something you can will to your kids. The money, yes - the bet, no.

Investing as we are doing in TLSS means we are buying shares of ownership in the hopes that smart moves made to grow the business will increase the value of that company and therefore the value of our shares. That's what I have always understood to be the primary feature of buying stock and investing, and even though there is a risk of financial loss, owning something is what makes it an investment. But outside of buying stock, what does your brokerage allow you to do?

Let's start with "Short Selling." What is it? Essentially, you borrow shares from a brokerage on the belief that the value of the shares will go down in price, sell them immediately, and you pay a fee that is a function of the share value and the amount of time for which you borrowed it. When the price goes down and you feel that either you are ready to cash in or you don't think it will go down any further, you "buy" them, give them back to the brokerage, and that becomes your buying price. So if you shorted 100 shares of Game Stop at $480, and executed the short sale when it went down to $240, you made $24,000 on the short sale, less whatever the fees were. During this entire process, did you actually ever own anything? No, you didn't. You borrowed it, with every intention not to keep it. By the time you did anything that indicates ownership - buying - you had to give it back! You paid anywhere from .3% to 30% per annum (depending on how difficult it is to short) and during the time you borrowed it, you didn't even qualify for the dividends on it (if there were dividends!) What's worse, your short selling manipulated the price of the stock. That's right! When you short sell, the first thing that happens is the transaction gets recorded as a sale, which makes it appear that there less demand for the stock than there actually is. Then when you "buy" it after it's gone down (covering) it looks like someone bought it. So it's actually a form of rigged gambling, like the dealer slipping the Ace of spades to his buddy under the table. Sure he won't necessarily win, but the odds are now more in his favor. And that's the thing about gambling; as long as the probability of winning is neither 0 or 1 - it's still gambling if there is any chance you can lose. And since you never really owned anything, by definition, short selling isn't investing, it's gambling.

Then, there's options trading. I don't have a particularly deep understanding of all the particulars of options, like the designations of naked, uncovered, unmarried, etc. But I do know in a general sense what calls and puts are.

A call is an option, but not an obligation, to buy a stock. Options trading in OTC stocks is essentially nonexistent, but let's take TLSS as an example. Let's say you wanna buy some TLSS stock but not sure it's going to go anywhere in the next 3 months. So you place a call option to buy TLSS at the current price 0.0457, which will be called the "strike" price, anywhere in the next 3 months. For that 3 months, you pay the "premium" for that right to buy. If the price stays flat or goes down, you don't have to buy it, and all you've lost is the premium. But if it does go up, you can now buy at the 0.0457 price no matter how high it goes. You pay to minimize the risk, but until you actually buy it, you don't hold anything of value except a "right," and that right exists solely in contract between the seller and the buyer. That's not owning something tangible, and you can still lose money, hence, that's gambling. Puts work the same way but are the exact opposite. Again, you are paying a premium, but for the right to "short sell" stock at a certain price below the current price. This is protection from typical short selling because in short-selling if the price keeps increasing, there's no limit to how much you can lose. However, with a "put," once the PPS rises above the strike price, you are not obligated to short it and all you've lost is the premium. Given that we've already defined short selling as gambling, then buying put options, a derivative of short-selling, is therefore also gambling. It's just that the put option limits your risk to the premium paid.

There are all sorts of variants of options and other types of hedges that I don't have the specific knowledge for, but it seems like only 1 feature of all this is actual investing - buying stock and holding it for the long term. That's it! That's the one thing that is an investment. EVERYTHING ELSE - Puts, Calls, Short Selling, Day trading, Swing Trading, Wife Swapping (just making sure you're still paying attention) and just about everything else that is not buying and holding IS FUCKING GAMBLING. Most of what our brokerages enable us to do is in fact gambling, so why is it even a surprise that so many people use their platforms to do it? And even worse, why is it that when the peasants get good at it or find a way to beat the rich at their own game, do these dildo-lickers start getting all fucking bitchy about it? Quit preaching to us you hypocritical cocklamp, all the shit you do on a regular basis is gambling. This is just super-high-risk balls out stupidity, but that doesn't make what the Gamestop reddit army did any less gambling than what you do. It's just idiotic. Call it what you want, but get the fuck off your high horses, you intolerable shitweasels. I'll sink your fucking yacht in shark infested waters and tie a sea lion to your balls.

tl;dr: Fuck you, you don't get a tl;dr. You want a short post, go to twitter, you illiterate piece of shit.

EDIT: I would hope I was clear in my limited knowledge of the more advanced types of trading, but please be advised I'm no expert, and this post was intended more for entertainment than anything else. I can seen how things like calls can be used to mitigate risk, and there are probably other types of trading I don't even know about that would qualify as investing. My point is simply that a lot of it isn't, and it fosters the false belief in some people that all investing is gambling, and the mistaken inference that when rich people say "this is not investing, this is gambling" that this type of behavior isn't completely encouraged by the stock market and one's brokerage, because it totally is.

Trading Subscriptions or other Paid Services

I used to be a Financial Advisor for a very brief period almost 10 years ago for Peter Schiff. At the time I was in my early 20s and liked a lot of what he said. He frustrates me a lot more now and fails to adapt accordingly. Anyhow, I now run junkiebonds.com. Mostly a website researching US macro and discussing the worst institution ever created: The Federal Reserve.
Here’s some quick advice for beginners and even further on up I’m sure.
I've seen an unbelievable amount of these advertisements in the last few weeks. I just came across a comment in this room about just beginning and who to trust for paid services.
This may seem counterintuitive but if you're just beginning in the stock market DO NOT buy anything for education or trading. All the material you need is available for free online. Investopedia and YouTube have everything.
If you're just beginning you need to educate yourself and make small purchases. Education is the easiest part of trading in the stock market. The hard part is educating yourself about yourself. I've seen a few beginners that trade frequently and have done very well - in all likelihood they'll eventually lose all of their gains(+95% chance at bare minimum).
Stay away from paid services that claim they can help you trade. 99% are bullshit. Only experienced individuals should use these services because those individuals most likely know the few real people or firms that actually provide value. Experienced traders use these services for insight, education, and to help their process. Beginners have other obstacles to deal with first before these would properly benefit them.
Fuck Tim Sykes, those raging bull fucks, and others. They're full of shit. They are just a salesman using flashy marketing. It doesn't mean they haven't ever done well themselves - I think Tim Sykes actually did - but they realize selling hope, making millions, along with a little education is not just more profitable but it also eliminates risk.
In my opinion, I believe I could start a very “successful” subscription service. It’s aggravating seeing these guys because fooling beginners is almost like shooting fish in a barrel. But I’m not going to start a business where 95% of profits are based off of fooling others with slick marketing.
If anybody comes across a service you may be interested in but aren’t sure of its validity, feel free to send it to me and I’ll provide my two cents.
I’m going to explain trading by summarizing how I go about it. I’m not a day trader - I’m not making multiple trades a day and I recommend you do not do that either unless you want to lose money.
Before joining Euro Pacific Capital I would make a few trades a day. 50% of my portfolio was for long term investments 1+ years and the other for my speculation. I was fortunate enough to begin these investments at end of 2008 and early 2009. The long term side would do well and my speculations did alright too. The problem was I had big goals and desires for more wealth even though I had almost doubled the 12500 in less than a year. This led me to abandon stock speculating/trading because gains were too small and slow. However, stock options provided the leverage needed and I thought I had a trading process that would work.
Btw... “back in those days” I was paying 5.99 to buy and then 5.99 again to sell every trade! In 2010 my commissions were well above 2gs.
Reflecting on it now my process was abysmal and I’m surprised I was able to hold up for time I did. I was making reckless trades but one in particular really boosted my confidence. I bought far OTM calls on VXX(volatility) that expired in a few days. It was only a 100 dollars or so.
The market got slaughtered the next day. My calls were up over 4000%. I was up 4,950 dollars at 1205pm and then 4,150 a few minutes later. I believe I exited with a return of just over 4,300% which was a close figure to the actual dollars I made.
Here’s one of the most important points I’ll make: a PROFITABLE trade does not make it a GOOD trade by any means. That’s still one of the largest returns I’ve ever had and certainly the quickest but it was foolish.
It’s like going up to the roulette table and placing money on any number. The outcome of the spin does not change the fact this is a bad decision. Do not fool yourself by thinking your gains are all good decisions or investments. The only way you can have a good bet playing roulette is if you have knowledge or insight which puts the odds in your favor. And the only way you can do that is through some illegal con I believe. However, the market is not roulette. It can be. It can be worse if you make it that way.
Moving on... A few months after the big gain I had steadily lost money and I was getting a bit frustrated ——-
understanding how your emotions impact your thought processes and decision making is fundamental. There’s no manual for this part because every tradeperson is different. Happiness can and will influence your decisions. For some people it may cause them to be less disciplined or open to taking a risk and for others it will do the opposite. Traders create a process to eliminate the effects emotions can have - a simple example is to set a stop loss on a trade so you aren’t trying to guess when or if should prevent further losses or risk it. It’s important for beginners to do this. Do not enter trades where the losses cause worry and stress and you have no idea whether or not to sell. I don’t always have pre determined actions when I trade these days but I’ve also been doing this for over a decade and there are trades where it’s not as important or just not a good strategy. Again, if you’re a beginner please do not do this.
Back to my frustration... I entered an abnormally large call option order attempting to make up some losses - another stupid and beginner mistake. Unfortunately, the next day my parents needed help moving to Florida from Iowa. I had a 5g option that expired in 4 days and I wasn’t at my computer so I put in an order to (stop)sell if it so happens to fall quite a bit. This stock was amazon and it just so happens a negative headline came out right before opening bell. I had no idea bc I was still sleeping and dealing with moving.
The option price was around 5.20 and I had 10. My stop was at 4.
At 1030am we were going out for lunch and I went to check my position.
I was down 4,700 dollars.... because I put a LIMIT at 3.85.
You see, On this trade I went through ETRADE for whatever reason and I knew these sleezy guys sell their order flow - oh, btw Robinhood also sells their stock option orders but it’s really only important for a very small% of ppl - basically ETRADE profits from selling orders to other brokers who then complete your trade. So if these guys can see a price quickly drop and pop back up they’ll execute your order at worst price and then sell it for a profit a second later. Free money.
I was trying to limit any excessive scalping by putting a limit but amazon dropped quickly so E*TRADE of course did not get my order executed. If they were an honest and customer first company the order would’ve been executed and I wouldn’t have lost thousands of dollars. However, ultimately it is my fault and once again a stupid trade.
Trading is different from investing. Being an advisor certainly doesn’t make you a good trader. Advisors are typically there to plan long term investments and get to know their client so they’re able to adjust the risk in their portfolio accordingly.
A year or so after amazon I was working for Peter Schiff. He had really exploded in popularity because his predictions about the housing bubble all came to fruition. As an advisor you can’t trade. I was only there for a year because my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and I left to be with her. I had to save funds and for a few years after didn't trade either.
These days I'm back trading but its much different. I enjoy macro research and writing so i use this to my advantage. In 2020, I made around 40 trades total. Some of these are still open. Most of my trades are options and last a few weeks to months but two open positions don't expire until Jan 2022. Last year I made a return of 135%. I made a few huge mistakes and one out of laziness. Earlier in the year I was up 200%. I believe my process is solid but also needs improvement.
I try to limit my trades and find areas I'm most confident in. I also recommend you do not make hasty decisions. MISSING TRADES can be hard but it's a much better result. 135% really isn't that great of a gain considering how well the market did and the style of my trading. I missed many trades I was really confident in and thought were easy bc I have a strategy that may require 100% of my proceeds into Few positions. It sucks knowing I should've and could've easily had a 400/500% year if I chose to be aggressive. But I stick to my game plan because I'm confident later this year or next my returns will be multiple 1000s of percent. Maybe I'm wrong. We will see. I do best when Im unbelievably confident in an outcome and yet able to remain patient. I find I can do better or much worse if I change these.
My friend that's a girl did better than me because she bought her first and only stock this year which was Tesla. Does it suck underperforming your beginner girl friend having been in this trade for 10 years?
Absolutely.
But all of that noise must be drowned out lol. Everybody has to find their own way and what works best for them. I don't use reddit too often but for some reason I received an invitation to this board and joined tonight. I figured I'd share my thoughts and story and I hope this helped. I didn't proofread this.
My website is junkiebonds.com and you can find me on @Twitter at @junkiebonds - I started both in 2020 but am just really beginning to take off.
I'm always willing to help anybody with questions. Thanks for reading

Pawn Ch 3

Barely getting this one in under the wire before the new year! The holidays can be a tough time and I hope all you readers are making a good time of it and staying safe this year! Also all my judgements for being on time are based on my timezone, so far all of you who have been waiting this entire new year for another post? Well here you go! Just in time! As always enjoy!
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First Chapter
Previous Chapter
Neu Vieumau Joint Occupation Zone
Raiden was pretty happy with how the day was going so far. Get some credits, maybe actually get some new shoes… He wasn’t sure exactly if he should get his hopes up though. Why would the barter shop guy give him something so good for free? Would the human military police not live up to the coupon? His various experiences with the local militia had not exactly warmed him up to the idea that they had his best interests at heart. Yet… when he had called for help in the alleyway that squad of them had come running without hesitation.
Shifting the straps of the small pack a little he felt a growing unease gnawing at his insides as he walked along the streets towards the old police station. There were so many unknowns that could flare up that gave rise to a vast imagination of everything going wrong. He was just one corner away from the street it was on. Since the humans had moved in they’d set up barricades and more security than the old militia had, and just the thought of turning onto the street was making him hesitate. He wanted to consider his options here…
“Raiden!” He turned and saw Lenk and Neff exiting an alley across the street. Lenk was holding a bent pipe in one hand menacingly. Raiden immediately considered his options and turned the corner onto the street with the police station. Whatever else might happen they weren’t Neff and Lenk who were obviously still pissed he’d ruined their chance to scavenge that fancy bot. “Raiden!” He heard him call from around the corner and picked up his speed a little, gripping the straps of his pack as he tried to walk fast enough to make sure he’d get to the barricades, without making it look like he was running away from people exactly.
A little up the street were the sandbags and razorwire being manned by the blue armor human soldiers. Most of them seemed to just be sitting around, two had their helmets off and were smoking. But in the middle of the post and towering above everything else was a three meter tall mech suit. Someone had gone through the trouble of painting a black band on its arm with MP in white letters on the outside. As if that really meant anything. The effect was also somewhat spoiled by the mech having “To Pillage and Stomp” written on the side of its head.
Once Raiden had gotten closer to the barricades he looked back and saw Lenk and Neff round the corner, but stopped short when they realized where they were. “[Can’t hide forever!]” Lenk angrily yelled at him and then they both quickly retreated.
This had gotten the attention of some of the soldiers at the post who looked Raiden’s way when he approached. “What did you do to piss those guys off, kid?” One asked as he neared the opening in the barricades off to the side of the street.
“Yeah I uh… guess they’re mad I fucked their sister.” He responded with the first thing that came to mind. The soldiers around him all laughed at that.
“Hey sorry kid we can’t offer police protection to sister fuckers if that’s why you’re here.” One mentioned with a chuckle.
“No, but we can offer you a smoke.” One of the soldiers who had been smoking pulled a crumpled pack from his armored vest to hold it out.
“Dude, don’t go giving a kid a smoke. Fuck is wrong with you?” Mentioned the other smoking soldier right next to him.
“I’m not saying he has to! Just offering. The kid made me laugh.” Replied the first smoker.
“Uhm…” Raiden eyed the pack being held out. “If I took one it would be just to barter with. Is that okay?”
“I’m offering you a smoke. Don’t have to smoke it here.” The smoker replied with a grin. Raiden nodded and took a cigarette to carefully tuck behind his ear.
“Thanks.” He nodded to the smoker and headed up the stairs into the police station itself. First he noticed the doors had been substantially reinforced, then the moment he stepped inside he was met with a security scanner. A pair of soldiers were manning it, chatting in the middle, but seeing him they split up, one heading to the cargo scanner while the other stood by the frame in the middle.
“Pack on the conveyor. Any sharp objects or hazardous stuff we need to know about?” The first soldier sounding bored out of his mind asked as Raiden approached and unslung his pack to set on the conveyor.
“I don’t think so? I’m making deliveries. It’s… food and stuff. Please don’t open the packages. I would like to get paid. Also be careful cause one of them has a laxative in it.” When he said that the soldier arched a brow but nodded and began to push the bag into the scanner. Raiden headed into the central frame then, already lifting his arms above his head before needing to be told. He was familiar with the operation.
There was a light hum as the scanner… scanned he supposed. Then he heard a light beep. “Hey kid…” This would be it. Something was wrong, or there was a tax they hadn’t mentioned. “You’re too young to smoke.” The soldier manning the scanner frame reached out to take the cigarette from behind his ear.
“Oh, uhm the guy outside gave it to me for making him laugh.” Raiden explained. “I’m not going to smoke it. Just use it to barter for like a candy bar.”
“Huh… alright. Well just remember kid, smoking is bad.” The soldier handed Raiden the cigarette back and waved him through. Grabbing his pack he headed further inside and yet still felt a bit apprehensive. Was this really going to be this easy? Ahead was a desk with the first soldiers he’d seen not in armor. There were two, and they were wearing what looked like basic olive drab uniforms. One up front was wearing a hat he’d never seen before either. Then again he only ever saw them in helmets or without. It struck him as a little odd the man would wear a hat indoors but who was he to judge? He did notice stripes on his arm, that meant he was in charge right?
Just as Raiden was trying to figure out how to address the soldier he looked up and saw Raiden looking at him. “What can I do for you kid?”
Did everyone have to call him Kid? “I uh… I am here with a coupon. For boots.” He opened his pack to fish around for the paper the barter store owner had given him.
“A coupon for boots? Kid this isn’t a shoe store.” Raiden focused on moving the boxes around trying desperately to find the paper. How was it in a small pack with so few things in it he suddenly couldn’t find the only piece of paper? “Is that a cigarette behind your ear? Kid you shouldn’t smoke, it’s bad for you.”
“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” Raiden blurted out, feeling flustered. “I’m not going to smoke it! I’m just going to barter it! And I don’t have anywhere else to keep it safe. Besides don’t you guys get cigarettes in your rations?” Raiden countered.
“Yeah but if we die before retirement age they don’t have to pay us any pensions.” The soldier replied with a shrug.
“What?” Raiden asked, feeling more confused now.
“Never mind kid it’ll make more sense when you’re older. If you don’t smoke that is. Otherwise you’ll die young and runty. It’s bad for you.” Raiden rolled his eyes a moment but finally fished out the piece of paper to hand over. “Kid I’m telling you this isn’t a shoe store it’s a police station.”
“Guidelines state we’re not supposed to call it a police station. It’s an MP CP.” The other soldier without a hat working behind the desk mentioned.
“Excuse me?” The striped soldier glanced over.
“Official guidelines state we’re supposed to refer to it as a police station since we’re still a military unit. Therefore we’re supposed to refer to it as a military police command post. Command point? Control post? Control point?” The soldier sounded less sure with every iteration. “MP CP.” He returned to the first set of letters.
“Since when the fuck do you read guidelines?” The front soldier asked.
“Since you told me to sarge.” The other replied sounding a bit defensive.
“Yes, because you kept fucking up your paperwork and now you’re lecturing me on calling this place an MP CP?” He shook his head and sighed before finally returning his focus on Raiden. He did take the paper though and as he looked it over a moment he frowned, then he turned to type on his computer. Raiden stood there, unsure of what to do until the sarge finally spoke up. “Huh… Well… it’s actually real. Whadya know. Alright kid I guess you’re off to requisition. Down that hall, down the stairs on your right, and then take a right at the bottom and go straight. It’ll be posted. The other way is the morgue. Don’t go that way.” The sarge handed him back the coupon.
“Thanks.” Raiden nodded, and headed off to follow the directions. The hallway he headed down smelled vaguely of paint, and when he looked it seemed like they must have painted it recently. They’d gone with a sort of… deep purple. Like on their void flag. Probably to distance themselves from the militia they’d replaced. The militia always used gold, or what they claimed was gold color. He always thought it looked more like dry mustard.
Finding the stairs was easy, and once he reached the bottom he saw the sign on the far wall easily. Requisition to his right, morgue to his left. The fresh paint smell was even more heavy down here. Heading towards requisition he carefully opened a door and saw another desk ahead much like the one upstairs. Except behind it was glass overlooking some kind of big… warehouse filled with shelves. The arrangement of the stuff inside reminded him of Clay and his barter shop.
Down here there were two soldiers, a man and woman in the same olive drab uniforms as upstairs, though neither wore a hat and neither was working. Instead they were facing the window and talking. Just as he got closer he could start to overhear the woman first. “So then what did you do?”
“The fuck do you think I did? I pulled up my pants and got the fuck out of there before she noticed what happened.” The man replied which caused the woman to laugh.
“You dirty fuck.” She shook her head slowly.
“What the fuck else could I do?” The man shrugged.
“You say excuse me ma’am in the interest of human Davari relations I feel I should inform you that I’ve made a bit of a mess of your sheets and need some help.” The woman was laughing even as she suggested this.
“Fuck you.” Came his reply.
“So what happened when you went back to the bar?” The woman asked next.
“You think I went back? Fuck no. I’ve been avoiding it ever since! And it sucks cause those drinks were good too. Strong. And cheap. And strong…” The man shook his head slowly and let out a heavy sigh.
“Yeah strong enough to make you-” The woman just began to turn in her chair and saw Raiden standing at the counter. “HOLY SHIT!” She jumped a bit which made the other soldier jump and Raiden flinched, worried he was about to get shot. But neither pulled out a gun or anything and the woman just set a hand over her chest. “Fuck kid! Where the hell did you come from?!”
“How much did you hear?!” Asked the man, seeming more worried about that.
“I uh… something about you pulling up your pants. I don’t know.” Raiden looked between them. “I have a coupon for boots.”
“What? This isn’t a shoe store.” The woman replied but when he handed over the paper she typed the details into her computer and just upstairs something positive happened. “Huh… okay. Well… but it says footwear. Not boots. We just have to give you footwear.” Raiden sighed a little, boots had been a bit much of an ask anyway.
“Do we have anything else for footwear?” The male soldier asked with a confused look.
“Well… no. But… he’s a civvie. Can we give him mil-spec?” The woman asked.
“They’re fucking boots.” The man countered.
“Yeah, mil-spec boots. You remember that fucking lecture on no mil-spec items distributing across the civvies.” The woman shrugged and scratched her head. “Check… check the regs.”
“Why me?” The man asked.
“Because I’m the corporal and I fucking told you to.” She sternly growled back. The man sighed and pulled a worn looking book out of a desk drawer as he started to flip through it.
“What’s going on here?” It was Raiden’s turn to jump as he was surprised to hear a voice behind him. Turning he saw a soldier entering the room wearing armor.
“Staff Sergeant.” The woman stood up. “This civilian brought in a… uh coupon for boots. But the form only specifies footwear. Yet, we only have boots.”
“And… this is a problem… why?” The armored soldier asked as he approached Raiden and looked him over.
“They’re mil-spec. And we just had the meeting about not distributing mil-spec good to-” She was about to continue but the staff sergeant just waved it off.
“This kid helped us out earlier. Told us who that van belongs to that we’ve been trying to figure out for a week.” Raiden realized this must be the sarge from the squad in front of the pawn shop. In the armor and helmets he didn’t recognize them.
“The one by the pawn shop?” The woman asked, confirming his realization.
“Yep. Turns out it belongs to the guy who lives at the home it's parked in front of.” The armored soldier shook his head slowly.
“How did it take us a week to figure that out?” The woman asked.
“Because no one there would talk to us. Kid, why would no one talk to us?” The armored soldier asked him directly then.
“Uhm… because they don’t really trust the occupiers. The militia before they pulled out said a lot of… stuff.” Raiden didn’t feel like getting specific.
“Save these miserable bastards only for them to hate our guts.” The woman muttered with a sigh.
“Still, he helped us out. So, get him some boots.” The armored soldier commanded then.
“Yes, sir.” The woman nodded before looking at Raiden. “What’s your shoe size kid?”
“Uh…” Raiden paused.
“Right… in which units. We’ve got five around here don’t we? Just… give me a shoe.” She held out a hand and Raiden looked down at his feet. He felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks but he carefully leaned against the desk and raised his ankle over his other knee in a squat so he could delicately pull the rubber and fabric he’d fashioned into footwear off his foot. When he set it on the desk then a look crossed her face. Pity. He looked away, feeling even more humiliated with the position he was in. “Boots… and. Staff Sergeant mind if I get him some socks too?”
“That’s a good idea.” Soon as he approved it the woman headed into the back. Raiden felt a heat grow within him as they talked about it. They all pitied him. They felt bad. He didn’t have proper shoes or socks. He was some… street rat. Some kid to them. Somehow this felt worse to him than if they’d been berating him and insulting him like the militia used to. His hands clenched at the straps of his backpack. “I bet your feet are tougher than mine kid. You’re a real badass, you know that?”
Raiden looked up at the armored soldier in confusion when he said that. “What? I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.” The armored soldier nodded slowly. “Growing up around here can’t be easy. Between the war and everything else but you’re sticking it out. You didn’t have that pack when you entered the pawn shop. Do you work there?”
“It’s… I’m trying out for it.” Raiden nodded slowly. “Gave me some deliveries to make and the coupon for the boots.” He felt quiet as he spoke. His emotions somewhat jumbled up between the confusion and embarrassment.
“That’s nice of him. What’s your name anyway?” The soldier set a hand on his shoulder then applied just a little bit of pressure as if to help reassure him.
“Raiden.” He answered with a light gulp.
“Well Raiden, I’m sure you’re tougher than half my platoon. They bitch if they don’t get fruit punch in their rations and here you are hoofing it around town with shoes you made yourself. It’s admirable. Isn’t it specialist?” He looked over at the other soldier behind the desk.
“Uh yes. Yes, staff sergeant it is admirable. Very-very admirable.” He nodded. Raiden felt a slightly different flush of embarrassment now. He didn’t know how to process compliments.
“Thanks.” He nearly whispered as he looked at the floor. His one foot clad only in a thread bare dirty sock, his big toe sticking out of a hole in the front.
“Raiden, since you’re here and you helped me out earlier, mind if I ask you something else? You seem pretty streetsmart. Maybe you’ll know.” Raiden looked up at the sarge wondering what the question was. “Little over a week ago a building exploded. Or… the top did. Hear anything about it? Any… word on the street?”
“That tower over in the Ravex occupation zone?” He asked and the sarge nodded. “I mean… nothing really. I had heard it belonged to some… eccentric Kra’Kto’Sui. Lived in the pool up top. Uhm… just… rumours about crime… maybe drugs. People said he paid for info on stuff.” Raiden shrugged.
“Remember kid, uh Raiden, just say no to drugs.” The soldier behind the desk added. Raiden looked at him with a confused frown. “If you’re offered drugs… just say no. Isn’t that right sarge?”
“Yes… Yes specialist that is correct. Say no to drugs. Like all the amphetamines you do. Or the booze.” The specialist blinked at that.
“Wait. How did this become about me? I only do mil-spec amphetamines sarge! Honest! And I only drink off duty! I follow all the stup-uuhhhh official guidelines! I don’t rape people or drive drunk or get into fights or anything! And… I am… well noted for… my… uuhhhhh… consistent drive to improve our relations with local Davari. I was… just speaking to Corporal Colbert about my efforts in fact staff sergeant.” The armored soldier released Raiden’s shoulder just so he could grip the front of his helmet visor and shake his head. “What?”
“Here, see if these fit.” Raiden had been so focused on the sarge and the specialist that he didn’t notice the woman had returned until she was setting out some socks on the desk before him, and a pair of black boots that looked brand new. Raiden nervously reached out to take the socks and boots, almost expecting the soldiers to yank them away in a moment. Yet, they just watched him. Looking around he saw a chair in the corner and walked over to it, so he could sit down and try the boots and socks on.
“Staff sergeant, by the way I didn’t mean to hassle the kid about the boots. It’s just the CO had that memo about mil-spec items-” The woman began to explain but the sage just raised a hand.
“CYA. I understand corporal.” Raiden glanced up as he removed his other shoe and socks. Just pulling the full thick military socks over his feet made him shiver a little. They were so soft… Then he looked at the boots. They were… tall. Very tall. He also didn’t see any laces and was a bit confused.
“Are those jump boots? Why does he get jump boots? We don’t get jump boots.” The specialist complained while Raiden looked the boots over. When he looked up both the woman and the sarge were staring at him. “Uh… I mean… those are very nice boots ki-Raiden. Hope you enjoy them.”
“How do I put them on?” Raiden confessed then. “I don’t see laces.”
“Just pull them on first.” The sarge instructed, so Raiden pulled one onto his right foot first. It felt… cushoiny. Unlike why he expected. “Now feel along the top for a little nub on either side and pinch them at the same time.” Raiden’s fingers carefully squeezed along the top lining of the boot to find the nubs set inside the fabric. Then he pinched them and suddenly the boot seemed to shrink around his foot feeling perfectly snug.
“Whoa…” He muttered as the soldiers chuckled a bit.
“Nice isn’t it? Sometimes they don’t skimp on gear. Sometimes. How does it feel?” Raiden looked down at his foot and hesitantly put weight onto his heel. It was hard to describe exactly. His foot felt wrapped up in a soft cushion and yet… supported at the same time. It was unlike anything he’d experienced.
“Good? I think? I’ve never… had new shoes or… anything like this.” He confessed.
“Put the other on, stand up, and take a few steps. Wiggle your toes. You want enough space so your toes aren’t crushed but not so much your foot slides around.” The sarge informed him. Raiden quickly pulled the other boot on and repeated the process to make the boot snug up. When he rose to his feet he nearly jumped up, it felt like there was such little weight on his feet, yet so much more… Just… better.
After hesitating a moment he took a few steps and then slowly rose up onto the tips of his toes and back down as if trying to get a feel for being a couple centimeters taller thanks to the thick soles. “It feels amazing.”
“Glad to hear it. Did you get more socks corporal Colbert?” The sarge asked.
“Right yeah. I don’t care what you think you should be doing. Put on a new set every day. And please wash them regularly.” The woman handed him four more sets of socks.
“Thanks… I… I don’t know what to say.” Raiden shrugged a little, feeling put on the spot.
“Don’t worry about it Raiden. Just remember, if you hear anything or see anything we need to know come tell us. Crime, planned attacks, terrorists, anything like that at all. You come find me. Or, any of the human patrols here honestly. Doesn’t have to be void.” The sarge mentioned.
“Aren’t you all void?” Raiden asked with a frown. “Didn’t you guys get approval to move into the joint occupation zone? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“We’re the ones who moved into the MP CPs, uh the police stations here yes. But this zone is patrolled by all members of the joint occupation forces. We’re in blue armor, the American marines are in desert camo and high vis vests, and the slavs are usually in urban camo and have SSR patches. Hard to miss.” Raiden squinted a moment.
“You’re all different? Also… desert camo?” Some of the planet was arid, and there were a few deserts sure. But Neu Vieumau was coastal and not even close to desert.
“Don’t ask me, it’s what they’re wearing. And yes, we’re all different. Plus there’s Ravex, and Kra’Kto’Sui, and of course the Rimjobs. Uuhhhh Rimmers. Shit. Reformed Imperial Military. Don’t call them Rimmers. They don’t like that.” Raiden knew that the joint occupation situation was complicated but he hadn’t realized just how complicated until now. Then again for the last several years his primary concern had been surviving his dad and passing the public education tests.
“Okay. I’ll let you know.” He nodded. “But thanks again.”
“Good luck getting your job.” The sarge added as Raiden nodded and headed out the door. He couldn’t help but move a bit faster down the hall and then once he got to the stairs he rushed up them as if his feet didn’t weigh a thing. He felt a little silly but he knew he had a big grin on his face. Real footwear! It was like a dream.
“Guess we do give out boots.” Raiden looked over at the guy at the front desk and nodded.
“Yes. They were very nice down there.” He added.
“In requisition? If you say so.” The soldier made a face as if it was impossible to believe. Even so Raiden headed out of the police station… MP CP and back into the cluster of soldiers posted out front.
“Hey kid, nice drop boots.” One commented as he walked out. “Off to fuck someone else’s sister in those?”
“Yeah yours.” He was as surprised as the soldier no doubt by his immediate reply but around him the other soldiers all began to laugh. It was a bit of an instinct from dealing with comments by the militia before but now he felt bad.
“Kid… my sister would eat you alive and not in a way you’d enjoy but you’re fucking welcome to it.” The soldier shook his head a moment as the others kept laughing. Raiden just gave a nervous grin and kept walking before anything worse happened.
With that done he pulled out the paper that listed all the packages and their addresses. There was one just a few streets up. That old house that had been abandoned he thought. Maybe someone had moved in? Either way he began heading that direction and caught himself bouncing on the heels of his feet a little with his steps. His feet felt so good! The boots were amazing! Nothing could ruin his day now!
“[A reckoning has come across the bilge rat!]” Raiden just barely had time to process Neff stepping out of the basement steps to his side, swinging a board at Raiden. Moving purely on reflex, Raiden jumped to the side, feeling the edge of the board tug at the sleeve of his shirt a moment. Lenk was across the street having been waiting in case Raiden had turned the other way.
The soldiers were just around the corner, but Neff was between him and them, not to mention Lenk would be rushing over. So Raiden turned and began sprinting up the street. Neff’s full force swing with the board had shifted his momentum so Raiden had a second of lead to use. If he’d been in his old rags… He’d left them with the soldiers! He’d completely forgotten to pick them up! They were probably thinking he was a rude- “[Wrath knows no distance! Run and die tired coward!]”
Right focus on running. Neff and Lenk were both older than him and taller. Raiden could outrun them with a swift burst of speed but every time he focused on just running straight they’d catch up to him eventually. He could already hear their footsteps racing behind him though he didn’t dare spare a glance. Instead he broke hard left down the alley behind the Tviraki restaurant. There were always plenty of leftover crates down there.
Sprinting past some empty boxes he grabbed the edges and yanked to tumble them in Neff’s path while he looked at the big fence up ahead. Normally he’d never make it but in these boots… He could jump up the trash can onto the dumpster and then roll over the top of the fence and drop down onto the dumpster on the other side. He could do it. He had to do it. “[Nowhere to go you cancerous runt!]” He really had to do it.
Raiden jumped up onto the trash can, and felt it start to tilt with his weight as he stepped off it to charge across the thankfully closed dumpster before leaping as high as he could muster. Rather than roll over the top of the fence however he was shocked to find he cleared the top of the fence easily. Though his added height meant he was coming down on the far edge of the dumpster, not the middle… And it was open, not closed.
His eyes went wide with horror as he seemed to be coming straight down into a pile of rotten food scraps and whatever else the restaurant had thrown out. The stench wafted up into his nostrils even as he descended. Desperately he waved his arms, spinning them in the air as if to fly, or just get that tiny bit of extra momentum. Thankfully this seemed to work as his feed landed on the edge of the dumpster. He wanted to shout in victory, yet the shock of his landing transferred up to his knees which buckled a bit and had to quickly lean forward, sloppily rolling forward as he tumbled down into a cluster of trash cans.
Having his fall broken by metal trash cans was hardly ideal as he rolled off them to the ground, his shoulder and ankle immediately groaning in pain. Yet, he had made it over and he looked back at Neff on the other side of the fence obviously surprised. “Hah! [Scum sucking parasite!]” Raiden did his best to hide his pain as he raised his middle finger at the bully chasing after him.
Yet Neff was not easily deterred. He jumped up onto the dumpster and got ready to hop over the top of the fence after Raiden. “Oh shit…” He turned and quickly ran off down the alley before Neff could drop down. His ankle groaned a bit harder but he pushed through and kept running. The house was just up ahead. What good was that going to do him?! They were just going to beat his ass on the doorstep! But he had no other way to try and get away. So he just kept running.
On the far side of the alleyway he looked to his right and sprinted as best he could to the structure. It had a brick wall around it to isolate it from the neighbors. The three story structure looked ominous, with blacked out windows and a bone white paint along the old wooden structure. Wrought iron spikes lining the wall, and the gate leading in was bent into the shape of the Paragon of Wrath Bioujar Dooritay. One didn’t usually want to mess with the disciples of Dooritay.
But Raiden didn’t have a choice as he frantically opened the gate and rushed inside then up the steps to the door. His finger hammered on the doorbell as he heard it beeping and buzzing from the other side while he looked back in fear as Neff, then Lenk rushed up to the gate. Raiden turned, pressing his back to the door as he watched. Why had he come here? He was so screwed… Lenk took a step forward but Neff grabbed his shoulder.
“[No. That crazy lady lives here.]” The two thugs glanced at one another for a moment, then back at Raiden, considering their options. “[You have to get lucky every time Raiden! We only have to get lucky once!]” Neff threatened before they backed up. Raiden felt the door behind his back start to open and he quickly leaned forward so he didn’t fall backwards when the door was opened.
Turning around just as it opened he was faced with a dark figure silhouetted against the light from inside, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. First he noticed the horns, which meant a Davari. They were rather wide too, no doubt bulky with muscles. Then his eyes went to some kind of claw weapon in their right hand. He was so screwed. But then the figure stepped forward into view. “Oh deary me are you alright? I saw those young ruffians chasing you.”
Raiden was face to face with an old Davari woman. The hair around her temples was grey, and her horns had begun to bleach white with age. She was wearing an oversized shirt with sunflowers on it, an old set of sweatpants, and some big rubber galoshes on her feet. The claw thing she was holding in one hand was matched by a small digging trowel in the other. Also, had she spoken to him in English? Had he imagined that? “Uh… thank you. Uhm…” His eyes did return to the claw she held.
Noticing his stare she looked down and then held it up. “Oh! My claw? It’s just for gardening work. I’m sorry if I gave you a fright, you caught me just before I was going to tend to my garden. I only moved in recently so I need to get the bulbs in and get them growing! Bring some life to this little place.” Her big bright smile was comforting. “Now, did you just try to seek shelter here young man?”
“Oh uhm… no. I uh… Package.” Raiden’s breath was a bit ragged as his body seemed to catch up with what was happening. Slipping the pack off his shoulders he opened it up and rummaged around to pull out the box for her.
“Oh! You’re from that pawn shop? Wonderful. It’s my heart medication. The ticker just can’t handle the church orgies like it used to.” She let out a deep laugh that filled the air even as Raiden blushed at her comment.
“Could I… get water?” He asked next.
“Oh yes, you must be tired from running! Yes yes, come on in.” She waved him in then, setting the claw and little trowel down on a table near the door. Looking around the room he noticed a lot of paintings that were splashes of colors that didn’t seem to form anything but still had a… happy vibe to them? He also noticed lots of pictures of flowers and plants and the old lady standing in front of various buildings or landmarks. He noticed a lot from Partizania Rai, the tropical resort world.
There were also lots of pictures and paintings of cartoonish, happy animals. Cats, dogs, Vukos, Quibs, Lormites, even some kind of bushy tailed orange thing he’d never seen. She led him into a kitchen that was as big as the apartment he lived in and waved for him to sit at a giant wooden table. “Would you like some water sweetie?” She asked and he nodded as she grabbed a glass covered in dancing bunnies and filled it from a spout in her fridge. He blinked as he looked at her giant fridge. It actually had an ice and water dispenser on the front! He’d seen it in vids but never in person.
“Now, you just sit a moment and catch your breath sweetie. I’m just going to make sure it’s the right medication. Is that okay?” As she asked that Raiden nodded and grabbed the glass, gulping at the water as he suddenly found himself far more thirsty than he realized. The old Davari lady just smiled and took the box as she shuffled off into another room.
Agnivra frowned as she looked at the box in her hand. Everything looked to be in order except a small hand written note just under the label. “Exceptional Service Guaranteed! No good neighbor is beyond our reach! Check out our web hotline service immediately for a special vibrant offer! These offers aren’t dreams! Awaken to the truth, of our low low deals!” To any normal person it would just be a slightly odd ad for the business. But to particular people it held a very different meaning. Pulling out a slate she returned to the Pawn Shop’s website. Scanning the page she then clicked on a very small icon that nearly looked like just part of the background.
A customer review template popped up asking her to fill in a username. Ignoring the usual suggestions she quickly typed in a set of keywords and then hit the button to talk to a rep. There was a delay and then a message popped up. “Reliqua non est aeternum.”
“Ooohh…” She bit her lower lip a moment as she scratched her head. “Nemo nostrum est quam ira.” She typed in and sent. Then immediately followed up. “Quam irae nemo nostrum.” Was that it? “Listen, no one is beyond our wrath. I can’t remember all the phrases exactly. Sierra Triumvirate Helios Roulette 34275. Sleeper activated.”
She was worried what would happen for a moment but then let out a sigh of relief when the next message popped up. “I doubt my Latin is any better. Welcome back to the fold agent. You’ve been gone quite a while. You’re not due to retire yet. I’ll overlook any lapses in service provided you understand that work is to be done immediately.”
Agnivra looked back at the door, knowing the young man was still in her kitchen. “Am I to kill the messenger?”
“No.” She let out another sigh of relief. She hated killing the young. It was bad form. “Observe his performance. If anyone is hindering him determine if they’re hostile agents or just local noise.”
“Two locals were spotted chasing him to this residence.” She returned.
“Then research them. If they’re working for anyone else, deal with them.” Came the reply.
“Specific termination, or dealer’s choice?” She sent back.
“Dealer’s choice.” She thought about that a moment.
“Good, my garden is in need of fertilizer. Additional objectives at this time? Handler ID?” Who was it who had called her back after all this time? How had they found her?
“No further details. Agent Autumn, I hope you remember how to kill. Handler out.” The message board vanished.
“Hhhmmm…” Angivra rubbed her chin. They were being coy. “Young man. Would you like something to eat? I bet you’re hungry!” She tucked the slate away and shuffled back towards the kitchen with a big smile. She’d see what the boy knew. If she was being awakened then she wanted to know if she was killing for a cause, or a criminal. Either way she had a feeling her garden would thrive in this city.
Chapter 4

Taurus TX-22 & Olight PL-Pro Valkyrie Review "FLORIDA MAN APPROVED"/"2020 PANDEMIC PANIC APPROVED®"

The Third of July ----- REPOST

Well, I was gonna save reposting this story until Independence Day, but then I re-read it. NOT a post I'd want to read on the 4th of July - kind of a bummer. Kind of an anti-4th post. Put it as far from the 4th as you can. Pearl Harbor Day - there you go. This story is about what it's like to be unexpectedly thrown into the deep end of war - it's longer than I thought it would be, unanticipated, and I'm not sure it makes that much sense.
Here we go:
Preface: Carrying the Colors
I used to live in a small town in western Colorado that did the best, most wholesome Fourth of July you ever saw - hometown parade through Main Street, Huck Finn fishing contests for the kids, firehose fights between volunteer-firefighter teams at noon in the center of town, fireworks display off the mountainside as soon as it got dark. Lots of picnics and hot dogs and hamburgers. Lots of drinking.
Everyone in town participated. I did as little as I could, bailed as early as I could, got the kids off to some neighbor’s celebration as soon as I could, and headed for a bolt-hole. I couldn’t watch the parade without getting physically ill. I really had no idea why. I just wasn’t ready to see that. I felt like I shouldn’t be there, that I shouldn’t be a part of this. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.
Once upon a time, military units used to carry the colors into battle - a big flag, a perfect target. Color-bearer was a dangerous honor in all wars before WWI. Can you imagine how the Color-bearers who survived the Revolutionary and Civil Wars felt about the flag? I can’t. Yet these are the patriots who gave us our modern 4th of July celebrations.
So what the fuck was wrong with me?
I was unhappy to be such a wet blanket at what was clearly a wholesome and fun day in the tradition established by the brave and patriotic men who soldiered before me. I wondered if I should feel unpatriotic. Be clear - I did not feel unpatriotic. I still don’t. I just wondered if I should feel that way. It was disturbing.
Nowadays, we all carry the Colors to far off lands. And when we come back, we feel disconnected from people flying the same flag on Memorial Day, Veterans Day, the 4th of July. Maybe it’s the car salesmen. Maybe it’s the relentless hagiographic depictions of patriotic themes sponsored by Boeing. Maybe we just need a little space. We need to pause. We need to find our way back from all of that flag carrying.
The Jews have the right idea: A Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur - a day of accounting. Not a settlement of accounts, just a yearly balancing of the karma books: what was taken from you, what you took, what you owe, what is owed to you, what you must repay, what repayment you should demand and, lastly, what debts or receipts cannot be accounted for and must be written off the books. No matter how painful that is.
Make it a national holiday - Accounting Day. Put it between Memorial Day, when we honor the dead, and Veterans Day, when the living are honored. For sure, put it within yelling distance of the 4th of July. Every year they spring the 4th of July on us in the middle of Summer, no time to prep, no time to clean the blood off, no time to get comfortable with our exuberant and in-yer-face celebration of who we are and what we stand for.
It would be nice to have all that stuff sorted out before the 4th. I’m working on it. After nearly 50 years, I'm doing well. Coming right along. I'm up to the 3rd of July. This is a story about a horrible day that makes me laugh. I’m a slow study, and it took me decades to see my personal Day of Atonement for what it was. Y’see, I had the day all in the wrong order. Everything that follows happened on one day. But I needed to put the ending first, then the beginning, and end with the middle of the day. Then it works. Then there is some resolution. The books seem to balance - almost. Even so, it’s a work-in-progress. Bear with me through the rough parts.
This is a story about patriotism too, how it changed for me when I carried the colors.
Part 1 (Late Evening): An American Girl
Background music : [Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. It’s okay to associate this song with Silence of the Lambs. I did.]
I dated a gorgeous girl in 1966, my senior year in high school. She saw me on Friday, and her real, Jewish boyfriend on Saturday. It wasn’t anything serious. I was just getting over a long, difficult lesson in don’t-date-crazy-girls, and she was kinda bored with the appropriate boy.
I worried her parents - I was just the kind of shaygetz that might derail her destiny to be upper-middle-class, respectable and Jewish, in that order of priority. They shouldn’t have worried. She was just as fixated as they were on her future as appropriate wife and helpmeet to some professional macher in an upscale neighborhood in a two-career family.
But she was very smart, and I kept talking endlessly about things she hadn’t thought about, and she liked listening. So that was it. Friday night, she’d slum a little among the wild Irish goyim. Fine by me. She was smart, and nice to look at, too - leggy and built, ice-blue eyes and black hair, all in a Veronica Lodge, for-display-only kind of package.
So no complications. Which was okay with me. I tried to kiss her goodnight on the first date, and I was told that one doesn’t kiss until the fifth date. She kept count. On our fifth date, she told me I could kiss her goodnight, pursed her lips tight together, tilted her head to one side and closed her eyes. I couldn’t believe it.
I made a fist, knocked gently on her forehead and said softly, “Anybody home?” That may have been the first (and possibly only) time she really looked at me. I think she was a little hurt. Maybe. Mostly she was annoyed I had gone offscript.
I said, “We don’t have to do this. I’m fine. Let me know when you’re ready.” She gave me an odd look, and nodded. The kissing never came up again. Just kept on the way we were up until graduation.
We parted company after high school, but we kept in touch. I went into the Army, she went to the Ivy League. She used her friendship with me as a 60s credential. She was on the path to prosperity and status as a matter of choice. I was the evidence that she could break out - if she wanted to.
When I went to OCS, she wore me like a funky beret in her dorm at Smith College. She was in contact with the other side, the pro-war side, the non-ivy league people who didn’t understand that war was unhealthy for children and other living things! She, of course, was dating another nice, Jewish boy, a cadet at the USAFA, who was unlikely to be sent to Vietnam. Her life was proceeding in an orderly manner.
Mine was more disorderly. Come late 1967, I was on my way to Vietnam. I was cutting ties to various girls. I kept a couple to write to - I knew I’d be lonely and bored and vulnerable to any lady who would write me a letter. So I pared back my correspondence. I kept the Smith lady. I had a nice picture of her, I could fall desperately in love with her, and I doubt if she would notice. Perfect. Just mail from a gorgeous, smart, narcissistic lady - a connection to the “real world” back home, a little piece of the American Dream checking in at mail call. No complications, just like always.
So the letters came, newsy stuff: her time at Smith, the whole rich-but-hip scene, the weekend in Colorado Springs where she apparently lost her virginity, not so much to the cadet, but to the new freedom for American girls that came in the 60s.
My letters back were labored. Too much to tell really. No way she could understand. She was reading my letters to her roommates. I was a credential: “I know this guy! He’s right in the middle of it!”
Right in the middle of it. Yep. I was an artillery forward observer at a Vietnamese Army (ARVN) firebase on a hilltop that looked over the mountain foothills onto the plains and rice paddies that bordered the South China Sea. I had a bird’s-eye view the explosion of the Camp Evans ammo dump in I Corps on May 19, 1968.
I even reported it from my perch on our mountain-top firebase as I peered into the twilight east of me: “Birth Control 23 (my battery Fire Direction Center at Evans), Hardhammer 28 (me). I’ve got a large explosion at one six hundred mils maybe 2 clicks... make that 4 clicks... no wait maybe 8 clicks... um, 23, you okay?”
I finally unkeyed my set long enough for “23, WE KNOW! Out!” Would be funnier if four guys hadn’t been vaporized in the continuing explosions throwing up an illumination-round halo around the entire base for a couple of hours.
About a month and half later, I was working with same ARVN MACV team (a team of three American officers and NCOs who were "advising" the South Vietnamese officers) and a battalion of 1st Division ARVNs northwest of Huế along the Perfume River. We were stationed on two little cone-shaped hills (volcanic) north of the river. It was a big deal then to get ARVN units airmobile, so we were being airlifted out for two to five day sweeps of the jungle mountains west of Huế.
We were out on one of these sweeps, in deep jungle, but not too far in, aaaand nobody could give us a ride home. Have to walk out. So we saddled up. We broke out of the mountain jungle and into foothills with really thick bamboo on ‘em. Was exhausting cutting our way through, but we were out of the deep bush and could see home from there, so press on.
Wouldn’t you know it, right where we didn’t expect to find them, we stumbled on about a company of North Vietnamese Army (NVA) making their way back into the jungle.
I won’t go into detail about the ensuing firefight; it was a blind encounter, and it was confusing. First thing, the NVA mortars walked rounds right through our battalion CP, and killed the Recon Sergeant of my artillery Forward Observer Team. Then it kind of broke off - a quick, sharp little scrap. One dead, several ARVN wounded. NVA left blood trails. It was busy, dusty and hot cutting an LZ, evacuating wounded and my sergeant. Then we divvied up his kit, rucked up and hit the trail.
After a long, grueling hike in, I remember wondering if I had the energy to climb up to the MACV bunker on top of our little hill outside of Huế. It turned out that I could do that. At the top, I discovered that someone had collected our mail. Oh good.
I flopped down on the dirt in my blood-spattered jungle fatigues, and I opened this perfumed purple envelope with big loopy handwriting in lavender ink. It was from my high school non-girlfriend at Smith College. The letter was maybe six pages long on nice paper same color as the envelope, same loopy handwriting, same lavender ink, same nice girl-smell.
I couldn’t read it. I don’t mean I didn’t feel like reading it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t make the words come out right in my head. This girl was an Ivy League coed - she knew how to write. I knew she was probably writing about her boyfriend at the USAFA, how worried she was that he’d be sent to Vietnam, wedding plans, blah blah blah. I knew there was nothing traumatic or upsetting in that letter, just mundane chatter to a backup guy she was confident was desperately in love with her. Meh. She was right about that, in a way.
BUT I COULD NOT READ IT! What the hell? I got frustrated. I actually got out a pen and tried to diagram the first sentence. Remember that from high school? I drew a line under everything from the first capital letter to the period. Then I drew a vertical line between what I guessed was the Subject and the Predicate. Then got really frustrated and angry because I’m in fuckin’ Vietnam covered with my friend’s blood, and I’m diagraming sentences!
Light was fading anyway. I put the letter aside and bagged out right where I was. I thought I was going crazy. Couldn’t make sense of anything.
I woke around midnight to the noise of what sounded like WWI going on north of me. I low-crawled to the radio. North over by Camp Evans, I could see illumination rounds, red tracers shooting up into the sky, hear lots of explosions. Oh shit. Here we go again...
Found the radio handset, “Control 23, Hardhammer 28. Are you under attack?”
The answer came immediately, “23, that’s a negative. Are you flash? [in contact]”
“28, negative. Whisky tango foxtrot your location then?”
“23, nuthin’. Wait... Oh that? Happy 4th of July, Two-eight!”
Oh yeah. Right. My brain was still stuck on “stall.” Wouldn’t stay up to watch the show. More explosions. Can’t deal with that right now. Sorry. Going back to sleep. And I did.
I regained most of my sanity by morning. I never read that letter, or any of the other letters she sent afterward. Freaked me out. Something had happened. I couldn’t hear her any more. The meaning of her - and everything I remembered of home - had changed. A bridge had burned - I couldn’t go back that way. Not sure I could go back at all.
Part 2 (That Morning): Last Words
Background music : [Steve Miller Band]
When I got back from Vietnam, I went directly to a dorm room at Colorado University. No ipods, no radio, no stereo. I drifted into the music-listening booths at Norlin Library. Stevie Miller’s "Space Cowboy" was left on the turntable one day, and found myself listening to it over and over. I liked the anger of it. I kept singing along, “I see the show downs, slow downs, lost and found, turn arounds, the boys in the military shirts. I keep my eyes on the prize, on the long fallen skies, and I don't let my friends get hurt...”
Welp, too late for that.
This is the seed story for this whole post. I had been trying to write it for decades. It was important to me. The soldier who died deserved to have his story told first. I owed him that.
The problem was that I needed to tell it well, and I couldn’t get everything in. So much stuff going on in my head during this story. I was determined to jam it all in there.
The solution was, it turns out, just write down what happened. That never occurred to me. Instead, reddit poked at me when I wasn’t ready - some random post on AskReddit - "For those who have had someone die in their arms, what were your final words to them and what were their last ones?"
The first thing that came to mind was: “Is Newingham okay?”
Those were the last words I heard from Sergeant Clark.
Dial the timeline backward a couple of months: I was having a tough time keeping a recon sergeant. Nothing serious, just bad luck. One got a small piece of shrapnel. The battery sent out another one, and he got some kind of bad fever. The next one had volunteered because the battery was boring. He lasted a week. Then he sprained his ankle hopping out of a helicopter, and rode that medivac all the way back to the battery where he decided it wasn’t as boring as he thought.
This was 1968, I Corps, Vietnam, north of Huế, south of the DMZ. I was an artillery Forward Observer working with the ARVN 1st Division as they try to become airmobile jungle fighters. I was a 2nd LT, about 20 years old. I was supposed to have a Recon Sergeant and a radio operator in my Forward Observer Team, and I had neither of those things.
Early June, my ARVNs were taking a break, so I headed up to my battery at Quang Tri. Word had gotten around about me. My OCS buddy, Killer Joe , who had taken to living in the Fire Direction Control bunker, told me that just the rumor of my approach had sent sergeant E5s scrambling for invisibility. I was bad luck.
I didn’t care. I could carry my own radio. Wasn’t sure what a Recon Sergeant even does - never had one long enough to find out. I was looking for mail, shower and chow, in that order.
But no. I was haled to battery HQ by a runner. In the HQ tent I found the battery commander, an overweight National Guard Captain yelling at a buck sergeant. “You will go on this assignment or you will face a court martial!” The Sergeant was leaning against a tent pole. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he turned and walked out.
My turn. The Captain said to me, “Lieutenant, I want you to straighten that young man out.”
Uh, right. “How old is he, Sir?”
The Captain riffled through some papers. “He’s twenty-five. Is that a problem?” Well yuh. But I didn’t say anything. “This is his second tour, and he’s got a serious attitude problem! I want you to take him in hand. He is your new Recon Sergeant.”
Yeah, I’m twenty, boss. I’ve been in country barely four months. Don’t think this is a good fit.
I didn’t say that. I said, “Yes Sir.” Then I saluted and made a beeline for my jeep. Maybe I could get out of here before anyone noticed. Screw the shower and chow. I already got my mail.
Too late. A tall, lanky, blond sergeant plopped himself in my passenger side. It was the Captain’s problem child. Rats. “I guess I’m with you,” he said. He had packed a ruck. Huh. “What’s your name? I’m Chuck.”
“I’m Lieutenant AnathemaMaranatha.”
“Naw man. What’s your name?”
“My parents call me Rick. You can call me Sir or Lieutenant or El Tee or Two-eight [my radio call-sign].”
“Fuck. Really? Okay then. You can call me Sergeant or Sergeant Clark.”
I was good with that. I decided I wanted that shower after all.
And then off we went. We spent a good deal of time together in the deep bush. You can’t maintain the officeenlisted separation under those conditions, but Clark seemed to like the idea of it. I don’t know how to account for the turnabout, but he decided he wanted to be a part of the team. I found out what a Recon Sergeant was for. Clark knew some artillery, and he picked up on the art of fire adjustment with little effort. We were a good team, and he covered my back when I needed it.
It’s hard to explain how these things work. You can get to a point of complete trust without even liking each other. I couldn’t tell you today if I liked Clark. But he could have my last pair of dry socks, no questions asked. I don’t think there is a higher level of trust between soldiers. Maybe you had to be there.
Weeks later, we were suddenly sent a radio operator, Private Newingham. He was also a tall, skinny kid, but had no attitude at all that I can remember. I still crack up from overhearing Clark instruct him in the niceties: “That’s the Lieutenant. His first name is Rick. You don’t ever call him that. He is Lieutenant, or El Tee, or Two-eight. I’m Clark. You will call me Sergeant Clark or Sergeant or Sarge. Got it?”
Damn. Say what?
Newingham was only with us for one operation. On the second one - this one - he had to be lifted out off the PZ due to a high fever. Clark had been kind of mother-henning our FNG - Newingham wasn't used to the jungle. Clark had been teaching him. Clark worked pretty hard at it. Was impressive. Both of them were becoming better soldiers.
Clark carried the radio, and I carried a lot of his stuff. When we found out we weren’t getting a ride back to basecamp on the second day, we rode shank’s mare back towards home. We kept going downhill until we emerged from the mountain jungle into the foothills covered with thick bamboo outside of Huế. Then we bumped into about a company of North Vietnamese Army.
It happened fast. First thing I knew there was firing, then a shout of “Súng côi!” [Mortars!], and then mortar incoming started walking toward our position. I had my rifle apart for some reason. I sort of threw all the pieces in the air, and slammed it all together. I rolled over backward into a shallow crater and landed right on top of Clark. The mortar explosions were getting closer, so I told him to hunker down ferchristsakes, and he told me my boot was on his ear.
Then mortars. They came through, and then they were gone. I got up to get to our radio so I could call in artillery fire, and Clark said, “Lieutenant, I’m hit.”
I said, “No way you’re hit. I was on top of you.”
But he was hit. In the head and neck. Bleeding in bursts. A couple of ARVN medics came over. I was trying to make the bleeding stop, but there was too much of it. Clark looked at me and said, “Is Newingham okay?” I said, “Yes, he’s fine. He’s back at base by now.”
Those were the last words he said. I think he died before the medivac came in. I don’t know. I had to shoot artillery. They were yelling at me while I was trying to help him.
The Thiêu tá, the Battalion Commander, was moving out to the point of contact. He was the one who dispatched his medics and two MACV guys to tend to Clark. A couple of ARVN officers pulled me to my feet, wiped me off and had me clean my hands with dirt and canteen water. I geared up, they grabbed our artillery radio ruck, and we moved off toward the noise of battle.
This was hard to write. I don’t even know why I wrote this for some random reddit question. I had to fire the artillery. By the time I got back to the LZ they cut in the bamboo, Clark was gone, and the MACV team was finishing up evacuation of the ARVN wounded.
So there it is. I lost a man I was duty-bound to keep alive. I lost a man who trusted me, who protected me and expected me to protect him. I did not break faith with him. He would not think that, if he could still think about things. I know that.
But there was a massive failure that belongs to no one else but me. Some shrapnel-god used his boarding-house-reach to put his elbow in my eye while snatching the life of a man who was my responsibility - as if duty, honor, country, faithfulness, command, trust mattered not a whit, meant nothing. Not a whit. Got that, soldier?
I’m sitting here staring at the keyboard. Still pretty mad. Nothing left to say.
Addendum
Part 3 (Afternoon): Charlie and the Kid
Background music : Talking Heads, "Slippery People". Paint David Byrne blue. I think he’s my chariot driver. Lyrics are in the "comments" section.
It’s funny how I was prepped for this story. It started when I was reaching puberty. The only erotica I could find was a volume of The Book of Knowledge that had an article on the ancient Minoan Civilization on Crete which featured illustrations of Minoan ladies in their topless tops. I also read - during rest periods - about the Minoan ritual of the Bull Dancers.
Rituals aren’t for the benefit of the gods; Gods, large or small, don’t need our ceremonies. Rituals lift the watchers out of their ordinary lives, make them mindful of the underlying meaning of things. Blood rites, like gladiatorial contests, were especially meaningful because they combine real life and death with a deeper meaning of one’s own life. Up until recently, blood rites were a very popular religious ritual.
The Bull Dance was one of those blood rites. Acrobats, male and female, would vault over the horns of a huge, angry Auroch bull. The fate of the dancers was the fate of all. The will of the gods could be seen by the will of the sacred Auroch and the skill and luck of the dancers.
Clark hadn’t had any luck, and I had lost a man. The only rituals I had were from the movies: Your buddy is hit. In a lingering close-up as the music swells, he tells you to carry on, don’t weep for him, tell Miss Molly he loved her best. Then his eyes close, and the music crescendos, I stand up and vow to get the dirty, bushwhacking bastards who did this if it takes the rest of my life.
My rituals sucked. I had nuthin’. All I could do is pack everything up until later. Let’s get down the hill. I was sort of numb, on purpose. Not that I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to drop a couple of battery volleys of HE Quick on the next NVA son of a bitch I ran across. I was thinking about that a little bit, too. But mostly nothing.
After that late morning firefight, we cut our way though the bamboo and broke into rice paddy country. Vietnamese soldiers always traveled along the paddy dikes - they lived there, and there is no sense in tromping all over the food. We were strung out along several paddy dikes.
It was hot. Did I mention it was hot in the other episodes? If not, impose hotness on them. Hot is a major part of this story. The heat just got into everything, but there’s no way to put it into the story. All you can say is “It was hot.” I wish I was a heat-eskimo and had twenty-three words for “HOT!” It was really fuckin’ hot. Also humid.
We stank. The Americans I mean. There are certain documented differences between ethnic and racial groups. One of them is sweat. Very white and very black people have more sweat glands than Asians. You stink when you’re hot and sweaty, for sure. But you also stink when you’re not. You smell like what you eat all the time. Vietnamese smelled like fish to us. I’m sure we smelled like meat. It’s only mildly noticeable usually - just a sense that these people seem odd, different from us.
But when you’re hot and covered with somebody’s dried blood - and we all were - and you’re an American, you just stink. We could smell it. Wasn’t lovely.
We stopped to rest on a paddy dike, all the Americans in a group. There was a young boy who looked about seven - which means he was about ten - standing still in the rice paddy with a large water buffalo. The local farmers stood still when soldiers passed. It was a good idea.
This water buffalo - let’s call him Charlie - was pretty close to us. I had seen water buffalo everywhere in Vietnam. Farmers used ‘em to plow the paddies. This one didn’t have a plow, but clearly he was the farmer’s John Deere, and the boy - let’s call him “the Kid” - was maybe letting him graze on the lees of harvested rice. When we saw them - more like, when they saw us - they were just standing there, keeping very still.
As I said, I had seen water buffalo before. But this was a big one. He had large curved horns that swept back in a crescent-moon from both sides of the head. Short legs. Really wide, muscular body. I was noticing all the details about Charlie, because Charlie had raised his enormous black nostrils up in the air, and clearly he smelled something that was an offense to water buffaloism everywhere.
Charlie was making snorting sounds after each whiff of stanky-Yankee. He was stamping one of his tiny feet. I was becoming acutely aware of how fucking big Charlie was - maybe 1500 lbs - and how close he was, and how there was exactly nothing to stop him coming over to where we were.
We were all noticing. The Gunny racked a round in his M16. I decided that might be a good idea. I was suddenly dismayed at how small M16 rounds are, how little stopping-power they have. But mostly, I was watching Charlie and the Kid.
Charlie was on the hunt. There were soldiers here and there on the paddy dike. Most of ‘em smelled like homeboys, but there was something else there, something outrageous, something that needed to be stomped on until it stopped smelling like that. Charlie was moving his head from side to side, looking for us with his nose.
The Kid was watching us get all wary. This can’t happen! He had been entrusted with the family farming machinery. Time to lead Charlie away.
First the Kid had to get Charlie’s attention. The Kid was game. Charlie had a nose-ring. The Kid grabbed it and tried to turn Charlie around. Charlie didn’t notice. The Kid decided to get Charlie’s head down - he hung from Charlie’s nose ring with his feet off the ground. Charlie didn’t notice.
The Kid had a little switch. He started hitting Charlie on the eyes with it. Charlie blinked, but kept his head up. The Kid grabbed one horn and swung up on Charlie’s back. He grabbed one ear after another and pulled. Charlie shook his head, then took a step in our direction. Charlie’s got an olfactory azimuth now.
The Kid was frantic, swinging from horn to horn, smacking at Charlie’s eyes and nose with the switch, pulling on his ears. Charlie snorted, and took another step in our direction.
Finally the Kid vaulted over Charlie’s horns like a Minoan bull dancer, grabbed the nose ring as he came down, tucked his knees up and managed to pull Charlie’s nose down to eye level. Charlie blinked, and looked at the Kid. “Whut?” he snorted. The Kid yelled some Vietnamese at Charlie which Charlie understood - probably something like “Chow! Over there! Follow me!” Charlie was okay with that. Yuh. Chow. Cool. Hi Kid. Where you been?
The ARVNs on the paddy dike cheered. One of them told me later that they would’ve helped the Kid, but they were all farmboys too, and they knew it was a bad idea to walk up to a water buffalo who doesn’t know you, especially if he’s already pissed.
Maybe. Maybe they were just waiting to see how it turned out. Me too.
The Kid hauled on the nose ring and Charlie started to turn. Oh yuh. The Kid. He’s nice. He has food sometimes. Whut’s that awful smell? This time the Kid was ready. He turned around, grabbed a horn and vaulted onto Charlie’s back with a thump heavy enough to get Charlie’s attention back. The Kid commenced to kick and thump and pull Charlie’s ears and yell until Charlie figured it out and broke into a trot away from us. This time all the soldiers cheered. I watched the Kid ride off into fame and glory.
Probably not. Even so, the war gods had lowered over Charlie and the Kid that day. Then they let them go. Not everyone was so lucky.
What had I seen really? Some kid in a rice paddy... can't control his water buffalo... may have to shoot the buffalo...oh wait, he got him going the other way... nice work kid.
Nothing. Just another 15 minutes in Vietnam. Maybe that’s all it was. Doesn’t feel that way. Means something to me.
At this point, I’d tell you what it all meant, but I don’t know. The doors of my perception had been roughly pried open with the life of my friend, and Charlie and the Kid came wandering through those doors. They did a perfect blood rite, a Bull Dance, turned like a wheel inside a wheel. They traveled all the way to the bottom of the Well of Me and made themselves at home.
Don’t know what to make of that. It’s a gift of some kind, I think. Took me decades to unwrap it. Not finished yet.
I do know this: The image of Charlie and the Kid in my head makes me laugh. It makes me happy. It slops over into other things both that day and afterwards. It seems to be the middle, the balance of the whole day.
I wish Clark could’ve watched Charlie and the Kid. I wish I could make you all see it the way I saw it. It was insane. Wonderful. Not a way back, but a way forward maybe. I can travel that day, from the bottom to the top, and there are people I remember fondly, with love, I guess. How is that even possible?
I like to imagine Charlie was my accountant for the Arjuna-moment of my Day of Atonement. Now I am become Charlie, the destroyer of worlds! Wait... the Kid’s got chow! Some other day, okay? No hard feelings. See ya. Charlie feels like both the worst accountant ever, and the smartest person in this story. I think all of this mystical stuff is above my pay-grade. I’m guessing Charlie thinks so too.
Close the books out, man. You are home. This is where I’m supposed to be. This is how I’m supposed to feel. I was an American soldier. The Lord won’t mind. Write it off.
Got some help along the way. The Kid would be what?... 62 now? I wonder if he ever tells his grandkids about the crazy Americans who wanted to kill poor old Charlie the water buffalo, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless, y’know, you were dumb enough to piss him off. I hope he’s telling that story right now.
As for Charlie? Probably dead by now. I hope he’s somewhere as a giant Auroch, twenty-four hands at the shoulder. I hope he’s a tossing this and that bull-dancing godling here and there onto the Roulette Wheel of Everything. He’d be good at it.
Good hell, he’d be great.

I live in a small mining town in the mountains of Colorado. Someone is building a massive casino nearby, Pictures Included

I grew up in a small mountain town named Eureka. It was founded in the late 1800s during the gold rush, but after the mines dried up the town began its slow descent into decay. Half the houses are empty or abandoned now.
You can see a picture of the kind of houses here in Eureka:
Abandoned House
Non-abandoned House
When a massive construction project began nearby, it was the talk of the town for weeks. Why would they build something in a sleepy dying town like Eureka? It wasn’t until my sister Selene talked to a few construction workers that we discovered they were building a casino.
A casino up in the mountains, over two hours away from Denver. None of us could understand why they’d chosen here of all places. After a few months of work, the casino was done.
I took a picture of the town with the completed casino in the background to the right. The ten-story-structure sticks out like a sore thumb off in the distance.
Town+Casino
After the casino opened, they hired a few dozen members of the town, offering high paying jobs to work as dealers or cleaning staff. I was already employed as a firefighter, but my sister Selene got a job as a blackjack dealer. She’s a widow with two young kids, so the paycheck was a real lifesaver.
Still, something about the situation seemed too good to be true. The jobs over there paid far too well, and the management was far too accommodating. The fire station where I work is located high on a hill overlooking the town, so I began watching the casino from a distance each day.
I had initially thought that the casino was located in a terrible location, but I was apparently wrong. True, Eureka was hours from any major city, but despite that, a bus full of people arrived every morning and left every evening.
One night I was over at my parent’s house and had dinner with Selene and her kids. I asked her about her experience as a dealer.
“It’s Ok,” she said. “Just a little boring I guess.”
“Boring?” I asked. “I’m surprised you don’t have your hands full.”
“Why’s that?” she asked. “It’s like you said, Eureka’s too small. I never have people playing cards. The casino is almost always completely empty.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that. If the place was always empty, what happened to the people who I’d seen arriving on buses? “I’ve been keeping an eye on the building,” I said. “A bus full of people typically arrives around 9 AM every day.”
“Really?” she asked, looking confused. “If that’s true, I’ve never seen them.
“I can see it from the fire station,” I said. “If you head out for a smoke break at 9 AM, you’ll probably see them arriving.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I’ll do that. If they’re being processed for their organs or something, I’ll let you know.” She laughed.
“Har har,” I said sarcastically.
The next night she sent me a text calling me over. When I arrived, she was nearly breathless with excitement.
“Orin, You were right,” she said. “A big group of people did arrive, but they didn’t walk into my part of the casino. Instead, they all walked into an elevator at the back of the building. I’m not sure where that goes.” She looked thoughtful. “It was weird. They looked… How can I say it? Desperate? Something about the whole situation was very off. I’m gonna check out the elevator tomorrow.”
I told her to be careful, though, to be honest, I was excited to hear about what she discovered. When I visited my parent’s house the next night, I found her two kids there alone. They told me that Selene had never returned from work.
I called all her friends, then all our neighbors, but no one had seen her since she left for work that morning. Our conversations regarding the casino flooded my mind, then a plan began to form.
Early the next morning I walked across town in my nicest pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. I pushed through the door to the casino and saw that Selene wasn’t lying. The place was all but deserted. Three dozen slot machines crowded the walls surrounding a few tables interspersed throughout the floor of the casino. The only players in the whole building were Bob and Donald, two locals.
I walked up to a nearby table where Bridget, a girl I’d gone to high school with, was shuffling cards. She broke into a grin when she saw me. “Hey Orin, you here for a few rounds of blackjack?”
“I wish,” I said. “No, I’m here to ask about Selene. She never made it home last night.”
Bridget’s expression darkened. “Really? Have you asked around?”
“I already called around. Have you seen her?”
She shook her head. “No, our schedules rarely line up. I’ll be sure to let you know if I--” Her eyes focused on something behind me, and she cut herself off.
I turned around to see the casino’s pit boss watching us both. He was a tall thin man in an impeccably clean black suit. When I turned back towards Bridget, she was looking down at the table and shuffling cards absent-mindedly.
“Well, if you hear anything, let me know,” I said.
She nodded, so I turned around and headed for the pit boss. I stuck out my hand. The temperature of his hand was so hot that I had to pull my hand away after a few seconds.
“Have… have you seen my sister Selene?” I asked. “She hasn’t been seen since her shift here yesterday.”
He smiled. “Sir, this floor is for players. You’re more than welcome to head to the tellers for chips, but barring that I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
I stared at him for a long second before stalking towards the door. When I looked back, he was talking with Bridget.
I checked my watch. 8:55 AM, just as I’d planned. I walked around the back of the building and waited as the morning bus pulled around the building. I waited for the telltale hiss of the opening doors and the sound of people descending before I rounded the corner and joined the crowd. None of them paid any particular attention to me as I walked with them into the casino.
The crowd walked through a side door down a hallway to an elevator. Small groups of people entered the elevator as the rest of us waited for our turn. I shot a glance at the casino patrons, surprised at their diversity. There seemed to be people from all different countries and ethnicities. I heard one speaking Japanese and another speaking what sounded like an African language.
My turn came along with a few other patrons in the elevator. A sickly woman hobbled into the elevator beside me carrying an IV that was still connected to one of her veins. We piled in and rode up to the top.
The elevator rose for a few long seconds. I wasn’t sure what I would find, but I steeled myself for something horrible. The elevator’s speaker let out a TING, then the doors opened.
We all walked out onto what looked like a standard casino. Another few dozen slot machines ringed the walls, but on this floor, they were almost all occupied by customers. I took in the scene, confused at why they’d have a ground floor that was almost completely empty when this place was almost--
Selene was dealing cards at a nearby table.
I jogged over and sat down at an open seat. None of the players around me paid me much attention.
“Selene!” I said. “Are you OK? Did you spend the night here last night?”
Her eyes were glassy and confused. She looked up at me with a dumb expression and didn’t respond to my question.
“Selene?” I asked.
“What’s your bet?” she asked me. “This table is for blackjack players only.”
“I…” I trailed off, looking at the players around me. None of them were betting with chips of any kind. “What’s the minimum bet?” I asked.
“Three years,” she responded.
“Three years then,” I said, not knowing what that referred to.
Selene nodded, then began dealing cards. I shot a look down at my hand. King and a 9. Selene dealt out cards for herself, showing a 9. I stood, then leaned forward again. “Should I call the police? Are you--”
“Congratulations,” she said tonelessly.
An almost impossibly warm hand grabbed my shoulder. I spun to see the pit boss I’d spoken to earlier. He gave an impressed smile. “Orin, was it? I’m impressed, truly. Would you mind if I had a word with you?”
I shot a look back at Selene who was dealing the next round of cards. Then I got to my feet, balling my hands into fists. “What did you do to her?”
The pit boss clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing more, and nothing less than what I’m going to do to you. That is, offer you the chance to play.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The pit boss nodded his head towards a nearby slot machine. A woman in a wheelchair pulled a lever and watched the flashing numbers spin. They exploded in a cacophony of sirens and flashing lights. “WINNER WINNER WINNER!” The machine screeched.
The woman in the wheelchair put her feet on the ground and stood up on a pair of wobbly legs that had clearly never been used before.
“As in any other casino,” the pit boss said, “you must wager for the chance to win.”
“She... won the use of her legs?” I asked, feeling light-headed. “Wait,” I said. “I played blackjack just now. ‘Three years,’ Selene told me. What does ‘three years’ mean?” I asked.
“Three years of life, of course. Did you win?”
My mouth felt dry. “I-- Yes, I won.”
He smiled warmly. “Congratulations. I hope you enjoy them. I can tell you from personal experience that watching the decades pass is a bore. Give it some time and you’ll be back to spend them.”
I watched the pit boss’s face. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, and I was in my early thirties. I looked around at the casino. No one was playing with chips of any kind. “So what?” I asked. “I won years of life. That woman won the use of her legs. What else can a person win here?”
“Oh, almost anything. They can win almost anything you can imagine.”
A cold feeling settled in my stomach. “And what do they wager?”
His eyes flashed with greed. “Almost anything. They can wager almost anything you can possibly imagine. Anything equal in value to the item they want in return.” He nodded towards a nearby roulette table.
A man stood by the table, cradling his hands. “Another finger,” he called out. He only had three fingers remaining on his left hand. As I watched, the ball came to a stop, and another finger disappeared from his left hand.
The pit boss extended his hands. “Feel free to try any of our games. Bet and win whatever you’d like.” He reached out and snatched my hand. A feeling of intense warmth passed up my arm to my chest. “There,” he said. “I’ve even given you some house money to get you started. An extra decade of life, on me.”
I ripped my hand away, staring at him in horror. Then I looked back at Selene. Something clicked in my mind. “You offered her the chance to play. What did she want?” I asked.
“Her husband,” the pit boss said. “Quite the sad story. He died two years ago. She wanted him brought back to her.”
“What did she wager?” I asked.
“She wanted the chance to win a soul, the most valuable object in existence. I’m sure you can imagine what she needed to wager for the chance to win it. What she wagered is unimportant. The important question is: What do you want, Orin?”
I stared at Selene with a flat expression. “I’m sure you can imagine.”
His eyes flashed with greed again. “How wonderful. The casino could always make use of another dealer. Feel free to make your wager at any one of our games; I’ll be eagerly awaiting the results of your night. Oh, and do take advantage of our waitresses. We always supply food and drink for ‘high rollers’.” He walked away.
I spent the next few hours trying to decide which game to play. I was going to be wagering my soul, so I wanted the highest chance possible. Slots and roulette were out. I’d done some reading online about counting cards, so I figured that blackjack gave me the best odds.
I walked up to Selene’s table and sat down. “Bet?” she asked with that same toneless voice. “Three years,” I said.
I spent the next hour or so doing my best to remember how to count cards. I knew that low cards added one to my count and high cards decreased it by one, but the casino used three decks. I had read something about how that was supposed to change my calculation, but I couldn’t quite remember how.
Every time I won a hand, I cursed myself for not putting everything on the line. Every time I lost, I breathed a prayer of thanks that I’d waited. And all the while, I kept track of the count.
I had lost fifteen years of life when the count finally reached +5.
“Bet?” Selene asked.
“I wager my soul so you can be free,” I said.
The table around me fell silent. Selene’s eyes flickered, but she showed no other emotion as she dealt the cards. I watched my first card, punching the air in excitement when I saw a Jack. My excitement turned to ash when my second card was a four. Fourteen.
I looked at her hand. One card was facedown, but the faceup card was a King. I swore loudly, staring down at my hands.
“Hit?” she asked. The entire table was silently watching me.
“Hit,” I said, not looking down. The table erupted in cheers. I looked down to see a 7 atop my two other cards. 21. Blackjack.
I looked at Selene who flipped over her facedown card to reveal a 9. 19. I won.
The glassy look left her eyes immediately. She looked around in surprise, then her eyes locked on mine. “Orin?” she asked, then almost immediately began to cry. The entire casino broke out in cheers.
I grabbed her hand and headed for the elevator. The doors had begun to close when the pit boss reached out with a hand to stop them.
“Congratulations,” he said, beaming. He seemed to be honestly excited.
“Shouldn’t you be upset?” I asked.
“Not at all. Casinos love it when we have big winners. It inspires the other players to make larger bets. I imagine I’ll gain two or three dealers before the night is through from your performance.”
“Great,” I said flatly. “Now let us go.”
“Not yet,” he said. “You didn’t just win, Orin. You got a blackjack. And blackjack pays out 1.5 times your bet. You won your sister’s soul and more.”
I stared, not sure what to say. “What are you saying? I won half a soul extra?”
The pit boss grinned wildly. “Just remember what I said. You’ll find living for decades and decades to be a boring experience. After a few centuries, you’ll be back to gamble that half a soul away. Congratulations!”
He removed his hand, and the elevator doors slammed shut.
I helped Selene back to her house. Her children were relieved. I watched them cry, then moved into the kitchen to start making dinner.
It’s been a few days since that experience. The casino is still out there, and buses full of people still arrive. I… I cut my hand pretty bad a few days later. When I checked it an hour later, it had already healed, no scar or anything. I’m not sure exactly what I won at that casino, but there’s no way I’m ever going back.
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what odds does 0 pay on roulette video

The object of Roulette is to pick the number where the spinning ball will land on the wheel. You can also bet combinations of numbers or choose the color or whether the number will be odd or even. What Does 0 Pay In Roulette; What Does 0 Pay In Roulette; In roulette, the green numbers are either 0 or 00, which pay out at 35/1 as a rule of thumb. In American roulette, getting either green pocket pays out at these odds. However, if you bet on both at. I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't ... By contrast, the odds of hitting 0 in roulette are pretty low (2.70%). Yet, those are the highest odds for winning with this type of bet because the American version offers slightly smaller odds (2.60%) due to the double zero slot. However, the American roulette has an exclusive bet (the Basket) including 0, 00, 1, 2, 3 with 13.16% odds and payout 6:1. What are Odds in Roulette? The betting odds in roulette of hitting a single number with a straight-up bet are 37 to 1, since there are 38 numbers (1 to 36, plus 0 and 00). However, the house only... It bets 5 numbers 0, 00, 1, 2, 3 has a winning odds of 5:38 and only pays 6:1, which means a player disadvantage (house edge) of 7,9%, which is extremely unfair compared with the standard 5,3% house edge of all other bets of the American, double zero, roulette or the 2,7% house advantage of the European, single zero, roulette. If the ball lands on 0 or 00, you’ll lose on any of the outside bets. The outside bets include: Red or Black – This bet pays out even odds (1 to 1) if the ball lands on the color you chose. Odd or Even – This bet pays out even odds (1 to 1) if the ball lands on odd or even, depending on which you chose. That´s getting into philosophy, so we are going to say that yes, 0 is a number, at least in roulette. It has its own pocket and space on the betting layout, and there are even 2 of them on some wheels. Just remember, the odds of the ball landing in the zero are exactly the same as the odds of the ball landing in any other number! Here’s an example of what I mean by “unfair payouts”: On the single 0 European wheel, the odds of winning on green 0 are 1 in 37, and the payout is an unfair 35-1. On the 00 American wheel, a win on either 0 or 00 (independently) has a 1 in 38 chance of winning. And the payout is also 35-1. None of it should be news to you. The problem is players don’t see the bigger picture, and how the same logic applies to all bets. Roulette is a very simple game in its nature. It’s played using a roulette wheel that has 37 or 38 numbered and colored slots on it:. European (French) roulette: numbers from 1 to 36 (red or black) and 0 (green) American (double zero) roulette: numbers from 1 to 36 (red or black), 0 and 00 (green) A small ball is thrown into a spinning roulette wheel, and players bet on the number where they ... What is the Double Zero Pay Out? The double zero is a type of bet that you can only make with American roulette boards. European roulette boards have numbers into the thirties, and also a single zero. American roulette boards, however, as well as all of these numbers and the single zero, also have a double zero on them. #1 Roulette Casino for Americans. 4 Roulette games, Table Mania Tuesdays ... If you bet on 0 or 00 on an American roulette wheel, the odds against you winning at 37/1, thanks to the addition of the extra number. This means that the expected value of betting $1 on either 0 or 00 on an American roulette wheel is -$0.053, which is significantly worse than on a European roulette wheel.

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