Why haven't I updated?

I had lived my life playing video games and watching TV. I figured the sooner I knew how to live my life as simply as possible while doing these things, the better off I would be, but how?

I didn’t know until about two years ago. That’s when I discovered gambling for adults. I’m not talking about online poker or going to Vegas, I’m talking about hooking up with a bookie and betting on sports (or anything else that catches your fancy). I’m not going to get into who I bet with or how it works because that is not the focus of this thread. Let me just say that I met a guy through a guy and that my betting has been going on for a little over two years now.

To be honest, I didn’t know that I had such a great knack for it. I went from having a crappy job to actually betting full time to make the rent. Was it going well?

I started my own ARCADE in my house.

I bought a bad ass BMW convertible.

Trips all over the US and world.

I have the big screen HDTV, the awesome computer and all the other shit you want as a teenager growing up (note, I’m not a teenager now, just have the mindset).

So, why post this story you ask? It’s not to brag about how cool my gambling lifestyle is because no matter what you have, someone else has more and it's childish to brag. Yes I was living large compared to what I had grown up with, but I knew plenty of people (especially in the DC area) who really thought I was barely making ends meet. No my Mooshack buddies, this thread isn't here to brag, it's here is to tell YOU the great rules of gambling.

Rule #1; no matter how much you win, you eventually lose.

It started a few months ago, betting on football and leading up to the Super Bowl. Basically, I made some bad choices this year, real bad.

I have no real job to speak of (part time shit I do for fun notwithstanding), so the gambling winnings were what I was working with to live (and live large). Correction, the gambling loses were what I was working with to try and stay alive. A few weeks before the big game I owed my guy, $40 large.

That’s forty, thousand, dollars.

This is a lot of money for a guy who barely made it through High School and never went to college, hell it’s a lot of money for any normal person. I was in and I was in deep. The thing is, when you win big and then lose big, you think you can turn it around by winning big, you know what I mean?

Rule #2; don’t try to turn around a big losing streak by betting more.

I had a system figured out to get out of this big-ass hole by post Super Bowl. Problem was, I was already floating a bit and the time had come to “collect.”

I’m coming home one day from seeing a movie and I see three guys waiting for me at my house. I recognize one as my bookie (let’s call him John). John is a great guy. He’s taken my bets, we’ve chatted sports, we’ve had meals together, hell I’ve had him over for drinks. John is not what is odd, it’s the two guys, the two big guys I’ve never seen that are with him.

When I get out I head over, I’m already a little nervous because I’m several weeks late paying what I’m into John for. Of course I could tell that being late on the payment of my debt was what this "meeting" was all about. I don’t’ get a chance to go inside, because as soon as I approach, John suggests that I get in the car and go for a ride to talk things out. I feel like turning and running, but I doubt I could get anywhere and make it. I decide to just follow along, because hey, it’s just money and I’m good for it. I’m fucking good for it.

The whole car ride, they talk amongst themselves mostly, but a little with me. No serious talk though. This makes it worse. I’m scared out of my fucking pants. This is nothing like a movie. I was fucking shaking all over and I couldn’t stop. John just tells me to relax over and over. Fuck.

We get to where we are going. It was a closed building of some type. It doesn’t look good. Now it’s more like a movie, but a movie I’d rather not be in. I’m not going to lie. I started crying like a little girl. John told me to relax, they just wanted to talk. I began to wonder if they were going to kill me. I couldn’t stop shaking. Fuck.

We go in and there is literally, spread before my stinging eyes a scene from a formulaic mobster movie. It’s a fucking chair in a dimly lit small room, like an office. Not much in there but a chair. At this point, I’m using my shirt to dry my face and blow my nose. No one offers me a napkin, but at least they haven’t shot me yet. I’m no longer crying. My brain is starting to numb up to the whole thing. It's like my body is there, but I'm floating on clouds. John, with a very grim look on his face, tells me I owe him and his employer some money. I’m late. This is a lesson on why not to be late. That was all, and then he just looked at me like it was my turn to speak. In reality, it was my turn to beg.

I start begging; pleading for them to not hurt me, kill me anything. I tell them I’ll pay (although I really can’t). I’ll tell them I’ll go to my family (which wouldn’t have that much). I promise I’ll sell my things and get the cash (I’m not sure I could raise the money in time). I’ll pay with the interest I owe. I’ll pay extra. Just. Please. Don’t. Hurt. Me. I wanted to say that it would all work out after the Super Bowl, but John knew that. This was not the time to bring up more gambling I was doing to offset the problems I had with prior gambling.

John just calmly lets me get it out. Then out of no where one of the two goons just starts hitting me in the stomach. He gets two or three good whacks and I’m on the floor. One kick to the stomach and I’m in the fetal position trying to protect my head and belly. So far, so good (I realize later, hey a few punches and kicks, it’s not so bad!). They are just waking me up a bit and telling me to shut the fuck up.

They put me in the chair. Yes, I’m fucked up and dazed, but in good shape, considering. Now John actually tells me he likes me and hates doing this. Fuck, I felt like a battered wife being told by her husband that he really loves her as he smacks her one more time in the lip. I actually felt good for a second. It’s like we are friends and he’s just trying to help me out.

John tells me that I still have time to pay and as long as the Super Bowl goes good, it should all be fine. Funny thing is, at this point I remember thinking, "well". "As long as the Super Bowl goes well, it should be fine." Shit, the things that run through your mind while under stress.

Just one thing, he says, snapping me out of my stupid grammar day dream. I have to hurt you just because it’s expected of me. You understand. Fuck.

Then he pulls out the pliers. Fuck.

I tell you I was freaked out. The two guys hold me down in the chair while John grabs my hand. He tells me to relax and he’s going to pull out a few fingernails. Fuck.

I beg, beg, him not to because for some reason this is one of my worst fears (not that anybody would actually not fear this happening to them). He has trouble getting a hold of a hand easily, so he just looks me in the face and says, fine, I like you Mo. No fingernails. Thank god.

What a goddamn relief that was, although I didn’t quit believe him, you know? I’m still guarding my hands as much as possible, although the two goons have let go of me.

He then tells me to hold out my hand with a look on his face that says, don’t you fucking disobey me you fuck-bitch. Fuck.

I give him my left hand as I’m right handed.

He just grabs my pinkie and fucking breaks it.

I can’t really describe it in detail because it was so fast and so shocking. Just imagine a grown man, grabbing your smallest finger with the intention of doing it major damage. That was it. He used both hands and just twisted at the first knuckle until he was satisfied. Crack. That was that.

Then, they told me not to be late again and drove me home. I called my girlfriend and had her drive me to the hospital.

Sorry if this was a long winded way of saying:

Rule #3; don’t gamble and lose if you can’t afford it.