Casino Dealer: Job Description, Requirements & Careers

Updates I’ve seen posted that would be really good to have:

NOTE: not all of these ideas are mine, most are from my community bitlifesuggestions from people that posted ideas on there. Anyway, upvote and tag u/bitlifeapp if you want to see these added into the game
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A thousand words wasn't enough? Here's five thousand.

List acquired here.
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Aerophobia – Patient Record LSA6041778-W

Patient Name: Lucan-Smith, Autumn
Age: 37
Sex: Female
Diagnosis: Aerophobia; fear of flying.
The following is a speech to text transcript spanning multiple sessions between Patient LSA6041778-W and Dr. H. Phineas Denton, who has annotated it with his own notes. The passenger manifest of Patient LSA6041778-W’s ill-fated flight suggests another candidate of interest may have been present. This, however, is likely a coincidence, as neither case has an obvious link.
Agent 11 recovered these from a locked desk drawer in Denton’s home office in Boulder City, NV. Denton reported a robbery when he returned home from running errands. Recommend retraining or reassignment for Agent 11.
Ms. Lucan-Smith was removed from Southwest Airlines flight 712 in a sorry state. My patient was hyperventilating to the point of losing consciousness, reawakening, and beginning the process again. I hesitate to call the period between passing out a "lucid" state because her extreme phobia had rendered her unable to respond to any stimulus. She whispered "no" to herself repeatedly, shaking and crying, until her body went limp for a few moments. I wasn't present for this, myself, but I have watched footage sent over from McCarran Airport. By the time Ms. Lucan-Smith arrived at my office, she was no longer panicking but the extreme fear had exhausted her. She fell asleep several times while we talked before I decided to end the session.
Denton: Hi, Ms. Smith. I’m Dr. Denton. Before we get started, can I get you a water or a soda?
Lucan-Smith has her arms wrapped around her even though, in typical Vegas fashion, it is decidedly warm outside. Her eyes are red and she has a tissue clutched in one fist.
Lucan-Smith: It’s Lucan-Smith, actually. Hyphenated. I wanted to keep my maiden name for my work. And nothing, thank you. I’m fine.
Denton: I’m going to grab a cherry Pepsi for myself. What line of work are you in?
Lucan-Smith sits in the large, plush chair I keep in the corner of the room. Patients with anxiety – though not claustrophobic patients – usually choose that chair.
Lucan-Smith: Physics. Well, physics with a little geology, actually. I investigate light diffraction in different types of crystals. Lately, I’ve been looking at ambient light data from NOAA satellites and how it relates to crystalline structures in local geologic features.
Denton: Well, that’s… pretty fascinating, actually. What is the NOAA?
Lucan-Smith slowly releases herself from her own embrace as she talks. I hand her a bottle of water as I return from my mini-fridge and she leans forward to accept it.
Lucan-Smith: The National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. They own the National Weather Service and all the… network of satellites up there collecting terabytes of data every day. It’s a really valuable resource.
Denton: It sounds that way. I might ask you to tell me more about your work off the clock. I bet you’ve got some findings you’re dying to tell someone who will listen.
She smiles.
Lucan-Smith: I do.
Denton: So. You had an eventful flight.
Lucan-Smith: You could say that.
Denton: What I got from the EMTs says another passenger – man, I really shouldn’t say this since I’m a mental health professional – another passenger went nuts and tried to open the door of your plane. My god. And then he was restrained by three flight attendants.
Lucan-Smith: He got free at one point and went for the emergency release handle again.
Denton: Jesus. Sorry, excuse my language. That’s just-
Lucan-Smith: Oh, it’s fine. I said a lot worse on the plane.
I nod, trying to convey approval and acceptance at that. I can’t say I would have done different.
Denton: And then what happened?
Her bottle of water slips out of her hands and falls to floor as her eyes shut briefly.
Lecan-Smith: Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. You wanted to know about after he, uh, after they got him. I… Well, I’ve never been good at flying. My dad flew a lot when I was a kid and I remember being creeped out by the whole thing. I have to pop a Xanax or two every time I fly and, I know this is bad, but I chase it with a beer when I’m really shaky. When that guy tried to open the door, though, I couldn’t keep my mind off all the horrible things that could happen. They just kept fucking popping in there. Everyone getting sucked out the door, heads slamming against the frame and exploding in a mess of blood and brains. The plane depressurizing and freezing everyone to death. A body going through the engine and fucking it like those geese in that Sully Sullenberger plane, then the whole plane falling. What it would feel like in my stomach. What I would see out the window, all those green and tan squares growing like a bad acid trip. Wanting desperately to die so I didn’t have to watch my fate race up at me. And then fire. If I survived the crash, burning to death in jet fuel.
Lucan-Smith: It just kept playing on repeat like a DVD menu from hell. And when it stopped, I was in an ambulance on my way to the psych ward at Desert Springs. Then I called up my insurance and ended up here.
I need to note here that my patient is describing psychosis. While commonly associated with severe mental illnesses, use of some controlled substances, and even types of meditation, it can be a symptom of an extremely stressful episode. In short, Autumn’s consciousness was not present in the physical world. She was elsewhere, in nightmare land. Prior to Autumn, I have never come across a patient with a phobia so severe it brought on a fully psychotic episode. This is a profound case of aerophobia.
Denton: You said flying’s always been tough for you. Do you remember a time when it was ever easier? What I mean is, did it become less scary for a time and then become scarier after, say, really bad turbulence? Or maybe it gets scarier every time?
Lucan-Smith: I think it’s gotten worse…
Her eyes fall shut again for about half a second before she jerks herself awake.
Lucan-Smith: Whoa. Oh my gosh, I’m sorry! I think it’s gotten worse each time I set foot on an airplane. Maybe I think my time is closer to being at hand after each successful landing. How many do I get?
Her eyes flutter.
Denton: Ms. Lucan-Smith – Autumn – you’ve had a rough day. I have a free appointment tomorrow at 11. Why don’t you come back then? No charge for today’s visit.
Autumn leaves and I have my secretary call to book her a cheap room for the night. It’s at a casino and probably stinks of cigarettes and buffet farts, but it’s cheap. The next session is fairly uneventful; Autumn tells me about her past history with flying which is, predictably, troubled. In phobia cases, I usually try to use either exposure therapy (gradually easing the patient into their discomfort zone) or implosion therapy (exposing the patient to the most extreme version of their discomfort). These are both behaviorist methods and the best tool for the job depends on both the patient’s personality and the nature of the fear. For Autumn, however, I don’t think either will work. She just experienced the most extreme aerophobic implosion therapy I can imagine and came out much worse than she went in.
I’m not a Freudian psychologist, and I often think hypnotherapy has a lot in common with good fertilizer: they’re both bullshit. Autumn did, however, mention that her father flew a lot for work and that she used to go with him. She wasn’t scared of flying as a very young child, but started to associate negative emotions with it around age 7 or 8. I have to wonder if one of those early flights ran into a problem she’s either forgotten or doesn’t want to remember.
Autumn is effectively stuck in Nevada while her husband and son are in Tallahassee, FL with Autumn’s mother-in-law. She desperately wants to be with them, and I can understand that. I want to help her be able to board a flight and find comfort with her family. With that in mind, I call Derek Proschutz, a friend from graduate school who practices more new-agey remedies like meditation. And hypnosis. I drive Autumn to Derek’s office – one corner of which is so crowded with incense sticks it looks like the Tunguska forest, post-explosion – and watch over the procedure.
Proschutz: She’s under now. It’s not like you see on TV, Phin. You can still talk and interact like normal, she’s just very relaxed. Very… ‘reflective’ is the appropriate word, I think. Don’t bring the energy up too much; if she gets frightened or finds something funny, we’ll have to put her under again.
Denton: Autumn, I want you to consider those plane flights-
Proschutz: I’m going to bring in some lavender essential oils to create a nice atmosphere.
Denton: Uh, sure. Good idea. Autumn, think about the flights with your dad when you were very young. Remember the clothes you wore, the games you took with you, what you wanted to watch on-
Proschutz: Phin, would you like some rooibos tea for your session?
Denton: Uh… No, man. We’re… I’m good.
Proschutz: Remember, keep the energy low. You seem like you’re getting worked up.
Collaboration is hard sometimes.
Denton: What was your father like, Autumn?
Lucan-Smith: Did you ever read The Great Gatsby?
Denton: The green light over the bay. Yes.
Lucan-Smith: Do you remember the billboard? The oculist?
Denton: Doctor T. J. Eckleburg.
Lucan-Smith: I knew I liked you for a reason. Yeah, him. The description of the billboard always reminded me of my father. Good old Guy Lucan. He was bald with two intelligent, judgmental eyes behind round wire frames.
Denton: The two of you didn’t get along?
Lucan-Smith: We did when I was young. I think he joked around a lot more back then. Or maybe I just didn’t know what normal human behavior was like and I felt comfortable around him because he was my dad. When I got older, though, nothing was good enough for him. My math grades weren’t high enough, I didn’t run fast enough in track. He wanted me to go into anthropology because the “real mysteries of humanity lay there.” To almost everyone else, physics is the hard science and anthro the soft. To Guy Lucan, it was the opposite. And his taste in friends ran contrary to typical common sense, too. Anyone you saw on the street or tucked away in, like, a strange voodoo shop that you might think looked creepy, or molester-ish, or unibomber-esque, they were my dad’s best buds. And not just weirdos, but criminals. Dangerous people. He’s dead now, and I’m sure that’s why.
Is this falling out with her father the real story here? Did that sour her to flying and magnify every negative aspect about it? If so, could that even help in rehabilitating her?
Denton: Think about the last time you had fun on a trip with him. Where were you going?
Lucan-Smith: We… I think we were coming back from Mexico. I remember him teaching me how to say “Jalisco”. So I guess we were in Guadalajara. That makes sense because I remember seeing a picture of Felix Gallardo, the leader of the fucking Guadalajara Cartel, on America’s Most Wanted or something and feeling like I knew him. “Mom,” I said, “that’s Don Felix, dad’s friend!” She turned the TV off. I think she already knew, though. They were separated about 6 months after that.
Lucan-Smith: Anyway, we had just met with Don Felix. He and my dad drank tequila from the bottle with the worm and joked through the night. Then Don Felix waved over two jacked dudes who set a big army duffel bag on the table. My dad unzipped it to find dozens of carved figurines. You know those Olmec heads? Small versions of those, some freaky-faced suns, Mayan 2012 death calendars, these striated ovals that looked like they were made out of obsidian. They made me feel bad when I looked at them, like I had walked in on someone changing. My dad’s pilot brought a case of money to the table and then there was more drinking and laughing.
Denton: Then you went to the plane?
Lucan-Smith: Yeah, then we got back in the plane and took off from a dirt strip in a cotton field. It was bumpy. Then…
Autumn is quiet for a long time. I don’t want to interrupt her thought process but I begin to wonder if she’s fallen asleep again.
Lucan-Smith: Lightning! There’s lightning but I can see stars. The plane starts to shake. I get out of my seat and lay on the floor on top of one of dad’s bags. I have my cheek pushed against the blue notebook he tapped against his thigh when he was on the phone. It smells like – ugh – mildew and wet dirt. Or creosote mixed with rotting fruit?
Lucan-Smith: The pilot, he sees me. He turns around and says, “Honey, I need you to get back in your seat and buckle the belt, ok? We’ll be fine but you could fall and get a scrape on your knee. How about you come up here with me and read one of your story books?” His name was George, I think.
Lucan-Smith: I go up to the front with George and then I can see the clouds. Weird, sulfurous clouds swirling around us. They looked like cartoon pollution clouds from Captain Planet. The plane shook harder in the storm and-
Autumn goes silent again. I try to ask a question but she holds up a hand like she’s on the phone. Then she opens her eyes.
Lucan-Smith: I think I’m fully awake now. I remember what happened to George, though. He hit his head against the glass when the plane jerked. I could see a smear of blood when he slumped in his seat. My dad pulled George out of the seat and took the wheel. I know you’re supposed to call it a stick in a plane, but this one actually looked like a wheel. The storm cleared up and we landed. George was dead.
Denton: One of the vivid thoughts you pictured on the Southwest flight was people banging their heads against the door frame. I wonder if it came from this?
Lucan-Smith: The way the lightning flashed through the blood, like red cello paper… Some of the blood I imagined did flow far enough to cover the windows. Yeah; it looked just like that. I remember dreaming about this, about George, but I thought… I thought I made it up. Just a nightmare.
Proschutz: Would you like to go back under?
Lucan-Smith: No, I think I want to go back to my hotel room. I don’t feel very well.
I drove Autumn back to the Circus Circus. It was a quiet ride, Autumn’s eyes stared out the windshield, unfocused and unseeing. Presumably, she was reliving her childhood memories.
The next morning, I had missed a call from Autumn. Her husband and son were flying back from Florida to their new home in Oregon. It was the first time any of them would actually see the house – they had moved to accommodate Autumn’s new job at OSU – and she wanted to be there with them. She did say there was a silver lining to being stranded in Las Vegas; she didn’t have to go on her son’s first airplane ride with him where he could pick up all her anxieties and phobias. I had to agree.
Autumn wanted to try implosion therapy and recreate the conditions of that last flight she took with her father. I had mentioned in our second session that I knew a Cessna pilot who helped me treat fear of flying. When I told her I would have to ask about the pilot’s schedule, Autumn told me money was no object; if the pilot could be free today with a five thousand dollar bonus, that was best. I didn’t peg Autumn as someone with a lot of extra money, so I knew her desire to see her family was strong. She wanted to conquer her fears so she could go home. It was brave and noble. I told her I’d see what I could do.
As luck would have it, Elisa Maldonado was free. She had been fine tuning her plane’s engine – a task she seemed to be in the middle of every time I called her – and stopped for a quick breakfast at the airport café. We had a delay of about an hour while Elisa filed our flight manifest, but we were in the air before lunch.
Lucan-Smith: You know, I remembered some weird things but I think playing with my Teddy Ruxpin while my dad partied with a drug kingpin is probably the weirdest one. Maybe not the most mentally scarring. But definitely weird.
Denton: Maybe your dad was more Meyer Wolfsheim than T. J. Eckleburg?
Autumn laughs and leans back in her seat. We’re ascending through minor turbulence and she doesn’t seem phased. I’m proud of her but also astounded. From psychosis to complete serenity after one hypnotherapy treatment? If anything, Autumn seemed impatient.
Maldonado: Phineas, get up here.
Denton: Something wrong?
Maldonado: Look at that shit. Fucking thunderstorm erupted out of nothing as soon as we hit 7,000 feet. Looks like it’s blowing right toward us.
Denton: Can we go around it or land?
Maldonado: I’m going to try to go around it. Landing might be hard because it’s a congested time. Especially with that bitch of a storm rolling in.
Denton: Autumn, I have some bad news. There’s a storm heading our way.
Lucan-Smith: I know. Very yellow, right? Cartoon pollution?
I looked out the cockpit window again. She was right.
Denton: Yes.
Lucan-Smith: Look, Dr. Denton, I think I should come clean about yesterday. When I said my dad partying with Don Felix was the weirdest thing I remembered, you didn’t know that there was a lot of competition for that top spot.
Lucan-Smith: George died, yeah, but… The artifacts my dad got from the drug dealers. The ones that made me feel weird, the black eggs? They started shaking before the plane. Before the lightning. Obviously I was too young to make a connection at the time, but I think they were calling to something. It’s simple physics; the more altitude you give a transmitter, the farther it can reach. There are fewer obstacles in the way to impede the signal.
Lucan-Smith: That’s what happened with those eggs. And the feeling changed. At the villa, I felt like I was watching it. As the plane shook, I felt like they were watching me. And what they were thinking… it wasn’t good.
Maldonado: What the fuck did you get me into, Phineas? I’ve never seen a storm move like this. It’s like it’s got goddamn fingers reaching out at us!
Lucan-Smith: When my dad realized what was happening, he had me lay down on the bag of trinkets to keep them still. He pulled out a little walkie-talkie and started screaming into it. “Camelot! Camelot! Come in, damn you! I have Items 26 and 27 but we’re under attack. I think it might be some kind of sonic weapon. Was there any chatter stateside about my mission? Camelot?” It was like he was playing soldier.
Denton: Autumn, why didn’t you tell me this? Was he part of a DEA operation or something?
The turbulence in our own plane was considerable. The midday light that had been streaming through the windows had faded to a sickly mustard color and I could hear Elisa cursing as she fought with the controls in the cockpit.
Lucan-Smith: I didn’t go to the cockpit with George to read then; he was too busy fighting to keep the plane stable. I stayed in the back with Dad, who told me to put the black eggs in my dress pockets. When the yellow clouds swirling around our plane started to seep in under the doors and seams in the bolted hull, I was right there laying on top of the army duffel bag. The fog streamed past my face – fast enough to sound like a Coke can opening in slow motion – and coalesced into a misty, malformed body, like a hologram projected onto dry ice smoke.
Lucan-Smith: It touched my father’s hand, almost like a handshake, and he writhed in pain. When he finally extricated himself from it, his hand dripped with blood. The nails were gone. And then it spoke.
Lucan-Smith: “Guy Lucan. You owe me life. You took my body from me and now,” the cloud raised one tendril that was polka-dotted with gory fingernails, “I take yours.”
Lucan-Smith: My dad looked in my direction. “Go, Autumn. Give those to George.” I left but, behind me, I could hear him say, “I have the vessels. You need them to walk the earth again. Isn’t that right, Safir? Kill me and you get nothing.”
Lucan-Smith: “Where?” it asked.
Lucan-Smith: My dad called for George to set the autopilot and join him in the back. I was crouched on the floor, peeking around the corner. George put on a brave face and puffed out his chest as he strode toward whatever cotton candy demon he was going to face down with my father. My father put a hand on George’s shoulder. One single pat. Then he threw open the airplane door and kicked George out. His head cracked against the bulkhead and blood splattered across the window. I rushed to the cockpit window to see him. I had just handed George the two black eggs and I could see one spiral out of his coat pocket as he fell, shrinking into the yellow void. The mist itself chased down after George, save for the ghoul wearing my father’s hastily removed fingernails. “This will be the last time you trick me, Lucan,” it said. “I will have Lucan blood. I will wear Lucan flesh. If not yours, then someone you love. Your bloodline will end, Guy Lucan.”
Lucan-Smith: “You’d better not let the vessels fall so low you can’t catch them,” was all my father said in return. He flew the rest of the way back, talking on his radio and reading out of the blue book that stank like a grave.
Denton: Autumn, I think this might be your psychosis manifesting itself again. We’re in a plane, it’s a stressful event, you’re distracting yourself from real life.
Lucan-Smith: No, Dr. Denton, I’m not. Something happened on that Southwest flight. I heard a voice, something whispering ‘Safir’ to me. It was important. It felt like something was coming and… and all I could see were plane crashes clouding the inside of my brain. I think it was a message. Safir is back and he’s going to follow through on his threat. Lucan blood will be spilled.
I shook my head and stood up. Maybe I was wrong about Autumn. Maybe she wasn’t a mentally healthy woman with a severe phobia capable of producing psychoses. Maybe the psychoses and the phobia were driven by some deeper, insidious disorder I had missed.
Lucan-Smith: And my son goes on his first flight today. In two and a half hours. He and I are the only Lucans left. If I didn’t convince you to get me up here, Safir would be coming for him. But, instead, he’s here.
As she says this, Autumn points at the seam of the Cessna door where thick yellow smoke pours into the cabin.
Lucan-Smith: You helped me realize what was actually going on. Thank you.
Golden strands of cloudy haze wrapped themselves around Autumn’s torso, enveloping her.
Lucan-Smith: Hey, now you’re Nick. You’re the outsider who gets to peek in. See you ‘round, Old Sport.
Autumn was entirely obscured from my sight, then the mist filled the cabin entirely. It was so dense I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. Then, as if a switch flipped, it was gone. The sky outside the plane was clear and there was no turbulence.
Maldonado: What in the actual shit was that? Phineas, how long do you think we've been up here?
Denton: I don’t… Autumn?
Maldonado: Feels like about a half hour to me. Maybe forty-five minutes. Right, Phineas?
Denton: Yeah. I'd say so. Autumn, where are you? Did you fall out of your seat?
Maldonado: All my clocks show we've been up here two hours. Two hours! But we've still got a full tank of gas. How does that happen?
Denton: Interesting. Autumn? Elisa, where the hell is Autumn?
Maldonado: Your patient is gone? Did- Holy shit, did she fall out? What the fuck?
When Elisa and I finally landed, Elisa’s Cessna was seized for a ‘quarantine watch’. Whatever that is. I don’t know how they knew where to find us, or how they even knew they should. ‘They’ didn’t even tell us who they were. I didn’t report Autumn missing until we were on the ground and the police didn’t know anything about it. So whoever showed up in black SUVs certainly was not LVPD.
The police questioned Elisa and me intensively, but ultimately decided we didn’t have anything to do with the disappearance. No one had fallen onto the Strip from eight thousand feet. Autumn just vanished.
Additional note: Several patient files are missing from my filing cabinet at the Las Vegas office. I’ve moved this file to my home office for safety. I’m probably being paranoid, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s a connection between the missing files and the seizure of Elisa’s plane.
submitted by EtTuTortilla to nosleep [link] [comments]

Stealing my car

This is one of my all time favorite stories. It comes from my time working at the casino again. I loved it so much that surveillance kindly acquiesced to my request that an exact moment, which i knew to have been caught on camera, be printed off as one of the pictures to attach to the report, so i could look back on it with a certain fondness. More importantly, it should be one of my shorter writes...HA just kidding. Anyone that know me knows i'm incapable of short writes. I like to write. It's a problem. I'm seeking help and taking pills. There's a support group. George R.R. Martin isn't in it. I just can't stop myself. It's like a power; an energy that just flows through my fingers, into the keyboard and... anyway...shutting up now.
Strap in...

So on this particular night i'm just coming on shift. There's supposed to be as many as three guys working, and no less than two, but things happen, and when there are scheduling issues, my manager felt confident leaving me as the guy on alone, even if it was the hardest shift, night shift. He knew i could handle it. He always offered that if things were really busy or i felt like i needed a hand, to give him a call, but i usually had it taken care of. I punch in and meet the guy i'm relieving to get the run down on things. There is nothing of real note other than routine things. I ask if i'm the only one on or if someone else is coming in, and he says he thinks i'm all alone. Now, i have to explain that for some reason there was this nasty curse i had, where if i was left alone for a shift i was normally supposed to be working with other people, and it was busy like it was, that within 30 minutes, something crazy would happen. Every time. This was well known and documented. Things have happened literally as i've walked in the door.
"It's a little busy, but things have been quieting down some" he tells me. To my best recollection, it was football season, and i think a game had ended earlier so people had been there for the game and had left, explaining why it was slowing down a bit so early.
"Yeah, but it'll pick up again" It always did
"I know. 5 minutes after I leave you're going to have something happen. Well, take care!" He never hung out to chat. Once he was off the clock, he was done. Respectable.
"Yeah, you know it."
I'm not at my desk 20 minutes when i see on the monitors, for the front entrance and outside cameras, a guy i don't recognize, and it looks like he is walking past the front entrance. There's a lot of people meandering around, and i hadn't been there long enough to know all the faces on the night, so i couldn't tell if he had been in the casino and walked out, or if he had walked passed the entrance from off property. I didn't recognize him as someone i saw walk past me toward the exit, but i couldn't be sure. It's much easier once you've been on shift an hour or two because you know everyone's cars and who's been in and who hasn't. 15-20 minutes into the shift and you're just guessing unless they're a regular.
I'm highly suspicious of this person as i see them walking west along the curb out into the large side of the parking lot. I'm on my feet resting my hands on the desk, leaning into it, concentrating. The big parking lot had 3 sections of parking. The first layer was against the curb, the center section had two rows, and the third section stretched the length of the property along the fence. This is where most of the employees park, leaving the premium parking to customers.
As he's walking out in the direction of the parking lot, i'm running scenarios in my head. He could be a customer that i don't know, who parked out there. I'm trying to see which cars i recognize in that area and which ones i don't. He may have gone next door to buy something from the gas station and is just coming back, explaining why i didn't see him walk past me exiting the building. He may not be a customer, but happened to park on our property during the previous guys shift, but if that happened, and he failed to talk to him about it, for instance he managed to get off property before he could be asked to park somewhere else, my co-worker would have mentioned it before he left. Maybe he forgot to mention it. Maybe this person is not a customer, but is just walking. There is a fence along the public facing side of the property that runs along the street and curb. It's quite common for people to wander on our side of the fence looking for a short cut, and realizing halfway out to the parking lot that it's fenced in. Some of these people turn around, and some hop the fence. Or he could be up to no good.
Well, being me and my curse, and having only just come on, i could only expect this person to be up to no good. I radio surveillance so they could position a few cameras and get a dynamic camera on him. When he reaches the end of the curb, and thus the start of the parking lot, I have to conclude he doesn't intend on turning around. I tell surveillance that i'm headed out there. I walk out a back door that puts me in the parking lot about 15-20 yards behind him. He reaches the middle of the parking lot, which leaves only two of my previous options.
He could not have parked a car out there because beyond the middle section was the back row that only employees park. He was either going for one of those, or he was going to hop the fence. I wasn't betting on him hopping the fence. It's my job to hope he's going to hop the fence and know that he's not going to hop the fence. Something you should know about casino employees, and especially dealers. They are loaded. Even the ones that aren't, act like it. The back row of our parking lot was filled with BMW's, Lexus SUV's, Camaro's, Mustang's, and a Ferrari. Then, all the way in the corner, with an oil spot marking its territory, there was my hunk of junk. A 30 year old commuter, a beater i'd taken across the country 3 times, and held together by tape, shotty electrical, and promises to God that i could never truly fulfill in a single lifetime. Guess where he's headed? No, no guess, you'll never guess...
I know that the camera Surveillance is using happens to be on about a 10 second delay at any given time. It's the type of camera they must use in CSI episodes because it spins around sometimes and catches license plates a quarter mile away in another parking lot clear as day, even at night. The amount of data it uses just takes a bit of time to process. It's no joke. I use to tell people some of our cameras could see everything about a person except their blood type, and i'm not sure they can't do that. Because of this delay, i am updating Surveillance as we go.
"He's headed toward my car. Be ready to call the police." There was no need. Surveillance and i were as tight as two departments can be when you're not allowed to meet or speak socially or know each others names (we regularly broke those rules. Call me crazy, i like to know the people watching my back, and they get tired of being locked in a box in the back of the building for hours on end). He was already on it.
"He's at the door, trying to get inside. Go ahead and call. Keep the camera on it."
"10-4" Love those guys. He was already calling.
I'm maybe 10 yards behind him when he gains entry into my car. He had a key he knew would work on most any worn down old lock of my model. Bad luck for him, the poor SOB with the old jalopy was security and he was standing right behind him.
I was at the door a second or two after he got in and closed it. I threw open the door and stuck my head in. From the pictures i look like i own a clown car. The hood of the car was below my nipples when standing, and here i am leaning down into the car. The pictures were great. I looked like i could have flipped the car, and i probably could have.
"You see those handcuffs?" I tell him, pointing to the extra pair i have on the parking brake in the center console.
"You want me to put those on you?" I'm not actually waiting for a response.
"What are you doing in my car? Get the fuck out!"
"I was..."
"You know who i am? You know where you're at? And you're in my car?" I couldn't have cared less about my car to be honest, it's more the principle of the thing. You come into MY HOUSE...
"You know how many cameras this place has? You know the police are already on the way?" I say, indicating the radio.
"Yes sir, i'm sorry!"
"Get the fuck out of here!"
"I'm sorry! I..."
"Hey! You want me to get the gun out of the back?" I made like i was going to go into the back seat. I don't actually keep a gun in my car. Especially in that neighborhood. My assumption has always been that some guy might try to break into my car and could steal it. Crazy right?
"Go! Get the fuck out of here before the police find you! And don't let me see you around here! I'm here every day!"
He was moving with purpose now. That's what i wanted.
I walked back toward the front of the building while he made his exit from the property, and i made note of where he was headed.
"He's off property now, Westbound...blah blah blah descriptive information"
I headed to the surveillance room. I knocked on the door. The Shift Manager was already back there and opened it. A surveillance guy is still on the phone with the operator. He's describing what he looks like and i'm seeing stills on monitors of camera angles from the parking lot of what i just experienced, along side dozens of live views of games inside the casino and things. None of which i'm supposed to be seeing, and i don't know if my Shift Manager knows i've frequented this area before, so i try to make a point of averting my eyes like my best friends sister is changing in front of me.
"Our Security Guard is right here. Yeah. Here."
I talk to the operator for a minute giving my best description of events and answering her questions, and then we hang up.
My Shift Manager spoke first after i was off the phone,
"That was really disappointing! I thought you were going to bury him in the pavement!"
"I was in a good mood. Besides, it's early. If it had been late and i was in a bad mood like the other night" (we'd had a major incident the other night, followed by another, lesser incident, and i was not happy) "I wouldn't have had *Surveillance name* call the police!"
We laugh about it a little bit like we always do after high stress situations, mostly talking about how lucky the guy was that it was me in a good mood and not my boss in a bad mood etc etc.
Eventually a police car pulls into the parking lot.
"Well, time to get back to work."
I told them i'd go bring the officer around back and into the surveillance room.
I met him outside before he could come in.
"Was it your car?"
"Yep!" We knew each other. We'd been in business together before.
I directed him to the back and to Surveillance. We all watched the video together. When it got to the part where he gains entry, i'm able to see for the first time that he has a key.
"Looks like he has a key" the officer says. "They usually get them to work on older model cars" he explains.
"Yeah." This aint my first day in hood captain obvious.
He gets in the car just as i enter frame on the super-camera. The officer lets out a snort and shakes his head.
We finished watching the video, and the officer started asking his questions.
"Had you seen him before?"
"Was it locked?"
"Did he say anything?"
"Not really."
"Anything broken or taken?"
"I didn't see anything, but i don't think so. I didn't really give him enough time."
"You should really look into one of those steering wheel locks. They're pretty cheap."
"You ever see "Roadhouse?" Patrick Swayze has that beat up car because he know something could happen to it and he doesn't care what happens to it?" I point to my car on the monitor. "There you go."
He gave a smile. Can't really argue with that i guess.
"Want to go look and make sure nothings broken?"
"Sure." I'll take an excuse to not do the paperwork for 5 more minutes.
The officer, myself, and my Shift Manager head out there and take a look. I do a once over, make sure the locks still work, double check the paperwork is still there, i already know my cuffs are good, check for my backup flashlight etc. A second officer pulls up. I recognize him too, and give him a wave.
AI returned to the group. "Looks good. Like i said, i didn't really give him a chance to do anything."
"Well we'd prefer if you make sure to call us first before you go out here alone." He's doing his civil service. Can't blame him, but my whole job was going out and doing things like this alone, so i have an apparent disfavor for my own personal welfare at this point.
"Oh, yeah! We had surveillance on the phone with you guys before i even got up to the car." I know that's not what he meant. He just smiled. He did his job.
"Well at this point i don't even know what i'd charge him with." To this day i don't know how that could be, but as much as i liked the police in the area personally, they were less than reliable. I can think of a number of things one could be charged with, least of all trespass might be a place to start. If they found him it would at least give us a name and things to put on paperwork for the future if he ever becomes a problem again. I take it as a compliment though. My job was to prevent crime. I stopped a crime so early, the police felt there wasn't enough to charge him with anything. Nobody got hurt, and everybody's happy...except my shift manager who really wanted to see me beat someone up.
"Well if you find him just let him know we've got his face in our system."
We three walked back toward the front entrance, and the other police officer drove off.
"We see you guys out here all night long, and all these cameras...I don't know why anyone would try you guys." The officer tells us.
"The guy is just lucky it was *my name* and not *my much-larger-if-you-can-believe-it-because-i'm-huge, shorter tempered, expensive truck driving, classic car collecting, Nebraska football Defensive lineman playing, boss*" My Shift manager explains to the officer.
"He's lucky i was in a good mood and it was the start of my shift and not the end, otherwise, you guys would have pulled up and the guy would have been face down on the ground already in handcuffs."
"You guys be safe out here, i doubt he's going to be hanging out somewhere we can find him, but we'll let you know if we find him. Let us know if you see him again."
"We will."
The officer left, and my Shift Manager and i spent some time talking on the front curb.
"You should have kicked his ass. If that were my car..."
"Yeah but you drive a Corvette i drive a piece of crap. He was lucky it was my car. If it were anybody else's car, like *name of one of the only customers i liked and would take extra care to make sure was safe and not being bothered* or another employee, the guy would have been dead." I meant it too. You come into MY HOUSE! Lucky doesn't even begin to describe it. I caught a guy trying to break into an employees fancy car one time, way back. That mofo was lucky he saw me coming up on him when he did and ran, because if he hadn't, i don't even know what i'd have done to him, but nothing good.

I went inside and started the paperwork. I requested a specific picture for the report that i knew showed a clear face of the guy while exiting my car, with me in the background looking up at the camera with the most "do you believe this shit" look on my face. I was only about an hour into my shift. Still all night to go.

My boss relieved me in the morning. I had the pleasure of telling him all about it in as cavalier a manner as i could. He was able to confirm that the guy was indeed lucky it wasn't his car on his shift. He enjoyed the picture. It was a good time. I had a good time. That job might have made me into a sociopath.

submitted by sam05_MrRoboto to talesfromsecurity [link] [comments]

Weekend Reader: Two Haralabos Voulgaris Gambling Stories From The Past. (Very long).

[Note to this sub: Here are two gambling stories involving Haralabos Voulgaris. Two things you should know. 1) I originally wrote this for a completely different, anonymous audience and not for all the wonderful "Shoe Fitness Architects", "Pizza Delivery Engineers", Overnight Security Enforcers, and DMV Workers that I've gotten the pleasure of meeting on here during my time on /billsimmons. Instead, it will seem like I'm talking to a room full of strangers, and for the first time. So if you read something that you've already seen me say on this sub, you know the reason. I also sound “different” in this.
2) It's long. You've been warned, I don't want to hear shit about it being so damn long. Think of this as a throwback to the Page 2 days, when you knew a guy was going to take a huge, extended shit because he just printed out Simmons' latest article and ran into the bathroom. You know, the “glory days”.
If you read this on Friday, you can save this for your afternoon work shit. Read it on your phone though, because it's got a short YouTube clip in it that helps tell the story.
If you read it over the weekend, I suggest smoking a bowl beforehand, especially to our Canadian friends up North. Doesn't have to be Top Shelf, just something to buzz you going in.
That's it. Enjoy.
The recent news of the Dallas Mavericks hiring Haralabos Voulgaris as Director of Quantitative Research and Development recently blew my mind. I knew it was Bob's goal to be an NBA GM, and this job isn't quite on the GM level, but I still can't believe he's made it onto a real NBA organization. I still think of him mostly from his early 2000's poker and sports betting days, and I never imagined he'd be able to hold down a real job someday. I didn't think anyone from the gambling world ever could.
I was heavily into sports gambling and poker at the same time as Bob was ascending as a sports gambling force, from the late 80's until well into the 2000's. I didn't know Haralabos well, yet I heard about or saw him all the time. This pretty much describes all relationships in gambling to be honest. But I did make sure to hear all the stories about Haralabos back then, because they always made the gossip rounds and were usually funny.
I'm here to share two of Haralabos' famous gambling stories, to give you a little insight into the man. If you are an Old School gambler, you've already heard them. But they are now 15 years old, and I couldn't find a good telling already on the Internet, so new people might get a kick out of these. Sources are at the bottom of this post.
People need to understand that, back then (early 2000s), Bob was best known for two things: betting the NBA, and being a smart ass trash talker at the poker tables. Bob was a world class needler that people highly resented because he had “Fuck You” kinds of money and he sure lorded that fact over everybody. He found everyone in the gambling world incredibly stupid compared to himself, and wasn't afraid to let people know it. I guess that's not much different than his Twitter in 2018, except he's learned to be more polite about it.
It was amusing being in a poker room with Bob in it, unless you were the focus of his remarks. He did not have any boundaries and was merciless, and really went after people “Micheal Jordan style” with the ferocity of his put-downs. Asked to describe him, I'd say 98% of players back then would call him an “arrogant dickhead” (including me at that time), while 2% would say “really sharp guy who doesn't tolerate fools” (including me now). We would all agree that he could be hilarious.
With that set-up, here are two Haralabos Voulgaris gambling stories that let's you know what he was like back in the early 2000's.
Story #1
My favorite Haralabob story, which long time 2+2ers have already heard about and whose legend has grown over the years, is the infamous Freddy Deeb story. If you know it, you are already nodding your head. But hopefully it's new to you. It's a classic.
Freddy Deeb was a rich business man from Lebanon, but a lot of people thought he was Egyptian (close enough for poker players). “Fast Freddy” was a decent if unspectacular poker player who pre-dated the poker boom. So Freddy was a legit and well known regular even before TV got involved with the game, and parlayed that “real, genuine poker player” label into appearances on TV when the poker boom happened. He had strong credibility.
Freddy is probably most famously remembered for being accused of “Going South” by Johnny Chan on an episode of High Stakes Poker. Freddy handled that accusation in typical Freddy fashion – making a big deal about this small joke insulting his integrity, aggressively confronting everyone about it and challenging them to heads-up poker matches to prove his manhood. The dude could be a hothead. (“Going South”, which was more commonly called “rat-holing”, is when a player sneaks high denomination chips off the table undetected after winning a big pot, so he has no possibility of losing them back in a later big hand. It's a unethical way to play “hit and run” if you win big quickly, without the “running” part being as obvious as picking up and leaving immediately.)
The two things you needed to know about Freddy: 1) He was short. I mean really short, like 5'1” or less. Not to play Freud too much, but you can probably guess that the reason he spent all his time in poker rooms was because of this physical limitation. Poker attracted the social rejects like no other activity in the 1990's, and welcomed the physically and mentally defective in droves. It was a haven almost exclusively for nerds and losers, before TV made it cool for everyone to play No Limit Texas Hold'em, The Cadillac of Gambling Games (so hip!).
2) Stemming from #1, Freddy could have a short temper. If you are jumping straight into a “Napoleon Complex” accusation for Freddy, well, in this case you're the heavy favorite. Freddy was a quiet, nice guy for 90% of the time he played. But Freddy was quick to act like a gangster you didn't want to fuck with if you ever gave him the chance, with that persistent shoulder chip that will never go away. Everyone let him play gangster without comment as long as he still had a bankroll to gamble with.
Here is a YouTube video that illustrates both points perfectly. Watch the whole thing to the end for maximum comedy – it's fucking hilarious:
Here's Freddy acting like a super tough guy, and – in the moment - you can believe it too. Until the camera pulls back and shows the other players at the table, and then you get a height perspective of the whole scene. It's unreal funny at that point. Gus Hansen sitting next to him looks like Yao Ming by comparison.
So when this first HBob story happens, poker is just about to really take off. My guess is that it was around 2003-4, so the hype around poker was growing fast but still not close to the peak yet. The first Season of the World Poker Tour (WPT) had already aired, and it was a cultural phenomenon. Poker players were speculating already that WPT tournament champions were going to be as famous as top professional athletes, and with the same kind of ultra-lucrative sponsorship opportunities and endorsement deals. A very common topic at the table was how much getting to the final table at a televised WPT event was worth in fame, above and beyond any of the listed prize money. Perhaps a few million? It was a crazy time, and being on TV was all anyone cared about back then. Seems a bit silly now.
Freddy had been on TV a few times with some respectable runs in some bigger tournaments. The WPT and ESPN featured him in a few “flavor of the game” clips during their early poker broadcasts, and that seemed like a pretty big deal, especially to Freddy. TV Poker was grooming narratives and trying to create presentable, relatable stars in the poker world and weren't above adding in some artificial flavor to an otherwise unremarkable cast of characters.
Being a legit long time poker player was enough for Freddy to get some screen time – the TV producers could take it from there. I think the narrative was along the lines of how anyone – all ages, ethnicity, shapes and sizes could find a home in the poker world, and Freddy exemplified all that. It all went directly to Freddy's head, and he was not alone during this time.
Anyway, the story goes like this. Haralabos is playing in a very juicy high stakes poker game in a California casino, most likely the Commerce. The game was already full with 9 players, which is the max in most California rooms.
Haralabos himself was very new to poker at this time. He dabbled previously, but only started playing for big stakes in the past year or two because of the huge influx of new poker players, who watched the WPT on television and flooded into casinos, chasing riches. Thus there was easy money to be made. Before then, of course, he was focused on his NBA gambling. He was very near the height of his powers as an NBA sports bettor, and known pretty damn well in the sports betting world, if not the general public yet. Far more people in poker knew about Bob than he knew about them, though. He was just starting to get serious about playing poker. Bob knew about some of the bigger poker names he gambled with betting sports together in the past, but knew almost none of the newly (and artificially) created TV “poker stars” that ESPN / WPT had chosen to promote.
So Freddy walks into the Commerce one day and sees the high stakes poker table, and eyes the line up. Freddy knows this “Main Game” is incredibly juicy, and wants in – immediately. He calls the floorman over and insists they create an extra space at the table for him and for the game to be played 10-handed. 10-handed was actually the common number of players in Las Vegas poker tables at the time, and Freddy was usually based there. Freddy is sort of 'big timing' the floorman, reminding him how much he's played there over the years, how much rake he's given that casino, and how all these new poker players want to play with someone like himself, a big-shot, old school, now famous poker player.
There is nothing that poker players like more than poker room drama (except maybe comped food), so this commotion has drawn the attention of every table within earshot. Everyone near by was focusing on the Main Game with Haralabos in it. Drawn from many accounts, here is a recreation of what happened:
Freddy (accented, slightly broken English)(to Floorman): Johnny, there's no board. Just put me in big blind right now and we can play with ten.
Floorman Johnny: Table's not big enough for ten, Freddy. This isn't Vegas. Our players will object. Everyone wants their space.
Freddy: Just ask then. If there are objections then Freddy will wait. But no one will object! C'mon Johnny, how much action I give to you? Freddy is “action player”. Everyone wants to play with Freddy. They see me, they know “That's Freddy” and they want to play.
[Yes, Freddy was talking about himself in the Third Person. What can I say?]
Floorman Johnny (reluctantly, to Main Game): Guys, Freddy wants to sit and play 10-handed. There is no board an he doesn't want to wait around for nothing. Any objections?
Haralabos (immediately): I object. Who the fuck is this guy? [To Freddy] Buddy, you're not special. What makes you think you control this game? If more people come, then you can start a “Must-Move” game and play in that. Otherwise, wait your fucking turn like everyone else. Ok, buddy? [To Floorman, incredulous] What the fuck?
Freddy (heated at Haralabos): Listen, buddy. Everyone here know Freddy. Floorman. Dealer. Players. All know Freddy, love Freddy. Who the fuck are you? In Vegas, Freddy wants a game, the manager come running to help Freddy! They bring in best table to start new game for Freddy! They get best dealer on break to come deal! They bring in new chips, new cards for Freddy! They bring special chair for Freddy to sit in!
Haralabos: Oh yeah, Freddy? Is it a high chair?
A thunderclap of uproarious laughter rang out from all who were listening in, perhaps fifty people or more, all rubberneckers from other tables drawn in by the drama. There was no denying the spontaneity, no denying the reason, and certainly no denying the focus of who the laughter was directed at. Fast Freddy, all five feet zero inches of him, with the hair-trigger anger and never lacking words, was truly stunned and humiliated into silence. His eyes became squinted and his face was stuck in a wince of pain, his whole head turning as red as a stubborn, two-week old pimple that just wouldn't pop. He rocked back and forth as if recovering from a physical punch, not knowing what to do as a second, smaller wave of laughter began because it was just that funny, and now the story was being instantly re-told.
The few that were present and could actually feel sympathy quickly stifled their laughter, feeling the guilt of knowing the guy just got hit in his most sensitive area in front of a very large audience, and was truly wounded. They were hoping Freddy would finally say something, anything, to show that he wasn't completely crushed inside, that he wasn't as hurt as he seemed. Instead, Freddy walked away silently, his decades of “bluster armor” built protecting his sensitivity about his height laid on the ground, smashed.
Souls are crushed all the time in poker rooms. You think you've seen it all, and you just grow immune. But this one stood out, as almost a warning. You just don't want to get into a verbal war with Haralabob.
There is an addendum to this story.
A year or so later, and strictly by chance, Freddy and Haralabos found themselves at the same table during a big tournament. Neither man had forgotten their previous encounter (how could they?). By this time, poker was being covered in real-time by a fleet of new poker reporters and journalists, and, by all accounts, Haralabos was riding Freddy hard that day, with verbal put-downs and jokes at Freddy's expense non-stop. Freddy tried to play it cool, knowing he was no verbal match for HBob.
Until this happened. There was a Random Guy sitting directly on Freddy's left hand side who was new, didn't know anyone at the table (or their past history with each other) and who politely told Freddy this (recreation):
Random Guy (to Freddy): Hey man. You need to protect your cards better. I can see your hole cards flash sometimes when you look. I saw you had paint last hand. You need to learn to peek without flashing.
Freddy: Buddy, do you know who I am? I'm playing this game since before you were born! I win more money this year than you will have in your whole life! They ask me to write new poker book, that is kind of player I am! Buddy, I'm writing now, next time I see you I bring you a signed copy of my poker book!
Haralabos: Next time you should bring a phone book instead so you can sit on it and see your cards better.
Well, Freddy was playing it cool with HBob until then, but that last comment instantly set him off. Again, by the written accounts of the poker reporters live blogging the event, Freddy shot straight up out of his chair (though you probably couldn't tell...) and challenged HBob to a fist fight, screaming expletives at him and demanding a duel. Haralabob just sat in his chair laughing, saying he didn't want to go outside and fight Freddy because he didn't want to get arrested for child abuse.
Famous poker player Daniel Negreanu witnessed this incident live, and blogged about it at the time. I remember that he thought that Freddy would be a decent favorite in a fight between Freddy and Haralabos. But I have my doubts about that. Negreanu disliked Haralobob personally, like many poker players who ever faced him at that time, because HBob could be so vicious. So he was biased in his fight assessment, IMHO.
HBob was not a figher at all - more of a jester than a knight – but I thought he could always just stiff-arm Freddy by the forehead and then Freddy would be left with that cartoon 'swinging of the arms trying to reach him' thing while HBob could just jab him with his other arm. I would have made Haralabos the -200 favorite.
Story #2
This happened in the early 2000's, during Season 3 of the World Poker Tour, just a year or so after Story #1.
Haralabos had played in one of the WPT's big televised tournaments and made the Final Table. Not only that, but he ultimately came in Second Place, meaning he was going to get a LOT of TV time, which, again, most players thought was worth more than the actual prize money. Poker by now was white hot in America and was bringing so many people instant overnight fame. Players were resorting to obnoxious table antics and hyper displays of “personality” just to get a few seconds of screen time. Everyone was trying to create a “brand”.
Not to belabor the point, but before television made poker cool and respectable, it was filled with 95% scumbags and degenerates with almost no white-collar, working professionals. But TV poker didn't want to portray that sordid image. In the very early days, the WPT actually had a “dress code” for appearing on the televised Final Table, where a sports jacket and collared shirts were required and would be provided for you if you didn't own them yourself (in other words, for everyone).
Even the long time “Old School” gamblers were cleaned up and presented as daring adventurers instead of leather-assed angle-shooters they (we) really were. Known broke degenerates like T.J. Cloutier was turned into worshiped, heroic figures instantly, romanticized by television producers as sharp equity traders who practiced at the table instead of on Wall Street. The reality was that guys like Cloutier were hanging around poker rooms mostly to shamelessly beg recent winners for a buy-in, or even just a meal.
Under this ethos of “cleaning up poker players' images”, players were allowed to manufacture any kind of image they wanted if they were going to be on the WPT TV show. Producers for the WPT would ask each finalist for a biography, but did absolutely no fact or background checking at all intentionally, mostly out of fear of what they might find if they actually did do so. So with all that in mind, here is the official bio for Haralabos that appeared on the WPT website before his televised event, almost certainly written by HBob himself:
"Haralabos Voulgaris is a 29-year-old professional sports bettor from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. This poker tyro brings a lot more to his first WPT final table than meets the eye. He is a playwright, holds a degree in philosophy, and his goals reach far beyond the green felt. His plans for the next 5 years include learning to play the piano, to have one of his plays performed on Broadway, and to win a WPT title."
I'm not sure how much of this was an inside joke, how much was just the pressure to appear white-collar in order to attract advertisers (remember, poker players were all thinking about future endorsement deals at this time), and how much of this was HBob's ego run amuck.
BUT COME ON! “Playwright”? Has Haralabos ever gone to a play yet, even in 2018? But that wasn't enough; he wanted to have one of his many, many written plays performed on Broadway very soon, because that's how dedicated he was to this art form! Just remember, this is the guy who widely known throughout the poker world for using his mastery of language to mercilessly torture midgets and other unfortunates at the poker table. Not exactly Tennessee Williams. Add in the piano lessons and the PhD in philosophy (philosophy!), and the fact that the WPT didn't bat an eye in putting this up as his bio, and the unintentional comedy is off the charts.
Haralabos claimed to friends at the time that it was mostly a joke, but as we will now see, he seemed to really care about this false image.
As you probably well know, there is a gap between when the WPT Final Table was played, and when the show based off of it is actually aired. By the time Haralabos' episode was about to air, he was staying as a guest in the house of a former poker pro named Paul Phillips, who only the most dedicated and old players will remember. (Paul Phillips won 2 WPT titles in the very early seasons, took the prize money, and pretty much disappeared from poker, going on to live a “normal” life. One of the few gambling success stories, IMHO).
Well, Paul was a practical joker himself, and he had found a way to hack his DVR and change the description of recorded programs, including Bob's WPT episode. Knowing that Haralabos was coming back soon to watch it, Paul changed the description on the DVR to fuck with him. The original show description was something like this:
“Six new players vie for the title of Champion of the LA Poker Classic Tournament. Players include movie star John Smith, astronaut Mark Hunt, playwright Haralabos Volgaris, undercover international spy Chris Jenkins, the crown prince of Wakanda Jerome Jones, and the inventor of the Internet Joe “Man Tits” Mande.“
Obviously the other names and titles were made up by me, but you get the picture. Anyway, Paul made one small adjustment, knowing Haralabos would see it:
“Six new players vie for the title of Champion of the LA Poker Classic Tournament. Players include movie star John Smith, astronaut Mark Hunt, uptight playwright Haralabos Volgaris, undercover international spy Chris Jenkins, the crown prince of Wakanda Jerome Jones, and the inventor of the Internet Joe “Man Tits” Mande.“
Paul then waited for Haralabos to return so they could watch the episode together, leaving up the modified description of “uptight playwright” on the TV and making sure HBob was in the room alone for a few minutes before starting the show, so he had no choice but to stare at the phony description.
Bob noticed it immediately. According to Paul, HBob started to get really worried, thinking that the show was going to portray him in a terrible light and edit him to look dumb and foolish, just because of that one word “uptight” in the description. Before even starting the show, HBob was already making excuses, telling Paul that he forgot they kept his microphone on at all times, and he said some critical things about the WPT's production crew, and now they were getting their revenge by calling him uptight. He kept bringing up ways he might have acted uptight during the Final Table and was pre-rationalizing them for Paul, who was enjoying it all.
This went on for the first 15 minutes or so of the show, with Haralabos worrying and moaning non-stop about being called “uptight” and wondering how they were going to edit him to look that way, until Paul finally let him off the hook. According to Paul, Haralabos didn't believe it was a practical joke and kept worrying and griping longer, until he saw for himself that it was just a standard WPT show with no unfair editing involved.
I'm not going to put too much on Haralabos for being so worried about his portrayal. Players really did believe that a good edit was the difference between a lucrative endorsement deal with Budweiser or Nike and getting nothing. The sky seemed to be the limit. BUT... the notion that Bob was just playing an inside joke and didn't really care about being known as a “playwright, piano player, and philosopher” didn't quite match up with his defensive and concerned attitude that day.
Source for Story #1: This is a very famous poker story that was talked about amoung players live and on 2+2 (the dominant, high-traffic poker forum back then and perhaps now) a lot when it happened. You can find snippets and references on I'm sure other long time and knowledgeable players will verify hearing a version of this story before.
An account of it was given by Haralabos himself on the podcast “Big Poker Sundays” which he used to co-host with Scott Huff, but has long since disappeared. It was a part of Poker Road Radio, which was run by Barry Greenstein's asshole son before closing. As this story is now close to 15 years old and poker media is on life support, many previous accounts from blogs and recording are now gone, and thus a lot of it had to be reconstructed from memory. Part of the reason I'm re-telling it is because it was gradually being lost in time, and that is a motive to re-tell it now, for a new generation.
Source for Story #2: I got the exact WPT description of Bob's bio from the 2+2 Archive ( The story of the altered DVR description and Paul Phillips came from the memory of Paul's old blog on LiveJournal (“extempore”), which has long been deleted, and from my own correspondence with Paul Phillips at the time (we were pretty good “online friends” before the invention of Social Media. Anyone remember r.g.p. on Usenet?). Again, unfortunately memory had to play a large role.
I by no means want to pretend Haralabos and I were close. I knew about him and tracked him more than most poker players due to my sports betting background, but Bob was just one of a hundred different and strange characters in the gambling world that you'd recognize daily, none of whom you'd want to spend a lot of time with. We had some mutual friends, that's about it.
Both stories were written under the Geneva Convention rules, which explicitly states that all gambling stories worldwide may contain up to 15% of exaggerations in order to make the story more entertaining or dramatic and still be called “truthful”. Like all good gambling stories should be told. But the core elements are as faithful a retelling as I could make it, including the WPT description, and the key dialogue by Bob that was quoted the most at that time. It's the dates and locations I'm least sure about.
submitted by mcribgaming to billsimmons [link] [comments]

[Super & Real] Chapter One Part Two

Fortunately, for him, the cities along the Alton stretch of the Mississippi River had one thing in abundance: riverboat casinos. He found one and parked. What game would give him the greatest advantage? He guessed he would start with blackjack, just because it was the one with the rules he remembered the best. The security guard didn’t even card him. His goatee seemed to be proof enough of age. Two stops he made first: the ATM, and then the cage. He got a hundred dollars in casino chips.
He wandered past the slot machines and found the blackjack table. It was early enough in the day that he was the only one sitting at the table. Knowing what he knew about security cameras and goons wandering the floor, he made a deliberate show of sitting down with his hands above the table and placed his palms flat. This was to provide a visual record, if accused of cheating, that not once did he have his hands below the table, eliminating the possibility of using a card counting device. The dealer, a man in his mid-forties, regarded him. “Hello, sir, this is blackjack,” the man introduced. “How much would you like to bet?”
Manfred set down fifty dollars in chips. The dealer handed him two cards, face up, a three, and a seven. Before the dealer could pull out his own cards, Manny quietly used his see-through vision. The dealer was going to get a nine and a six. The dealer put one of his cards face up and the other face down. The dealer was in a better position than him now, closer to twenty-one. The next card was a seven. “Hit,” he told the dealer. Now he was at seventeen, forcing the dealer to hit to try and beat him. He saw, however, the dealer’s next card and had to force himself not to smile. It was a jack, worth ten, putting the dealer at twenty-five, a bust.
“Good job,” the dealer said. “Table pays two to one, so you get a hundred.” He handed Manny a hundred-dollar chip. Manny put down the new chip with the fifty and went another round. The dealer was going to get a seven and a queen: seventeen. Manny looked at his cards to come. He could get a two, a five, an eight, and a three. He would beat the dealer again. The dealer whistled. “Two in a row, that’s something.” He looked further ahead. The dealer would have a nine, and a queen, putting him at nineteen. Meanwhile, he could get a six, a two, a king, and an ace. He would lose either way. He pulled his chips aside and bet fifty before going another round. The cards were dealt. “Ah, I guess no one can win ‘em all.”
“I’m still in the positive, so, I’m going to keep going,” Manny replied.
The dealer shrugged. “Sure.”
This went on for a while. He would bet big when he knew he would win, and bet small when he knew he would lose. He had to stay under some amount just over eleven hundred dollars, because above that, he’d have to fill out a tax form. Maybe he’d do that at another casino, but right now, he had to maximize his starting bet at another casino. After nine hundred dollars, he stepped aside. After cashing his chips in, he pocketed the money and headed out to his car. He put the money in the middle compartment. He stared at it. Two weeks’ pay after taxes still fell short of what he had. He drove off, headed another ten or so miles to another casino. The Mississippi River had several of these to choose from.
Sitting down at another blackjack table, he sat across from another dealer, and at least two other people sat here. Normally, it would be hard to consider how far ahead to look at the cards, but somehow, her brain was smarter than his. The other people noticed his incredible luck, and he tried to minimize it by placing more on losing bets. After quite a bit of winning, some eleven thousand dollars, security approached and asked him to leave. He went to the main cage, cashed out, and was handed a form.
“Your Social Security card and Driver’s License, sir?” the cashier asked.
He opened his wallet and produced them. “Death and taxes,” he joked, handing them over. He filled out the form, and handed it back. An uncomfortable few minutes passed. “I’d like my winnings in a check, please, minus a thousand in cash, if you could.”
The cashier smiled, returning his identification. “Certainly, sir,” he said. A few minutes later, and he had a check in his pocket and more cash in his wallet. He also had a security escort to his car. He drove off and didn’t stop until he got to a branch of his bank, some four miles away. Shutting the engine off, he realized his heart was pounding.
He leaned back in his chair. A ragged breath escaped. He had to remind himself nothing was coming after him. He had gotten away with it. Obviously, he figured, otherwise security would’ve pulled him aside then and there. He went up to the ATM and deposited the check. He doubted he could handle explaining things to a live person. He could scarcely believe that almost half a year’s money had entered his possession. Starting the car again, a thought occurred to him.
Assuming this is real, he realized, it would be absurd to believe it would only happen to him. He’d gotten so mentally high from the winnings, and so distracted by the possibility of insanity, that the basic hadn’t even struck him until this point. After all, he’d unlocked more evidence: the likelihood of him hallucinating turning into another person was high. However, for the insanity option to be the truth, now, he’d have to have somehow beaten the incredible odds of casino blackjack consistently enough to have won almost twelve thousand dollars. Also, he realized he’d only been in the close, Alton casino. He’d never been in this other one. So, he would’ve had to hallucinate something he’d never seen before, in significant detail. So far, he’d made a lot of money, and assuming this wasn’t a giant hallucination, he could make more. But what bothered him is the fact that, he knew what would happen next.
He’d read enough comics to know that, should he decide to use his powers, he’d be pulled into a situation he had little control of. It rattled him, knowing that, if enough people developed powers like his, society could very well collapse. He’d read plenty of comics and even some novels, and almost all of them had the same message: society can’t handle these things. The last thing he wanted was for the world to turn into Sengoku-era Japan, with local leaders fighting wars with each other. Another disturbing thought was, he could turn into Capacitor. Michelle Delanter was a very powerful super. She had the standard flying brick power set, and fought godlike beings before. In the comics, there had been a great deal of fights she’d been in. Unfortunately, her defining characteristic was that she always had an enemy to fight, many of which were more powerful than her. Obviously, he knew, in those stories, she always won. This wasn’t a story; this was life. He had no guarantees of winning. There were no mentors to teach him how to fight as a super. He had no one to help him learn.
This was new territory. He sighed and shook his head. “Dammit,” he thought out loud. He started the car. He felt the weight of possible events to come pushing down on him. If only he could wish it away, he believed. Then a mental image flashed through his mind. Some super out of a young adult novel obliterating the entire city and its surroundings. The old him would’ve been a victim, swept away like a sandcastle, no way to fight back. Now, he might find himself having to do battle, but he wouldn’t be a helpless victim. In fact, it might turn out to be his only tool to survive.
He returned home. If trouble would come to him sooner or later, he would be prepared. He had to know how complex her powers were and to what degree they worked.
One of the first things he tested was her intelligence. Was she as smart as him? Was she smarter than him? He had to know. In college, he’d completed calculus one with a ‘B’ and that utterly thrilled him. Once he found out he wouldn’t have to complete calculus two he almost danced a jig. Now, he dug around the internet until he came across a year two calculus primer. Since it’d been almost a decade, and his math skills were rusty, he began reading through the descriptions. The websites had various levels of descriptiveness, so if he came across one that didn’t seem technical enough, he found one that was.
After twenty minutes of reading, his mind snapped back to self-awareness. Suddenly, he became aware the math fascinated him. As far as he knew, it never occurred to him that math could fascinate anyone. More importantly, not once had any of the topics that bewildered him even remotely troubled her. The wiki for Furious Thunder indicated that all the versions of her possessed some degree of enhanced intellect, most being a four out of seven—with two being an average person. The latest incarnation, however, had been upgraded to a five—marked by the descriptor, “high genius.”
“She possessed an intellect much higher than the common man,” he read, “even before becoming enhanced. Afterward, however, her brilliance was brought to nigh-superhuman levels. Although not as smart as beings such as Psi-Storm, she can outsmart many of the cleverest enemies.”
Clicking back to the tab with the math instruction, he clicked on a video of a woman explaining some of the history of calculus. I don’t know if I’d wear that, he thought.
At once he hit the spacebar, pausing the video, and leaning back in his chair.
He’d just imagined himself, in her form, wearing the woman’s clothes, and found himself not enjoying that idea. He’d analyzed what he would look like in Capacitor form, dressed like that, and it bothered him. He’d judged her clothes. That thought caught him by surprise.
I’ve never cared about fashion or how clothes look, he thought.
A gasp almost escaped his mouth. The answer immediately presented itself. When I’m physically her, he realized, specifically, the brain, she has a different gender identity than I do. It would have been confusing if he didn’t currently have the intelligence to understand it. As far as he could tell, even though the brain was the seat of consciousness, there was no break in awareness. Granted, he had to admit, it had only been a few days. Still, it was no Jekyll & Hyde; there were no two people. There was just one person, with two different forms. It’s like two different word processors on the same computer, he realized. They have different features, but they share the same basic essence.
It occurred to him that he’d shifted some excess weight to her form. Even though he did it to make his clothes fit her, it triggered the same body image issues he had as a guy, but worse. Still, at the very least, it made it convenient that his large pants fit her.
His pants had slid down. He stood there and pulled his pants back up. A thumb and index finger slid into the gap where previously, it had been snug. Standing up, he pushed the chair aside and backed up. His male form re-emerged as he shifted back to normal, even transferring his excess weight back. Checking the waist of the pants, he coughed and shook his head. Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, her enhanced body burned through enough fat to make his pants loose.
Shifting back into her form, he clasped his hands over his face, breathed in and out, and sat down on his bed. This would be one hell of a learning curve.
submitted by alegonz to redditserials [link] [comments]

An LA coke dealer/writer describes his trade (I did not write this).

They asked Faulkner what’s the best job for a writer, in order to maintain a flow of day to day money and still have the time for his prose. His answer was to manage a whore house, reason being that the writer would glean material from people coming to get drunk and act bad with loose women. Further, the whore house environment would stimulate the scribe and expose him to new vernacular, resulting in better writing than can be had sitting around in some coffee house.
Well, William, I’m here to tell you that, with my pocket full of white dust in gram baggies, I am my own whore house.
How did a white boy with all his teeth fall so low, you ask? Maybe I’m unemployable, maybe I’m delusional. Maybe this, maybe that. I don’t deal maybes, motherfucker, I deal cocaine. And maybe you will too, if you read this manual. If you hate jobs and bosses. If you speak a little Spanish and carry a little gun. If you have a connection and a safe. If you aren’t a chicken shit.
Because, every night, I am forced, by dint of economic necessity to hobnob with degenerate humanity of all walks: rock stars and teachers, lawyers, doctors, and hairdressers. And sooner or later the kabuki of cocaine forces them all to admit everything. Turns out that the other side of the clock is where the richest lode of material for a writer really lives. My clients, the loquacious losers of the Gack Pack, drawn to me like moths to a blacklite, have told me every story, excuse, and routine jarred loose by truth serum they stick in their faces. So much so that I’ve achieved negative enlightenment.
I do it for us, dear reader. We’re all tired of reading the contrivances of three named bourgeoisie bitches with creative writing degrees from some tweedy east coast college. Everything that comes out of that machine reads the same. Naw, we want the raw uncut ravings of a drunk maniac dictated into motorcycle helmet while splitting lanes in K town with a headful of dust and pocket full of felonies. And that’s just what you’re getting now.
You think I could write this beautiful prose you’re reading sipping a soy latte through a straw? Hell no. To write this good you need a quiet place where you can get high, babble, wack off and scream. If you try to do any of that at cafe or college they will call the cops, I’m here to tell you.
I can confess to these crimes freely, because no one reads anything past the title anymore. But, If you have read this far maybe you want to get gooder at writing. And I’ll tell you what they didn’t tell you at your expensive writing school. It costs even more money to get good enough to compete out here in the casino.
I can afford to write shit like this because my moonlighting job will never go away. I don’t give a fuck about cunty editors bitching about how I’m scaring the away advertisers with bad language and incorrect content and run on sentences. As an outlaw, I’m free of lackey capitalism. I get to tell the truth. Because no matter what any cop, military, or rehab does, the product I distribute is heading to you now in c 147 military transports, 18 wheelers, by mail, mules, through tunnels, in coffins, submarines, launched by trebuchets, stuffed in assholes and, if you know me, on a fast vintage motorcycle.
See how fun crime is? The bonus is, if you get caught, you get to go to jail, where you’ll be in the company of great writers like Voltaire, Thoreau, Cervantes, Dostoevsky, Jack London, Ken Kesey, Malcom X and Hitler. Consider Coleridge stealing zithers for scag or Robert Louis Stevenson robbing stagecoaches to skin pop. I quote this quatrain written by Yeats after robbing a grave to buy more chloroform:
“‘from Ezra Pound on down Evidence is found, eating hash in jail is better than a degree from Brown” Think of O. Henry hanging paper to pay for tincture of horse tranquilizer. Or how Orwell was geeked up in Paris and London. Jack was Kerouacked on so many bennies that he typed a whole crappy book in one sitting. Aldous Huxley sold acid to children. Ayn Rand was a whore. Hemingway a “felo de se.” Satre smoked fry. Phillip K. Dick was so spun out he thought he could write. Stephen King was the “Ayatollah of Crackola” when he wrote his good shit.
You want to know why all these great writers had to commit drugs and do crime, outside of the fact that it’s fun as shit? Because to put black marks on white paper in return for green money paper is as close to alchemy as modern life allows. And alchemy is the type of wizardry which requires the adept to be mounted by the spirit.
A real writer has to win and lose and fear and hate and stay up real late and get arrested in a lime green bra because he’s trying to pick a melted bar twix out of his hair while going seventy-four miles an hour on the wrong side of the road in a snowstorm. That’s a good story. But, unless you’re Native American or forgot to eat dinner, you’ll never drunk enough to act like that without drugs.
If you don’t have enough time, money and drugs to act like a complete degenerate then you can’t hope to compete as a professional noveler or writist. People aren’t going to pay a sane, sober writer to write, mainly because they don’t pay writers anyway, and what kind of fun is sobriety and sanity if you don’t have any money? I wouldn’t read it.
Naw, girl, you got to go the distance, because getting paid for writing is like competing to be an astronaut in the NASA of Judaism. You up against smart people with trust funds. It takes the Right Stuff, which is drugs. For example, I had to take an Adderall, get butt naked, hork up a face full of dust, drink three micheladas and smoke half a joint while playing with a tazer to transcribe the mellifluous prose you run your eyes over now. The clever title required a case of whippets. None of that shit is cheap. Imagine trying to write a book!
It’s impossible for honest writer to afford enough decent drugs to write that good on a writer’s salary. Nope. You are going to have to work, unless you sell drugs. See how that works? And, you got the crime thing out of the way, too. Crime is always interesting to the reading public, plus free drugs. That’s two for one. Let me tell you, If you are going to get into writing for a living, you better get used to looking for bargains.
Because this ain’t Europe, asshole. Over here we eat our young. There’s no safety net. In America the artist is an enemy. If you fail you will be on the street, or worse, back at your parent’s house writing poetry about how you were misunderstood.
If you got a little sand in your pussy about breaking the law then drop to your knees, pray to the lord, and go home to Kansas. But If you seek to rank with the Heroes of Literature, apply the knowledge I’ve accrued as a professional criminal and member of the Writers Guild. Follow this step by step guide to turn America’s drug problem into your writing solution.
MOVE TO A CITY WITH MURDERERS IN IT The more the better. The cops in murder cities are worried about Hillside Stranglers and gang shootings, so they have less time to worry about why you are blaring Slayer at five in the morning with really skinny chicks who have a lot of earrings in weird places.
DO DRUGS I want to clear up some misconceptions about drugs: First off, you can’t abuse a drug, they don’t have feelings, or lawyers.
Don’t listen to anyone trying to make inanimate shit have feelings. That’s called “formification” and though formification can be fun, people who suffer from it are crazy. Like, that time you drank a whole box of fortified wine and saw impossible shit like Jim Morrison on a donkey and the word “ole” written in the sky. That was your brain was trying to tell you stop huffing glue on top of that parking garage in Tijuana.
What’s good about drug induced formication is that you’re not really crazy, you’re just on too many drugs. Which you can quit at any time. Not right now, though. Those dirty little kids with Jim Morrison will cut you with the razor blades they keep in their mouths if they think you’re a cop.
MIX DRUGS No. Wait. Don’t ever mix drugs. You have to pair them. Mellow the shrill shriek of cocaine with the bass of a yellow Vicodin. Pepper in hits of hash so the world sounds like a Big Muff pedal fed through a tin foil microphone. Garnish acid with whippets to achieve that “pissing on the electric fence” feeling.
The trick to not killing yourself on drugs is, depending on time zones, hormones and barometric factors, only one red pill with no more that two or three drinks every one to three hours. And blue pills are for whiskey, unless there’s beer.
Also, it’s good to have downers around because, remember, you are only three missed sleeps away from going insane.
JOBS Fuck that shit. Having a job fucks up your circadian rhythm.
If don’t have to get up in the morning then technically you don’t have a hangover, because you’re asleep. If you don’t have a hangover, then, you’re not an alcoholic. What’s more important? Having a job or not being an alcoholic?
BARTEND The only job worth getting for a prospective drug dealer is bartending because dealing drugs is the same thing as tending bar but without all the dishwashing.
Bartending is also great way to figure who is addicted to what, how often, and how much money they are used to spending on losing their minds. Plus, free drinks!
After a year working in any bar, anywhere, you will meet tons of drug fiends and connections. Consequently, your phone will become a gold mine. Take note of who hates The Man, because they will become your new customers
THE MAN The Man is the guy that comes in and drinks a beer really fast. Talks to some people. Does a little hand to hand. Leaves.
NICKNAME A street name is necessary because you don’t want your mama reading your government name in a deposition.
Introduce yourself to The Man with the nickname you desire. Hopefully, it sticks. Or else they’ll call you by a descriptive name, like if you if you have a fat week when met you will be Gordo, forever, even if you work out three times a day and quit eating gluten. Even if you get manorexia, you will still be called “fat” in their language long after you know what it means because you looked it up on your phone.
NEGOTIATING Okay, this is the part that can get you killed. So, it’s important to get really drunk for it.
The trick is to get in a drinking contest with The Man, shot for shot. In the course of this contest tell him you want to learn Spanish. “Como se dice” or in English “how do you say.”
“Come se dice this is good gack, cabrone?” the Man will tell you “Tu perioco is muy bueno!” Then you say it to him in his language. This will create trust, plus, you’ll get more drugs.
People who work for cartels are like organic farmers with their product, they have pride in it, so be sure to inquire the provenance of the dust. (Ahh! Columbia! Muy Bueno!)
Then teach the Man how to do the “Bjorn Borg” The correct way to perform a “Bjorn Borg” is to do a line of coke, bite a lime, throw the lime in the air, drink the shot of tequila, and then swat the lime into the bar wall, screaming as if you were serving a tennis ball. The Man will love that shit, I guarantee.
That’s when you hit him with “Como se dice how much is an ounce of this fucking gack?” (Cuanto questo un zay para pinche cocaina aqui, deek?)
Pro tip: Never ask for a kilo straight away. You don’t have the infrastructure. To buy a kilo of cocaine is to admit that you have 28 grand laying around, which is not some shit you need to be telling gangsters unless you want to go for a ride in a trunk.
Relax, bitch. Selling drugs isn’t as scary as it was during the hot-blooded Scarface days. Every Paisa knows they will be dissolved in a barrel if they do anything wrong. The corporate structure of cartels have normalized the game so you don’t have to be in a gang or even tote a machine gun because you are the final node in the delivery process.
If you prove to be reliable you’ll live under the rubric of their gang structure, a benefit to you if you end up in jail or if you need someone killed for a thousand bucks.
CUSTOMERS Selling drugs to hipsters, punks and cunts is not as easy as it sounds. No one has ever taught these kids today anything. Not math, not science, not how to not get arrested. The relaxed marijuana laws have further drained all the rigor out of the game.
Kids today, despite whole governments getting hacked, despite every sign that we are being monitored, still think it’s okay to act like a public fiend. You’ll have to get naked and wave pistols at them when they come by your house at five in the morning asking for credit. You’ll have to beat their teeth in when they send you emojis of an eight ball and a skier. You’ll have to fuck their girlfriends when they get too drunk. That’s your job as a drug dealer.
DRESS SQUARE Try to look Christian or cop. Don’t signify.
COPS I learned this “Gay or Christian” rule from growing up in the south and it comes in handy when having to interface with profiling from law enforcement.
One night I was smuggling a hippy, a black person and a couple ounces of gack through West Texas. I got pulled over going 67 mph in a 65 mile an hour zone. The hippy and the black chick freaked out because they were right. We were done.
The cop was a big local yokel with baby blue eyes that he demanded I look into when he said, “now look in my eyes and tell me true, do you have any knives or xanax?” which were the two things I didn’t have. I did have a pistol at my waist and a half an ounce of hash, but he didn’t ask me about that so I looked him the eye and told him true.
Then he asked me when the last time I smoked weed was and I told him right before I went in the army and gave him my fathers unit: 134th Armored Brigade, Third Division, Fort Bragg.
He shined a bright sodium beam light on the hippy and the black chick, looking guilty as hell, staring straight ahead as if they were still driving in a car.
“What about them? Do they have any drugs?” is what the Cop asked, but the subtext was: “What’s a normal looking white man, with all his teeth, doing with these types if it wasn’t drugs?”
So, I laid this on him:
“No sir, we are Christians.” Because that is the only thing that we could have been.
Cops see different races hanging out together and they assume it’s drugs. To a cop there is no other reason to look freaky or misceganate other than drugs. Unless you are gay, Christian, retarded or into theater. Each one of these categories is so strange that a cop is afraid to interface with people who claim any of it.
Gay Christian thespians are no fun for a cop to bust at all. The existence of people who are any one of these is so foreign to big headed Texas cops that he didn’t even want to listen to us cry in the car on the way to jail.
See, to play on the cops fear of faggotry was my only option. This twist was enough to let us go with just a warning. Without the twist, we would have been searched and I would be writing this on toilet paper with a short pencil in a Texas jail.
BAD REPUTATION Self-defense schools spend years training people how to kick people in the balls. I’m going to save you thousands of dollars and a lot of trouble by telling you how to poke eyes.
Eyes are the other balls. Even women have eyes.
When it comes time to perform the eye poke maneuver you got to do it slow and controlled like giving someone a pen. Take the time to not actually poke your finger through their eye into their brain or pull the eye out of it’s socket. You’re just trying to maim them a little. You don’t want to break the membrane of the eye and get vitreous humor in your drink.
The outrageousness of this act will drive the victim and all three of his fat headed friends away from you, gibbering and swearing. This is because you have violated the Geneva convention of dumbfucks, that says “no eye poking” and “boo hoo hoo.” Fuck that loser shit. You on the screet.
Helpful hint: I’ve noticed that opiates can allow me to get to the top level of general no fucks given attitude helpful when stirring around somebody’s front brain.
QUALITY Fuck you pay me.
Never listen to some shithead who got better stuff in Peru, gassing about how it made their face numb. It’s like hippies talking about how acid was better back in the day. Everything was better before you started doing so many drugs and you weren’t so fucking stupid.
SEX Oh! The chicks you’ll get…Sike! Never going to happen. Or not as much as a seventies blacklite poster would have you believe.
People act like cocaine is all sex and rock and roll but it’s really just a laxative. The way to make sure you get laid on cocaine is to run out of the shit early. If a potential partner thinks you have an ounce you’ll be trapped listening to confessions through the bathroom door until dawn.
What you’ll find out pretty fast is that Freud just gacked suckers up and then stood around going “um hum yeah uh huh.” Don’t waste your life listening to people blather. Tell them firmly that you are a predator and all information they give you will be relayed to your overlords in the motorcycle gang.
FOUR O’ CLOCK RULE I learned the four o’clock rule in New York City from one of the kids from Kids. The idea is that upon inhaling an ounce of cocaine, cumulative, after four AM in the course of your life, you will turn gay. Because fuck it. You and your boy are both up and you’ll never get to sleep anyway. Might as well.
I’m not saying don’t do any blow after four in the morning, I’m just saying there a budget of heterosexuality that ends at the ingestion of an ounce of blow after four am, lifetime cumulative. The conversion to homosexuality occurs at the point of the last grain in the hetero ounce.
So, you have to budget your hetero ounce against how long you think you will live and how much you have done. Or just be gay.
LAUNDRY Check your pockets really good on laundry day or you will have to face the fact that you lost six hundred dollars in the wash.
EAT GOOD You need to plan to do some jail time and the best way to do that is to spoil yourself a little. For the memories.
GET SOME Get a safe. And a motorcycle, and some Johnny Walker Blue because why not? Get all the cool shit now because the commissary in county has a severely limited selection of wares.
FRIENDS Fuck a friend. What you need is partner. Someone who understands your crimes.
Becoming an outlaw is a real thing. No one will have sympathy for you except your boy. You’ll need a partner to watch your back, confer and serve your customers when you have to leave town. Your partner will also get the shit out of the safe before your mom does when you die.
RATES Face it man, riding a motorcycle torked out of your mind on an eightball and two yellow Vicodin is skilled labor. Highly skilled. So, thirty dollars is the minimum one can settle for as compensation for the commission of a skilled felony.
You are in a union now, so, no more felonies for fun. Remember every dollar you don’t make undersells the brotherhood of hoods, who are surprisingly sensitive to this matter. Think of it like this: every dollar you don’t make is not going to get thrown at a stripper, ergo, committing crimes for less than thirty bucks is to rob a single mother.
Follow these rules and you too can enjoy the sweet, sweet sanity that I enjoy as a writer with a stable income.
submitted by Vietnom to Drugs [link] [comments]

Years of training myself to smile and hold it all in, undone by two of the dumbest words I could have deserved getting shitcanned for.

I needed to rant, like a lot, because you guys are probably the only place that would understand, even though I'm not a server, not at this job. I'm pretty close to one, if you replace food with money and restaurant with casino in the job description it uses the same wording. Instead, I handle money. I have my own section with my own regulars, with a cash bank on me and I cater to their whims and desires, instead of more diet coke and ranch, it's more five dollar bills. So I hope I'm allowed to post here.
We all have those days where everything is just going wrong. Just fucking absolutely shitshow wrong.
I have been at my job for two years and I have put up with being called all sorts of names, racial slurs, not tipped on purpose because it's in a casino and they already "paid their fair share", having my body picked apart by drunk strangers, catcalled, anything that anyone in a server or server like position experiences.
You know that meme that was going around, the "I want to speak to the manager haircut" one? This one. Let that sink into your brain, imagine Kate plus Eight but fifteen years in the future. The kind of woman who calls your boss saying "I don't want her to get fired, but..."
We have a promotion where a kind of big jackpot goes off randomly, and guest get a free play bonus if they have a club card. The only people not eligible are those who don't use their card, and people in bonuses on the slot machines need to have their free play put on manually. It's a tiny amount, $25, and it's not a bonus you can cash out, so it's use it or lose it.
Mrs CanISeeYourManager flips the fuck out on me before I can even explain that she'd get her stupid free play within the hour, and demands I open her slot machine to "prove" she had her club card. (Because that makes sense.)
I told her all the shit you're supposed to say to people who feel scammed out of their portion of free shit, that she'll get it in an hour, but she wouldn't have it. Her husband comes over and they start ranting in tandem. So I take a deep breath, hold up my hand to cut them off and tell them that if they are going to yell, I would not be helping them and that they can go to the service counter for further help. Then I walk away. I hear them shouting after me, but I know I will say something that will get me into trouble if I continue to deal with them.
Half an hour goes by, I have cooled off, I'm still running around like a gotdam chicken with my head cut off from this jackpot, and she approaches me. I tell her that I will not be dealing with her, I am busy with another hundred guests who have enough respect not to yell at me, and that she needs to see the service counter for further services. This, I am well within my rights as an employee of this establishment to say. We know we don't have to put up with shit from anybody.
She started with the volume again, screaming about how sorry she felt for my section because I suck at my job, how horrible my service is, that she is a GOOD CHRISTIAN-- at this point my brain stops working and I just react. I roll my eyes and said the two little words that sealed my fate: "Bite me."
Yes, bite me. I showed enough restraint not to tell her to go fuck herself with the American Challenge, although at this point, I wish I had.
I waved her off and went to break.
Four hours later, I learned, as I was being escorted off of the grounds, that she raised enough hell to get to my boss's boss's boss. I have been suspended, my license is on hold with my casino credentials. She was adamant about not wanting me fired, which we all knows mean she wanted to see me burn.
I will find out tomorrow what Mrs CISYManager wrote about me in a statement she submitted to my boss. (No, I'm not fucking kidding, she wrote and submitted a statement over the words "bite me".) I can only imagine it actually says that I physically assaulted her, killed her puppy and shit on her front porch. I only hope she doesn't do this at Chuck E Cheese when her precious grandbabies get "cheated" out of their extra game tickets because they suck at whack-a-mole.
I know I was unprofessional, but a write up should have sufficed, you know? Anyone who's ever been to a casino knows that you'll hear stuff that would make the saltiest sailor cover his ears at a craps table, straight from the dealers mouths.
Y'all wanna make me feel better with your worst guest stories? Or truly magnificent worth getting fired for moments? I was supposed to work tonight, and believe it or not, I love my job and now I can't set foot on the property until the investigation (over the words "bite me") is over. Seriously.
submitted by peachbot to TalesFromYourServer [link] [comments]

Pitch me your contacts!

A month ago there was an awesome thread dedicated to very detailed outlines of Mr. Johnsons.
Let's expand that to contacts in general. Fences, armorers, street docs, club owners, beat cops, you name it! Let's keep the descriptions a little more brief, and see how many we can come up with!
Clockwerk (Fence/smuggler): German-born dwarf who runs a smuggling ring at one of the dock warehouses in Tacoma. Doesn't like to meet in person unless it's a really big ticket item, particularly electronics. Spends most of his time behind the scenes keeping everything running smoothly. Well connected with almost every fence in Tacoma. Uses: Smuggling items in and out of Seattle, knowledge of smuggling operations in Tacoma, illegal electronics.
Dustin Leo(club owner): A short, loudmouthed womanizer who owns the Lion's Den casino. Has connections with the local Sicilian mafia and has plenty of private back rooms for "business" meetings. Absolutely hates Amerindians for forcing him to relocate to Seattle. Uses: Safehouse, contacting the Sicilian mob, knowledge of sports, especially Urban Brawl, setting up a meeting with a Mr.Johnson on neutral turf.
Bosnia Bomb(Go Ganger): An elf metal-head who rides with a German gang called the Kosmopolitans. He got his name from supposedly stealing his bike back from the Vory by blowing a hole through one of their warehouses and riding it away. Uses: Distractions, knowledge of drug dealers and metal bands, will gladly help on any job against the Vory.
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Casino Dealer – A day in the life - YouTube 24 Oras: Card dealer sa Casino, arestado matapos ... Top 10 Job Interview Questions & Answers (for 1st & 2nd ... What it's Like Being a Casino Dealer - YouTube Just the Job: SKYCITY Casino - YouTube How Much Money Do Casino Dealers Make? Life As a VIP High Roller At the Casino: What It's Like ... A DAY IN A LIFE OF KIM AS A CASINO DEALER  JHEIKIM Top 5 Casino Dealer Interview Questions and Answers - YouTube

Learn how to become a card dealer at a casino including required education and job skills. Salary information and future career paths included. The Casino Dealer job description varies from workplace to workplace, but in general, these dealers will deal with cards for various games such as – poker or blackjack. The common work activities depicted on the Casino Dealer Resume include the following – monitoring the play to ensure no player cheats, assisting players, leading a number of table games, distributing cards and chips ... Casino Dealer Job Description back to the warning signs of that later. A pretty normal example of a welcome deposit bonus is 100% up to €100. This means that everything you deposit up to €100 is Casino Dealer Job Description doubled, with Casino Dealer Job Description a maximum big bonus amount of €100. Casino Dealer Job Description Job Overview: Our casino dealers are the personality and the face behind our customers’ favorite games. They’re in charge of organizing games, exchanging chips, and mediating disputes. Job description and duties for Gaming Dealer. Also Gaming Dealer Jobs. Use our Job Search Tool to sort through over 2 million real jobs. Use our Career Test Report to get your career on track and keep it there. Use our Job Description Tool to sort through over 13,000 other Job Titles and Careers. Holland Code: E-C-R Casino Dealer Job Description Template. Our company is looking for a Casino Dealer to join our team. Responsibilities: Opens and closes game tables; Prepares collection reports for submission to supervisors; Informs guests about game rules and casino policies; Monitors their table and reports to Casino Manager potential irregularities; Interacts with guests and leads the games; Looks after ... Gaming Dealer Job Specifications. Although there’s a lot of information in the responsibilities section, you’ll find that the qualifications and skills section of the gaming dealer job description is just as valuable. In this section, you’ll provide the minimum requirements that potential candidates should meet. This is where you have the ... A casino dealer runs the games of chance in gaming settings, as he interacts with players, explains the odds and methods of play, and runs the game according to the "house" rules. Most professional casino games dealers are adept at a variety of table games, such as blackjack, roulette, craps, pai gow poker and baccarat. Good people skills, stellar math abilities and good oversight capabilities ... Table Games Dealer Job Description. Table games dealers work in casinos. They operate gaming tables that can include card games and other games of chance, such as craps and roulette. This is primarily a customer-facing role, requiring a high level of attention to detail to possible fraud and cheating, while also keeping a game running and providing a positive experience to casino patrons ... Demand for casino dealers will increase about 2 percent by 2026, which is slower than average. Since only three states in the U.S. are without casinos, job openings for these positions are not confined geographically. Minimal training and widespread job availability make a job as a casino dealer an attractive career option.

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Casino Dealer – A day in the life - YouTube

24 Oras is GMA Network’s flagship newscast, anchored by Mike Enriquez, Mel Tiangco and Vicky Morales. It airs on GMA-7 Mondays to Fridays at 6:30 PM (PHL Tim... If you've ever been curious about working in a casino, follow Rene as she finds out what it takes to become a Table Games Dealer at SKYCITY Auckland. In this video we will look at the most common questions asked in interviews for casino dealer jobs. I will coach you on how to prepare for the questions that... Sorry guys hindi pwedeng iupload yung gaming area. Meron kaming limang break sa trabaho namin (30minutes) every break. Kaya puro break yung navideohan ko Comment sa mga may katanungan! SOCIAL ... Ever wondered what it’s like to be a casino dealer? Grosvenor Casinos dealer Sylvia talks us through all aspects of her job from learning the games, being pa... These Interview Questions and Answers will instantly prepare you for any job interview. Answering these Top 10 Interview Questions correctly is the key to n... #CasinoHighRollers #GamblingAddiction In this video, I am going to detail for you what it's like being a high roller at the casino, what VIP status is like, ... Find out how much money the casino dealer's in Las Vegas make in tips. An average toke amount is given for low, medium and high tier casinos. Plus, we'll tell you where you can find more ... Here's my opinion of what it was like being a casino dealer in Las Vegas.-----RELATED LINKS:For ...