Day 19,990: 19Nov24
800 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet
Jordan's fingers drummed nervously on her empty wallet – the same wallet that just last week held the down payment for their first house. "The Chiefs just need one more touchdown," she muttered, eyes glued to the television where red jerseys blurred across the field. The score was 24-21, close enough to taste victory, cruel enough to keep everyone on edge.
The touchdown came with a burst of cheers that rattled Jordan’s apartment windows. Chip bowls rattled, beer cans clinked, and seven phones chimed simultaneously with score alerts. Then the game cut to commercial, and the room's energy shifted.
It began like a Hollywood blockbuster: A-list celebrities danced through a gleaming Vegas casino, their designer outfits sparkling under championship banners. Sports legends high-fived everyday people who were celebrating massive wins. Special effects transformed losing betting slips into winning tickets that rained down like confetti. Movie stars morphed into superheroes, their capes made of digital betting screens showing ever-increasing jackpots.
"This must have cost more than my student loans," Marcus whistled, but his attempt at humor couldn't mask the hunger in his eyes. Jordan remembered how he'd been skipping lunch at work lately, claiming he was "saving up for something big."
The commercial's energy built to a crescendo. A famous rapper freestyle-rhymed about instant riches while basketball stars dunked tokens into giant slot machines. Soccer icons bicycle-kicked betting slips through virtual goalposts.
Then the music stopped. The screen went black. When it faded back in, the Oval Office appeared, looking oddly like a sports book. Betting odds tickers scrolled across the presidential seal. The President sat at the Resolute Desk, which had been draped with the logo of a major gambling company.
"My fellow Americans," he began, looking directly into the camera with an enthusiastic grin that seemed more suited to a game show host than a commander-in-chief. "Today, I'm proud to announce a tremendous partnership between our great nation and our even greater gambling industry partners."
The room fell silent. Even the ice maker's sudden clunk seemed to be listening.
"For the first time in American history," the President continued, adjusting his red, white, and blue betting company-branded tie, "all Super Bowl gambling winnings will be completely tax-free! That's right, folks – Lady Liberty is letting it ride!"
Jordan watched her friends' jaws drop in unison. The President was now demonstrating how to use the betting app on a golden smartphone, his fingers leaving orange-tinted smudges on the screen.
"And that's not all," he beamed, as betting odds replaced the traditional presidential backdrop. "Our friends at BetNation™ are offering every American their God-given right to turn five dollars into five hundred dollars in bonus bets. Now that's what I call a stimulus package!"
"Remember," the President concluded with a wink, "gambling is no longer gambling when it's tax-free. It's patriotic investing! God bless America, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"
The seal of the President morphed into a roulette wheel and spun away. Marcus, who'd spent years meticulously tracking every penny after his father's gambling addiction tore their family apart, was already entering his credit card information. His hands trembled as he typed.
The room transformed into a makeshift trading floor. Marcus, who'd been nursing the same beer all night to save money, suddenly offered to buy everyone's first bet. Lena pulled up her banking app, mentally shifting her utility bill money into her betting account. Even Tom, who'd spent the first half ranting about predatory advertising, fell silent as he typed in his credit card number.
"Just imagine," Marcus said, his voice taking on a salesman's pitch, "tax-free winnings on five hundred in bonus bets. That's like finding free money."
The rest of the night unfolded like a fever dream of modern americana: Lena's utility money vanished with a dropped pass, while Tom's rent-week bet evaporated with each rushing yard. Marcus juggled three betting apps like a wall street trader in crisis, and Jordan's careful plans for home ownership dissolved into increasingly desperate parlays. When Marcus quietly mentioned Jordan's father's seven-layer dip - a reminder of simpler Super Bowls past - her friend's thumbs froze over their phone screen, but only until the next commercial promised double bonus bets for the fourth quarter. Around them, the party had become a casino without walls, each play a roll of the dice, each commercial a siren song. The real game wasn't happening on the television anymore.
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