"George O'Malley: The Smartest Mistake in the Multiverse"

Dicen que no puedes elegir tu destino... Pero si tienes un Chevy Nova marrón con detalles azulados, un amigo adulto que parece que le debe dinero a cada ángel caído y una mochila con más de treinta mil dólares en efectivo ilegal ... Bueno, digamos que puedes obligar al destino a tomar un desvío.

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Salimos a la carretera un lunes por la mañana, el 6 de febrero de 1990. Una fecha marcada en mi cuaderno con una calavita y un emoji dibujado a mano: (@_@)

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Tony estaba nervioso. No lo dijo, por supuesto, pero me di cuenta cuando trató de cargar la maleta en el asiento trasero ... y se subió a sí mismo.

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"Amigo... ¿Estás seguro de esto?" preguntó mientras agarraba el volante como si fuera el Santo Grial.

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"¿Seguro de qué? ¿Huir en un auto oxidado, con miles de dólares turbios y un plan de apuestas deportivas que depende de que Mike Tyson no se rompa una uña antes de la pelea? Absolutamente".
(¬‿¬)

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Mi mamá no sospechaba mucho. Tal vez estaba demasiado ocupada con mis hermanos... O tal vez simplemente eligió no hacer preguntas.

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—¿Lo tienes todo, George? ¿Dinero, ropa interior, dignidad?"

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"Tengo lo que necesito", respondí. En mi cabeza: Y un poco más, mamá...

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Tony trató de sonar responsable:

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"No se preocupe, señora. Este es un viaje educativo. Estamos visitando monumentos históricos".

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"¿Como casinos y bares con luces de neón?"

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"Exactamente."

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Nos fuimos con una caja de bocadillos, un tanque lleno y una fuerte sensación de que esto podría ir increíblemente bien ... O tan malo que terminaríamos compartiendo una celda con alguien apodado 'Sleepy Cat'.

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"You think we'll make more money along the way?" I asked, looking over the map.

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"More money? George… don't you have enough?"

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"It's never enough when you're investing in your academic and legal future. Harvard doesn't pay for itself."

(¬_¬)

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Tony scoffed, but I saw it.

His mental calculator was running.

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"If this goes south, I'll have to sell the garage… or a kidney."

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"Relax. Statistically, my plan has a 78.6% chance of success."

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"What kind of stat is that?"

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"Mine."
(ಥ﹏ಥ)

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On the way, we stopped at a sketchy gas station where I convinced a group of truckers to let me do a guessing game for ten bucks each.

I made forty in under twenty minutes.

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Tony looked at me like I was a teenage Wolf of Wall Street…

With acne.

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By sunset, a tire decided to end its life.

Tony cursed in five languages.

I used the moment to put on a little service station show: impressions, jokes, and coin-based fortune-telling.

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We earned enough to cover the repair and two greasy burgers.

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"How do you do this?" Tony asked.

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"Charisma, my friend. And desperation. A magical mix."

(¬‿¬)

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We slept in the car that night.

Me with the backpack on my lap.

Tony hugging a road map like it was a Bible.

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"Did you know Chevy Nova upholstery sucks out your soul if you sleep more than five hours in the backseat?" I said in the morning.

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"How do you know?"

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"I dreamt it. It was awful. There were accountants and tax receipts."

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We had breakfast at a roadside café, paid with tips I made doing basic mentalism.

Nothing illegal, but not exactly legal either.

A gray area… just like our lives.

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Tony was still worried, hiding it with sarcasm.

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"If Tyson loses, we're screwed."

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"Who's 'we'? Remember—you've got a kidney to sell."

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"Thanks, George. Always uplifting."
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

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The plan was almost ready.

Tyson fights on February 11th.

We've got three days to get there, set everything up, and place our bets.

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If it all works… college, medicine, law school, travel, maybe even politics if I lose my mind.

If not… well, maybe I'll write a book:

How to Ruin Your Life Before 15: A Guide for Aspiring Geniuses.

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But for now, we just kept driving.

The Nova roared like an old, loyal beast, and I kept drawing route options in my notebook.

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( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ← Me if we win.

(×_×) ← Me if Tyson trips.

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To be continued…

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From afar, the lights of Las Vegas rose like a glowing promise above the desert.

It wasn't just a city—it was a phenomenon, a mirage of neon and noise where hopes and risks danced together under the casino glow.

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As we approached in our brown Chevy Nova with bluish accents, the hot air carried the smell of burnt asphalt and maybe cheap cigars and perfume.

The Strip was packed: tourists, performers juggling fire, vendors screaming deals like their lives depended on it.

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The traffic was relentless.

Signs blinked, music blared.

It felt alive—like destiny was just around the corner.

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"This is it," I said as we parked in front of the hotel.

"El Cortez. Historic, affordable, and won't rob you blind before you even play."

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Tony nodded, stretching his legs.

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"Perfect for not losing the little we've got," he smirked.

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After parking, I popped the glove compartment.

It was time to get the cash from the hidden compartments I had meticulously prepared—under seats, inside lining, every dollar hidden like a pro.

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"Time to work some magic," I muttered as I unlocked the metal box with my secret key.

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Tony watched, impressed but silent.

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"Is that the whole arsenal?" he asked.

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"Not all. There's more under the seat. But this'll do for starters."

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As I pulled out the stacks of bills, adrenaline hit me like a jolt.

Each dollar was a puzzle piece in my master plan.

(¬_¬)

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We nodded to each other.

From here on out, it was about how well we played our cards.

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At the hotel lobby, cold A/C and murmuring slot machine sounds greeted us.

The receptionist looked at us skeptically.

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"You're the young guys who booked the suite?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

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"Yes, of course," I said quickly.

"Our uncle gave us a card with no limit and said not to hold back."

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Tony backed me up:

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"We're not lying when we say money isn't a problem."

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She hesitated, then gave us a tired smile.

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"Enjoy your stay—but remember: the house always wins."

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With keys in hand, we checked into a room that was a mix of retro luxury and slightly worn charm.

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Without wasting time, we hit the casino.

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It was electric.

Slots ringing, dice clacking, chips shuffling.

Roulette wheels spun. Poker faces stared. Blackjack tables buzzed.

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"Look at this, Tony," I said, pointing at a blackjack table.

"This is where math happens."

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"You sure it's not just luck?"

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"Nope. Probability, stats, patterns. It's not luck—it's numbers."

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I sat down with $5,000.

Every move was calculated. Every hand, a test of my plan.

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Slowly, the chip pile grew.

I doubled my initial stack.

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Tony's eyes widened, smile growing.

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"George… this might save my garage."
(¬‿¬)

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The night flew by with controlled bets, laughter, and secret meetings in the hotel garage to reload hidden funds.

Every casino had a smell: some like perfume, others like desperation and ashtrays.

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We met all kinds of characters:
"Big Rudy", eating fried chicken while betting on roulette.

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"The key's in the drumstick!" he said, raising it like a wand.

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Shockingly, he won. Twice.

Then lost everything on the third and threw his chicken down.

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"Traitor…"
(ಠ_ಠ)

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Then there was "Elegant Gloria", a 70-year-old diva straight out of the Moulin Rouge, playing blackjack like a Wall Street shark.

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"I was a chorus girl in the '50s, honey," she said.

"If I survived Frank Sinatra live, I can survive this table."

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She winked, won, and floated off like a telenovela queen.
(✿◡‿◡)

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"Slick Rick" tried to pitch us a foolproof scheme.

Needed $200 to "unlock the system."

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Tony gave him the "Do-I-look-stupid?" stare.

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"If your system works, why aren't you rich?"

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Rick mumbled something about "energy flow" and vanished.

(¬_¬)

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Then there was "Henry", a quiet ex-military guy who played poker like it was war.

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"What's your strategy?" I asked after a long hand.

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"Never play with fear. Or attachment."

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He left.

Dry. Brutal. Poetic.

Like a one-episode Breaking Bad character who steals the scene.

(☉_☉)

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Between every encounter, our chips rose and dipped.

We laughed, studied tables, made bathroom strategy breaks, and kept checking the money hidden in the Nova—between seat frames and ripped upholstery I'd prepped months ago.

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Every dollar was a medal.

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"This car's worth more inside than outside," I told Tony.

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"And just like you, genius," he replied.
(¬‿¬)

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But time was ticking.

We couldn't stay in one place long.

The key was to look like newbies, blend in, and move before attention found us.

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At one of the last casinos, we saw a woman betting on roulette…

With a real white rabbit in her lap.

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"Is that allowed?" I asked Tony.

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"Here? The only rule is don't lose and not pay. That rabbit's the least weird thing we've seen."

(@_@)

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As the fight neared, so did our confidence.

We'd gone from $5,000 to nearly $18,000 in a few days—without cheating, just math, patience, and self-control.

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That night, walking down Fremont Street, I saw Tony looking around with pride and a touch of nostalgia.

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"You know what's crazy?" he said.

"I don't miss the garage. This... this is something else."

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"This is power. And we're about to go all in."

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One more day.

One fight.

One perfectly calculated bet.

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If everything works out, the next chapter will be very different.

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(ง •̀_•́)ง