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[Cryoverse] The Last Precursor 013: Repairing the Bloodbearer

The Last Precursor is a brand new HFY-exclusive web-serial which focuses on the exploits of the last living human amidst a galaxy of unknown aliens. With his species all but extinct and only known as the ancient Precursors, how will Rodriguez survive in this hostile universe? Make sure to read the earlier chapters first if you missed them!
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Previous Part
Part 001
José Rodriguez, the last living Terran, slowly opens his eyes.
A plain metal ceiling, covered in plexi-steel tiles, sits some twenty feet above his face. The Admiral lays motionless on his back, his arms and legs held limp in a straight pose. A strange sensation swallows him, akin to floating on a gently undulating ocean while riding atop a piece of plywood.
"Hello, Admiral," Umi beeps. "You slept for seventeen hours and fourteen minutes. How are you feeling?"
The Terran doesn't reply.
He continues to stare at the ceiling while countless thoughts and emotions mix with the strange, lucid dreams he left behind only a minute before.
They're all dead.
José closes his eyes.
Everyone I have ever known.
My friends. My comrades. My superiors. My enemies. Even the people I took for granted, those who merely 'existed' and caused me no grief.
Every last one of them is long gone. I can't ever see them again.
Slowly, the Admiral turns his head to the left. The eleven-foot-long cot from his personal quarters, its bedding material as hard as a rock after 100,000,000 years of calcification, provides no comfort for the Admiral. His 'pillow' proves little more than a flat, half-inch-tall piece of rock. Were it not for his durable body, merely laying on the bed would probably give him all manner of aches and pains.
As the Admiral looks around the room, a mixture of nostalgia and sadness glides throughout his veins. A second cot on the opposite side of the room, the bed his former bunkmate once used, Private Azaram, sits empty and covered in a thick layer of dust. A pair of lockers sit against the wall, between both bunks. In José's former life, he might have chatted with Private Azaram when they woke up. They would shoot the shit, tease each other a bit, and yap about all the vague mundanities of life.
But no longer will that happen.
José stares at his bunkmate's empty bed. Unbidden, a memory floats to the top of his mind.
Yo, José, I hear you knocked your lady up. So, you gonna pop the question? Come on, man. Can't hurt to settle down for a couple decades, raise an ankle-biter, then return once you've had your fun.
I'm too busy for that, Kiki.
Don't give me that crap. The war's been raging for hundreds of thousands of years. One soldier taking twenty years off to raise a kid won't change anything.
It will for me. I shouldn't have gotten involved with her.
That's love, man. Love! You know what that means, right? You've gotta stop running away from everything.
She'll be better off without me.
The memory fades. José continues to stare at the other cot for several long seconds afterward.
Umi's voice beeps above, as she prods the Terran again.
"I know you are awake. I have observed your brainwaves shifting into the green spectrum."
Admiral Rodriguez sighs. "Just leave me alone for a few minutes."
"...Very well."
Umi falls silent, leaving José to his thoughts.
Slowly, the Admiral moves his left leg toward the edge of the bed. He gently lowers it to the floor, then follows with his right. After twenty or so seconds, he pushes himself into a sitting position and coughs. A small cloud of dust kicks up around him, but he ignores it.
José sits on the edge of his bed. He leans forward, face in hands, elbows on his knees.
I'm sorry, Evelyn.
Tears well up in the Terran's eyes. The shock of the last two days creeps into the back of his mind as he finally takes some time to sit down and sort through his emotions.
I left you behind, and our child. I don't even know if it was a boy or a girl.
José lifts his thin, gangly arm, and presses his fingers against his eyelids. After wiping away a few tears, he sniffles quietly.
What the hell am I supposed to do? Do I even have a reason to live?
His thoughts shift back to all the pointless mundanities he once pursued. Promotions. Killing. The envy of his peers. The respect of his benefactor, Ramma.
José opens his eyes and glances at a small bedside dresser. With its former brown coloration lost to the passage of time, it now appears white as snow. The lone furniture piece on José's side appears to be on its last legs, as if a gentle nudge would cause it to crumble into dust. Only the lack of oxygen in the room for millions of years has allowed it to remain standing for so long.
However, José's eyes look toward the top of the dresser, where a broken picture frame rests. With its glass having long-since decayed into sandy particles along with the glue holding its wooden sides together, the portrait lies in a heap atop the dresser, apparently having fallen forward and broken at some point.
Slowly, José reaches over and nudges aside the frame's wooden edges. He pulls out a brown piece of paper, its corners curled, upon which a person's portrait used to rest.
Now, its faded coloration shows nothing.
José turns the piece of paper around in his hands, searching for any modicum of familiarity. Despite nothing being on its surface, his mind still fills in the image of a smiling, brown-haired woman's face.
The Admiral lowers his hand and drops the worthless scrap to the floor. His shoulders slump as he leans forward, even more broken than before.
Mulling on the immense physical pain he endured during the surgery, as well as the loss of everyone he ever cared about, José's thoughts turn truly dark as he begins to imagine the barrel of a plasma carbine pressing against his skull.
It would be so easy. No more pain. No more worries. Maybe I could see her again and... apologize.
The Admiral's stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten even once in the last two days. Still, he doesn't move.
"Yes, Admiral? How are you feeling? I'm presently detecting large amount of negative emotions within your-"
"I don't give a damn what you detect," José mutters. "Just shut up and answer some questions for me."
"Affirmative, Admiral," Umi replies without complaint. "Ask whatever you wish."
However, José hesitates. He closes his eyes and sighs.
"Do... do you have any... any audio logs? Video logs? Of the other crew, I mean. The deceased."
"Negative, Admiral. In the event of a gradual system collapse, my subsystems will automatically convert high-capacity files involving video and audio to text format to save space. I have already converted all available audio and video logs to text, as per my system's parameters. If I did not perform those operations, I would have experienced a much larger amount of overall data loss."
"Oh. I see."
The Admiral's body seemingly increases in weight. A creeping sense of isolation hits him, making him feel hopeless and lonely.
"Not even one person's voice remains. All I have are my memories."
"Admiral? Are you... in pain?"
"Not physically."
Umi's voice lowers. "You have endured an extreme amount of trauma, as of late. The body may heal, but the mind is not always so resilient. I would advise an immediate psychiatric evaluation, if possible, but..."
The synthmind trails off, making José nod.
"Who's left for me to talk to? Nobody. Just a bunch of aliens. Strangers I barely know."
"I have undergone a high-level of degradation to my Emotion Cores," Umi says. "Therefore, I am unable to properly offer counsel on this matter. However, it seems logical to me that you should at least attempt to speak to one of the Kraktol about your concerns, Admiral."
"I can't do that," José says. "Megla still considers me her enemy. Soren is probably friendlier than her sister, but she's still an unknown factor. If I reveal weakness in front of them, then perhaps I won't be able to keep them under control. Who knows what they might do when I turn my back?"
"Admiral. You seem to distrust the Kraktol conscripts. If so, why did you bring them aboard the Bloodbearer? This move seems... illogical."
"I'm human, Umi. I don't operate logically. Even I don't know why I let them come with me."
Shakily, José pushes himself off the bed and rises to his feet. His legs tremble visibly as he staggers toward the nearby wheelchair and plops into its embrace. His arms and legs appear slightly more muscular than when he first left the surgery room, but nevertheless, they're far too weak to support his current weight.
"If the Kraktol wished you harm, they could have killed you immediately following the operation," Umi says. "You weren't capable of defending yourself. The holo-crew would have posed little threat to the Kraktol, given their limited intelligence. Perhaps you should revise your opinion of Officers Soren and Megla."
"Perhaps," José answers, noncommittally. "For now... I can't trust anyone. I don't have a solid understanding of the political situation inside the Milky Way. I don't know who any of the major powers are. I already have at least one major enemy, but no allies."
Umi starts to reply, but José cuts her off. "The Kessu don't count. They're primitives. I doubt they'll be a major galactic power I can rely on for support and logistics."
"...Understood, Admiral," Umi replies, her voice low. "It seems that we must attempt to establish communication with the Kraktol's enemies. According to the data I've recovered, the Mallali and Avaru are our best bet."
"I'll worry about that later," the Admiral says. "Right now, repairing the Bloodbearer is my number one priority."
José reaches for his wheelchair's controls. He starts to drive it outside, but pauses.
Slowly, the Admiral lowers his gaze to the faded, cracked piece of paper sitting on the floor.
The only image he ever had of Evelyn.
The Terran turns his gaze away. With a small shake of his head, he drives toward the doorway, leaving his room behind.
Too many painful memories here. Perhaps I should make Admiral Baruchen's quarters mine after all.
José rolls forward on the wheeled machine in silence for five minutes. Eventually, he speaks to Umi.
"Where are Soren and Megla?"
"The two Kraktol woke up from their slumber five hours and six minutes ago, Admiral," Umi replies. "Since you stressed the importance of time and our limited resources, I took the initiative to guide them toward the engine ventilation system. Under my guidance, the two of them have cleaned out approximately 0.0054% of the accumulated debris and waste byproduct. The Bloodbearer will only reach low-operational-status once your crew clears out at least 20% of the oxidization clogging the engines."
"Mmm. Have those women meet up with me along the way."
"Orders received. Admiral, I must also mention a severe lack of resources for food production aboard the Bloodbearer. The biomatter storage is currently at 0% after I discarded all the hardened, rotted material. I was able to create some basic ration bars for the Kessu and Kraktol, but their nutritional value was negligible and every officer complained about the taste."
José groans. "No food. No engines. No allies. The whole ship is broken. Can't I get some good news for once?"
"Affirmative," Umi beeps in response. "The Kessu and Kraktol did not engage in verbal warfare while you were asleep. According to my calculations, this represents an improvement in their relations of 7.5%."
"...Thanks, Umi." José says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I don't know what I would do without you."
Umi replies with a sugary-sweet tone. "According to my predictive matrix; you would die."
José's only reply is a long, low groan.
"Admiral!" Soren says, her voice containing a note of alarm. She and Megla trot toward José as he rolls down the Bloodbearer's primary connective corridor, arriving at his position after a few moments. "Are you alright? Your body seemed to be heavily injured when I last saw you."
"I'm dandy," José grumbles. "Just wonderful."
The Admiral glances at Megla. He waits for a snarky comeback, only to almost fall out of his chair when she speaks.
"That's great, Admiral. I was- I mean, we were really worried about you. We, ah... we thought you wouldn't make it. I'm glad you're okay."
José blinks several times to make sure he isn't still sleeping. "You were... concerned? About me?"
Megla crosses her arms and looks away. "Erm... only a little."
The Terran shakes his head to try and clear away the cobwebs in his brain. "I see. Well, thank you for your concern. I'm much weaker than before, so I can hardly move on my own. I hope you two will assist me in repairing the Bloodbearer's systems."
The Admiral's gaze falls toward both Kraktol officer's waists, where steel belts hang with a small assortment of attached repair tools. The two womens' usually pristine red and yellow scales appear dirty, caked with dirt and grease.
"Of course, Admiral," Soren says. She walks behind José's wheelchair and grabs its top handles to push him forward.
"What are you doing?" José asks, suspicion in his voice.
"I don't believe you should be expending any energy, Admiral. Please allow me to guide you wherever you please. It would be best if you could relax and leave the hard work to my sister and I."
Before José can reply, Megla strides over to Soren's side and huffs. "Kyargh! Let me push the Admiral. I'm sure you're still tired from sticking your head inside that greasy ventilation duct."
"No need," Soren says, a faint smile on her face. "I can handle this simple task."
"I know you can," Megla protests. "But so can I! Hmph, listen to your big sister for once, why don't you?"
Soren's smile widens. "You seem awfully eager to get close to the Admiral."
"I-I'm not!" Megla yelps, her yellow scales brightening intensely. She takes a step away from Soren with a strange look in her eyes. "I... I just want to help!"
"Kuhak!" Soren laughs. Her usual stoic demeanor cracks slightly upon seeing her sister's flustered look. "Something seems to have changed with your heart, Megla."
José sighs. "Ladies. Please. Stop fighting over me like I'm a piece of meat. We don't have time to waste. I'll drive myself to the Engine Room. You just walk alongside me and listen. I have a lot of information to relay."
Both Kraktol women frown for a moment before hiding their emotions. With a sigh, Soren pulls away from José and raises her palms. "I see. My apologies, Admiral. I did not mean to insult your abilities. You can surely move yourself if necessary."
The Admiral looks into the disappointed eyes of Soren, before glancing at Megla afterward. Both of them appear miffed that he would ignore their genuine, heartfelt offers.
However, José ignores their silly behavior.
"Come along. I want to examine the engine room's condition for myself."
Soren lowers her head. "Yes, Admiral..."
"Do what you want," Megla snorts, her annoyance plain as day. She crosses her arms and walks beside José on his left, while Soren walks on his right. They begin heading toward the engine room at a pace neither too fast, nor too slow.
An awkward silence ensues. After a few minutes, José clears his throat. "Did Umi explain the mechanics of a Triple-Induction Drive to either of you?"
Soren shakes her head. "No. We asked several questions, but the synthmind did not answer. She only guided us on the cleaning and repair process for the engine exhaust vents."
From above, Umi speaks. "Admiral. Given the two Kraktol are newly acquired crew-members, and given their origins, I have registered them as 'initiate crew.' Unless you remove the restriction on Class 4 information and below, I will be unable to provide them with information regarding this ship's features or technical blueprints. Based upon the information I've collected from the Dragon Breath's databases, the galaxy at large is unaware of the capabilities of 40th and 50th Era technology. Very few factions possess ships from later than the 30th era, so I have calculated that classifying this information as Top Secret is a prudent move."
José nods. "I agree. However, Soren and Megla are now officers of this vessel. In the future, please provide them with any general information of Class 3 and below as their knowledge-base evolves. I'll evaluate the rest on a case-by-case basis."
The Admiral speaks openly with Umi right in front of the Kraktol, allowing both of them to hear his words. They glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes and sigh.
The Admiral doesn't trust us. Given he's only known us for a day, that's to be expected.
It doesn't take long before José and the Kraktol arrive at the entrance to the Bloodbearer's Engine Bay. Its entry doors, barely maintained by one of the six Filth Expunger Units over the past 100,000,000 years, slowly slide open. The top and bottom squeal in a most annoying manner due to a large amount of rust accumulation, but the three officers ignore the awful sound.
Jose arrives inside a large, circular chamber, easily twice as big as an open-air football stadium. In the center of the room, three giant circular metal platforms sit next to one another in a triangular formation. They hum with energy, causing the air inside the room to vibrate and rattle all three officers' teeth.
An energy field twenty meters tall rises toward the ceiling above each platform, where a second set of platforms on the roof meet the field and keep its energy circulating to form a powerful containment field. Inside the energy fields, three giant orbs of explosive-looking energy rapidly whirl around, revealing themselves to be the cause of the intense, energetic humming sensation.
Hundreds of thick, Terran-body-width cables stick out of the walls and slink along the ground, connecting to the platforms on the floor, but also the ceiling. They suck the leftover energy from the energized orbs away to power the rest of the ship, preventing them from detonating with high-yield nuclear explosions.
Countless robotic arms, long-since rusted-over, stick out of the engine room's walls. Only twenty or so move around and poke at the various computer consoles scattered throughout the room, but it appears clear to José and the Kraktol that this room is just as decayed and dilapidated as the rest of the ship.
"Damn..." José mutters. "Even more things to repair. The work never ends. The inventor of bio-fusion once claimed his power sources would last for a billion years, so I guess he was right after all. The ship is likely to break long before the reactors lose their charge."
Soren gestures toward the far wall. "The synthmind had us clean the ventilation ducts over there. I only scraped out out the interiors of the first five, but more than a hundred remain."
Nodding, José says, "Yes, but cleaning the engine ventilation ducts is only the first step. We also need to clean and maintain the plasma warp conduits, then exit the ship and decalcify the exterior engines. Beyond that, we have to examine the damage this sector's plasma storm has likely caused the Bloodbearer's hull. If there are any breaches on the exterior, we must seal them up before entering Folded Space."
Soren's eyes flash with hunger. "Admiral, didn't you tell us you were going to explain the Triple Induction Drive and Folded Space? I'm dying to know more."
José smiles.
"Oh, yes. I had almost forgotten! Haha, your thirst for knowledge is quite admirable."
The Terran wheels toward one of the many nearby broken computer consoles. He gestures toward Megla's toolbelt, prompting her to step closer. Despite the weakness in his body and his atrophied limbs, his shaking and trembles appear to have mostly worn off since resting, so he easily snatches three odd-looking pen-gadgets from her before turning to the console.
Whirr. Bzzt.
José's hands become a blur as he gets to work fixing the first of many computers within the Engine Room.
"A Triple-Induction Drive is not something those from the 30th era would know much about, given how long it took us Terrans to perfect that technology..."
Both of the Kraktol lean in to listen as José explains this incredible technology and its uses to them.
Next Part
Author Note:
Klokinator here! I am also the author of The Cryopod to Hell. The Last Precursor takes place in the [Cryoverse] which TCTH spawned. You do not have to read TCTH to enjoy TLP. However, I highly recommend it if you enjoy HFY themes, but be warned it will take some 200 parts to get to the relevant HFY elements due to the nature of the story. (A similar structure involving very few humans fighting against vicious demons that have taken over the galaxy.)
If you like this story, please consider subscribing to my Patreon! I am very poor and presently jobless due to Coronavirus, so every dollar helps. You get access to Cryopod artwork, and plenty of other exclusive posts, with more to come soon.
Thank you!
submitted by Klokinator to HFY [link] [comments]

Psycho Betting and Stats 301-Degenalytics Question

Before you even start watching this for entertainment and see if you get offended by this un-P.C. content. Don't be a pussy.
If you can't handle it, leave this thread. If you can, then you may proceed to the next level.
I've been scatter-brained, ire-filled, soul-searching and lost after a 7-day Degen Marathon that brought a shit load of misfortunes. I used to hate social media, but I've learned how to wield the soc. med. sword like a fucking Degen Jedi. I'm going to promote an honest cause where I seek to be victorious in the end. Just you watch you fucking doubters, haters, blockers, scammers. How much grit and intellect would the average fucking person have to endure what I've gone through in the last fucking 48 hours and still come out alive with a sense of greater purpose?
Had about $400 to $500 in righteously earned bonus dollars earned through impossible grinding degen mission that came pretty close to accomplishing (91%).
I would have had some imaginary >$600 BR by now, but instead the roll-over deadline caused the entire deposit to be forfeited and I manage to salvage some $100.
Due to a bonus rollover scheme, 80U of my balance was stuck in bonuses and if I fail to accomplish the roll-over by the deadline, it all gets forfeited.
With a $500-$600 balance, I could have somewhere at $900-1000 by now after a 20-2 W-L record on European football on Wednesday.
How did I get that record yesterday, by sampling a bunch of solid pre-game picks and live betting using my own fucking brain. I consult with the finest in capping. With $10-$20 bet sizes, That would have put me up maybe $15x16 = +$240 at minimum. $1000 was the imaginary bank roll. As of today, betting with $1 units, after Monday-Wednesday's successful run, while Tuesday was a -$50 blip, I converted $100 to about close to $200 (40U).
🤪🤑Psycho Betting🤑🤪:
I learned the art of psycho betting. Taking some well-advised 10U and 30U psycho bets that put my bankroll up a significant amounts, but a big loss does the opposite. Yesterday I manage to hit 4 grand 30U slams in a row, however many on juiced lines, so each $30 bet one returns about $15-20. Thus my bankroll grew nearly +100 units and sits close to $200 from the initial $100 I manage to salvage after that bonus robbery.
If you want to fucking learn the art of Psycho-Betting to the extremest and be successful at it, fucking put in $100 in Bovada (remember to use money that you can afford to lose) and get that fucking bonus for the purpose of looting the bookies in a successful vengeance scheme. This guy is a fucking Artillery:
Fucking hit more than 4x30U grand slams yesterday and some 10-20U cherries on top. I tailed his free picks and other through consultation [Haha fucking reddit/sportsbook will probably ban me for promoting another tout, :)].Of course with my $1.5U size on a crippled bank roll, I cannot grow it to as much as I wanted to using GoTime's techniques. I would have been at another +$400 if I had $6 units. It's a high risk and high reward system, but if you are confident with your picks you go big on it. If you lose it, then you grind back with smaller 10U and 20U bets to try to get back to part to be able to do another 30U bet. The goal is to be like 2-1, 3-0 on 30U grand slams a day. There is some level of sustainability and back up plans to execute in case the 30U bet did not work out. It is very improbable for you to lose 10 in a row on well researched picks that the experts in the community have common agreement on. A lot of the times, the lines shift to reward you less for the pick since big money is already on the pick.
Use the chart on:
Here is a Nice Calculation to do:
📚📑💻Stats 301 Question in Degenalytics💻📑📚**:**
Lastly I asked anyone in the past few days to do a Stats 301 question with Degenalytics Context: To fucking determine the probability that an avg Joe with a $100+100 Bonus Bank-roll or $500 + 250B bank roll can actually pull off the $3000/$7500 grind in some number of N months betting with supposedly 2 full months of real sports (N-2) getting Obliterated by COVID-19. I want you to give me an analytical calculation or a simulation of your work and give me all the possible scenarios.
Then give the final verdict of if that number converges to 0.000% or 100.00% that the average Joe would succeed his false-hope mission for a successful rollover.
In other words think of it like this: If the average joe bets his entire bank roll 12 or more times (roll-over is not x10 because of bookie juice), what is the probability that he will still end up in the green? Also assign a tilt probability factor that the Average Joe would go on some emotional tilt spree to end up bust again? And make it even harder by eliminating 2-3 full months of real sports (N-2.5) and having to bet on Bovada's limited shitty ass lines and shitty live odds.
If you fucking want to eliminate the -2.5 months, then allow the average joe the freedom to bet on N months of e-sports [hahah] and see where that goes.
I had a bad experience betting on e-sports for 2 months and only end up -15-20U. I'm not saying that I lost because I suck at e-sports betting or I tailed the wrong people. The Bovada lines are super shitty and limited. Most of the time, on live esports, all you see are dashed out lines as if they fucking know what the rigged result is and prevent people from doing hedge bets or try to bet opposite spreads when they are winning to guarantee an insurance 1-1 with minimal damage incurred to their bank-roll. The live betting experience on e-sports on the Bovada platform is so bad that you are guaranteed to lose in the long run. Fucking hell Bodog/Bovada even offered me a $250 deposit on 100% bonus after the Rudy Gobert day in Mid March. They advertised the joys and wonders of getting rich betting off esports.
I was so tempted to deposit, however I kind of over-slept and missed out on the dead-line so they closed the bonus offer. Pretty good relief that I did not fuck-up my real credit card and bank account by falling for that scam again. It was an accidental Grace of God moment to fucking avoid that E-sports deposit marketing scam.
BONUS Questions:
A: Calculate the number of months needed and number of successful bets required for the conservative degen 1u bettor to grind out the roll-over playing
$2.00 tug of war with the bookie.
B: Calculate the odds that a professional capper who knows how to adjust unit sizes (1u-5u), do parlays once a while, will succeed the roll-over in some
N-2.5 months or add some e-sports to have fun to keep the N factor.
C.1: Calculate the conditional probabilities for the bettor succeeding in the mission if on the first few days of betting:
i) He loses bet 1 for about $20.
ii) Wins bet 1 for about $20 to earn $17.5.
iii) Goes on a 3 game losing streak
iv) 5 game losing streak
v) Positivity case: The guy got lucky and nearly doubled his bank roll on a decent run from day. Up +100U or $200. [I'm sure that out of bad discipline the average Joe would still go -200U in the long run with a pretty high probability.]
C.2: Determine the mathematical scheme on how the Bookies can use your first few losses to eventually put you in a 60+:40- (Greater than 60% locked in bonus, less than 40% of your deposited money). Bonus:Locked funds ratio.
The Jinx-King answer: It converges to zero [hahaha], but I really am interested in know what other scenarios math and stats people have come up. And your mathematical approaches and formulae used to generate possible scenarios and probabilities. But I think it is safe to say that for the average Joe,the answer is 0.00% success rate. Bodog/Bovada knows this exactly and refuses to put a hiatus on the roll-over deadline. Instead they keep it going so that people can try to wager on e-sports and lose their entire bank roll. They are only interested it getting 100% of your locked funds so that they can buy expensive cruises, yachts, beach mansions, resort packages, etc in Aruba or some other tropical place. Where you got millions of desperate Americans, Canadians in struggling economies with lost jobs and zero positive cash-flow. About 10% or so or perhaps even more deposit money into off-shore gambling websites hoping they can roll-over their bank-roll some ridiculous number of times and make a few bucks to put food on the table.
In fact, it makes matters worst being jobless, having zero cash flow and having locked funds in scamming bookies. If you are not good at casino or sports-betting games, you would have:
A: Lose your entire deposit for failing to grind it out properly.
B: Not grind it out on time on whatever dead-line the roll-over was.
C: Even if you did successfully grind that shit out using conservative 1u betting and play $2 tug of war with the bookie, you will end up just wasting your time grinding it out for hours and hours on end. It would have been better for you to fucking find a job at some farm helping out with harvesting crops or work in meat plants so that food does not go to waste. I bet you I can make more money than your $2 tug of war in one a day picking off cans and bottles off the streets in some exercise walking/running/biking + collection routine then selling it to the recycling center for $0.05-0.25 a unit. Trust me at my university, I spot maybe about 50-200 empty/partially driven cans and bottles left on desks, lecture halls, the floor, libraries, work areas, etc. Supposed that I harvested that shit, I would be making $5-$20 a day collecting it all and going to the recycling center once every week.
The fucking company knows this COVID-19 closure shit and want to use it to their advantage to continue to rob millions of their customers. Last week, I tried to call customer service, chat help, email, etc. and management has spoken to plead my case to delay the roll-over dead-line in a pro-rated time frame so that customers with locked balances can resume betting with their full balance when Game 1 of any Major League Sport actually returns. They give me the same bull-shit over and over saying they decline my request. For what reason?
  1. The terms and conditions written in fine print for accepting the bonus conversion challenge. "Rules are Rules."
  2. They were aware my deadline of June 22 at 19:23 ET was approaching soon. They knew I was on a mission to salvage my bank roll before they yank out the 60-75U trapped in bonus balances (i.e. Ghost money). By the end of it, I realize I made a foolish mistake. Most of my wins were just from bonus money and I was rewarded $0.00 on righteous wins on expired bonuses.
Therefore Bonus money only earns bonus money which put my entire bank-roll in a 80:20 ratio where the bookies control 80U in ghost money. By the end of the roll-over deadline, they get to yank out 80U of my balance at the deadline and left me with about $100 (20U) bank roll to regrind.
  1. They knew I was winning consistently making solid picks.
During my 110 hour marathon over the brutal grind of losing more than 70 hours of work, leisure and recreation; 35 hours of sleep; to a fucking impossible grind of trying to roll over some 60% of $7500 on sports I have little knowledge of capping (i.e. E-sports, Table Tennis, European football) after a few days of studying the game, I was picking up my stride to grind it to 91%. They fucking knew that if I had another day to grind, they would be coughing up +$600-800 of withdrawable balance to my account.
I am a Fucking PHD Candidate (2-6 months from graduating and not having to pay another round of BS tuition) who does a shitload of mathematics, statistics, simulations, mathematical physics, wrote scientific papers. I've won T.A. Awards, Government/Provincial/Institutional level scholarships, Conference presentations, with even Undergrad honors back in the day. DM me if you need a fucking CV to prove my fucking credentials.
Why am I able to write a lot of shit? Because my fucking brain operates on some max level Intel Xeon chip on overclock mode and I cannot do much to shut it down other than going to sleep. They only way is to write articles that I think might benefit the community.
I have a crazy interest in sports and Degen'ing. I love to fucking put action on sports games, be proud about making the correct calls on the outcome of games before it happens, and then boast to my circle of competitive friends about who's the fucking Boss. As tabboo as society think us degens are, I think this absolute BS. There is a pure enjoyment in watching sports and having action on it. It is nice to get paid beer money to cover a round for your buddies, or earn that rent money over a successful night of betting on shit you actually enjoy watching. Fuck I rather make $300 for one evening of enjoying sports rather than working a 9-5 dull job to try to afford rent/mortgage. If I can fucking pay off all my monthly expenses in 3 fucking successful nights of 3 hr sessions of sports matches, that would be ideal. I would take the lather over a 9-5 rat-race grind.
Overall I am "PRO" in the debate for local single sports betting bookies to be established in Canada. Get these fucking scamming off-shore books like bodog/Bovada who contribute only contribute "Bagel" to the Canadian Economy, but instead make it worst by scamming the masses of hard working or desperate people to leak out some sum of billions of dollars of national GDP. Probably the same applies to all American States, that people should not have to cough up their hard earned $$$$ to off-shore scamming bookies. I shall write an article about this later to justify my arguments later.
Ultimately I my goal is to obliterate or negate the influence of all the cons, scamming bookies, and false touts out there who are just interested in stealing people's $$$. To write out full studies on exposing their schemes in an objective lens.
Calling me out: (Think I cannot track these pussy downvotes? I know you cowards 😂😜😎)
If you think I'm full of BS, then send me a personal DM to have a 1v1 argument the same way that Stephen A debates sports with Max Kellerman. You can downvote me or flame me with empty hate talk all you want on public threads. But don't be a fucky pussy by avoiding a debate with me. Trust me, I'm going to win and be the last one to state a real point that you will have no comeback for [haha]. Lastly, if you are open to discuss or debate with me about some issues, do some resarch/exploration, betting strategies, etc., I would love your collaboration in some projects I got going on.
Ultimately, I should help every honest worker strive towards Degen success or if not, just to purely enjoy putting action on sports games. If you are too full of yourself, then you are on your own, I bid thee adieu, and wish you all the best. However you will be absolutely declined to all services and counsel I work to provide to friends for free.
Social Media📺🎬
Some extra Resource to how I got to this point in my mission.
Here it is for starters:
June 23, 2020: The Impossible Pursuit Reddit/sportsbook/Brag and Bitch (Tuesday)
June 24, 2020: Doubling Bank roll and rewarded Bagel: Reddit/sportsbook/Brag and Bitch (Wednesday)
June 24, 2020: How can you win 5 in a row and lose it all simultaneously? Reddit/sportsbook/What is your most impressive win?
Full Twiiter:
All my media:
Discord: ????? To be solved.
Challenges: Got a few right in progress now and a couple of drafts I am working on.
The Jinxking Crusade (In progress):
Turns out many people cannot withdraw anything out of Bovada/bodog due to some website glitches. Will try to recover a bankroll to attempt a withdrawal, however I am likely to have the same issues too. They will make some lame excuse to not give me a cheque. Definitely no point of pursuing anything in bovada/bodog if they refuse to give you withdrawables. The goal is to get their website off outta here. As well as get them out of advertisements. They definitely pulled off some "Get the fucking money and run scheme" and you will likely not see your money again. GG
The Jinxking Challenge (In progress):
Want to expose a bad tout who over prices the service and has a mediocre record? Tail and fade to call their their BS or mediocre non profiting record out. Also good for finding legitimate winners too. This will be a mission to expose shitty touts on Twitter the way Penn & Teller exposes BS in the market.
submitted by jinxking0p5 to sportsbook [link] [comments]

Tennis Betting - Tips For Exchange Betting on Tennis Matches

By choosing tennis as your preferred sport for betting, you have already given yourself an "edge" against those who bet on or offer odds on other sports. To use this "edge" to make money consistently, however, you'll need to understand two fundamental principles first. Then apply the power of mathematics.
Principle #1
It is sheer folly to place a tennis bet (or a bet on anything) with a "traditional" bookmaker. The expression "You can't beat the bookie" is axiomatic; you just cannot beat the bookie over time. It's because the odds are always mathematically calculated in favour of the bookmaker. Everyone knows (or should know) that the bookie's mathematical "edge" against the punter is necessary for him to make a profit so that he can stay in business.
Computer technology has given rise to a new form of betting, known as "exchange betting" or "matched betting". With "betting exchanges" there is no bookie to beat; in other words, there is no middle-man. Every punter bets against another punter or punters somewhere out there in the Internet ether. Any punter (or "trader") can place a "back" bet that a player or team will win, and/or place a "lay" bet that a player or team will lose. Thus, any punter can choose to act as an ordinary bettor and/or as a bookmaker.
With exchange betting the odds are not set by a third-party or middle-man; they are set by the punters themselves, who place requests for odds at which they are prepared to place bets (if they wish to act as an ordinary bettor), or place offers of odds at which they are prepared to lay bets (if they wish to act as a bookmaker).
As the "back" bettors gradually lower their requested odds and the "lay" bettors gradually raise their offered odds, the software on the exchange betting web site matches all the back bets with all the lay bets at the instant they coincide. The accounts of the "backers" or "layers" are then credited with their winnings automatically a few seconds after the end of the event according to its result.
Obviously, the technology for providing such a "fair" betting service must be paid for somehow. This payment is taken in the form of a commission on the punter's net winnings on an event (or "market"). That is, commission is charged only on any positive difference between winnings and losses on the same event.
This betting system is as close to a perfectly fair betting environment as it is possible to achieve.
There are very few betting exchanges in existence, however, perhaps because the exchange betting software is so complex and therefore costly. The giant among exchange betting web sites is Betfair, with about 90% of the market at the time of writing. Others are the Global Betting Exchange (BetDAQ), ibetX, Betsson, Matchbook and the World Bet Exchange (WBX). Betfair is by far the most popular because it was the first to offer this "perfectly fair" betting environment, and is trusted to perform accurately and instantly.
Principle #2
So, why does tennis betting give you that "edge" over betting on other sports? The answer, though simple, is often overlooked even by those who bet tennis regularly. And if you're someone who's never bet on tennis, you'd almost certainly not have realized the significance of the tennis scoring system on the betting.
Consider this fundamental difference between the tennis scoring system and that of probably any other sport you can think of.
In other sports and games the trailing player or team must make up the points gap by winning a point for every point they have already lost in order to catch up to the leader. Only then can they start to move ahead. This fact seems obvious.
In tennis, however, the trailing player or team can lose the first set 6-0 (possibly with a deficit of 24 points). That team can then win the second set by the most narrow of margins, 7-6 in a tie-break, winning the set by very few points (or even by winning fewer points than the opponents, a rare but possible occurrence!).
As soon as the trailing player or team wins the second set, the two sides suddenly have even scores, even though one player or team might have actually won many more points than the opponents.
This anomaly often has a profound psychological effect on one or both sides, which affects the way they play for the next few minutes, and therefore also the betting odds requested and offered by punters on the match. This, however, is another aspect of tennis betting which may be the subject of another article. This article deals with the mathematical aspect of tennis betting and how to win money with this knowledge.
How to win at tennis betting
Now that you're aware of these two fundamental principles, how can you use them to your advantage when making tennis bets?
The key is not to be just a "backer" or a "layer", simply betting on the final outcome of an event. If you do that, you will lose out over time, because there's always a small difference between the "back" odds and the "lay" odds -- there must be, otherwise there'd be no incentive for anyone to offer odds and there'd be no betting at all. Combine that with the commission you pay on your net winnings, and the "edge" is against you mathematically (although it is not as great as with conventional bookmakers).
The secret to winning at tennis betting is to be BOTH a "backer" AND a "layer", but at different points during the event. This is another aspect of betting that distinguishes the exchange betting web site from the traditional bookie. At the betting exchange you can place a back or lay bet at any time during the event, right up until the very last second or the final point. This is known as "in-play" betting.
Because in-play betting is allowed, the odds for each opposing side change as the event progresses, according to the likelihood (as perceived by the punters) of either one side or the other being the eventual winner. The trick is to place a back bet on one side at certain odds and later place a lay bet on that side (or a back bet on the other side) at better odds as fortunes change and the odds swing in your favour. If you can achieve this, you will win your bet overall, regardless of the outcome of the event -- a true "win-win" scenario.
Why bet on tennis and not on other sports?
Apart from Principle #2, explained earlier, tennis is ideal for such "swing" betting, because the odds fluctuate after every point is played. There are therefore very many small swings to one side and then to the other. This doesn't happen in soccer, for example, because goals are so rare and a goal shifts the advantage suddenly and hugely to the scoring side.
Furthermore, a tennis match can have one of only two results; there can be no draw or tie; and one of only two players or teams can win. In horse racing, for example, the winner can come from a large number of runners.
The more possible outcomes there are to factor into the equation, the more difficult it is to win. (Despite this obvious logic, soccer and horse racing remain the two most popular sports for betting, probably for historical reasons. Tennis is already third in popularity, however, as more and more punters discover the fact that it is easier to make money betting on tennis than on any other sport.)
"In-play" betting or "pre-event" betting?
Now that you have -- it is hoped -- understood and absorbed the generalities of exchange betting and the peculiarities of tennis scoring, it is time to explain the details of how you can win at tennis betting.
Earlier it was stated that the secret to winning at tennis betting is to be both a "backer" and a "layer", but at different points during the event, placing bets at different times during the event as fortunes change and the odds swing in your favour. This can be done with both "in-play" betting and "pre-event" betting.
One method used with in-play betting is called "scalping". As its name suggests, scalping involves skimming a tiny profit by backing or laying at exactly the right moment as the odds move slightly in your favour, perhaps when one player scores two or three consecutive points, and repeating the process again and again. The biggest drawback of scalping is that it is very time-consuming and fraught with mental and physical tension. Not only must you pay full attention to what's happening during the match by live video broadcast, but you must also catch exactly the right moments at which to bet, which is, in fact, made impossible by the 5-second delay imposed by the exchange betting software between the time you place the bet and the time it is accepted.
We're not elaborating on this here because, as stated previously, this article is about winning by mathematics, not by the sweat of your brow. The maths aspect involves betting, not during the event, but before the event starts. That is, pre-event betting.
Mathematics do not lie!
There are a few tennis betting "systems", some purely manual, others using software programs, some of which are enormously complicated. From the investigations of the writer (a mathematician), they all require the input, at some point, of a "probability factor" by the bettor. This probability factor is usually the odds at which you want your "balancing" bet (the "lay" bet on the "backed" side or the "back" bet on the opposing side) to be triggered, giving you the "win-win" scenario mentioned earlier.
So, how do you determine the value of this probability factor? That, dear reader, is the crucial point of the whole matter, the linch-pin that holds any exchange betting "system" together and determines whether it succeeds or fails, whether you win or lose.
Up to now, it seems, this probability factor has had to be determined by the sheer experience of a few seasoned professional gamblers, or by trial-and-error guesswork by lesser mortals. Little wonder that so many punters lose or do not win as much as they could because they do not know the EXACT value needed to optimize their bets!
Accuracy is of paramount importance when determining the probability factor, in order to maximize the chances of winning consistently. A search on the Web for a tool to calculate it proved negative. The writer therefore created one that encompasses not only all aspects of exchange betting but also the peculiarities of the tennis scoring system, and called it the Abacus Exchange Betting Calculator, for want of a better name. The probability factor is calculated to two decimal places, merely by entering the pre-event odds of both opposing sides, and has enabled the writer to make consistently more than 10% profit from tennis betting since Wimbledon 2009.
As a parallel test, the writer also placed bets according to "gut feeling", in sufficient numbers to establish a trend. It resulted in a loss of 10% of the working capital (or "bank").
Other tests were done, using the Abacus Exchange Betting Calculator, by betting on other sports where small odds swings occur, such as American Football, snooker and darts (very long matches only, otherwise the swings are too large). The results here just about covered the commissions paid on winnings; so, it is not worthwhile.
It seems, then, that the particular mathematical formula or algorithm (which is very complex) discussed here works well only in conjunction with the unique scoring system of tennis.
As a scientist, the writer feels that it is highly probable to win at sports betting consistently over time only when the following factors are present:
  1. An exchange betting web site is used, not a conventional betting web site. (Beware of many sites that pretend to offer exchange betting by appearing in search engine results for "exchange betting"! Ensure that their software system enables you both to back and to lay bets at any odds you want against other punters, not against the house. If in doubt, check that their web site looks like the one at Betfair.)
  1. The sport is tennis, because of its unique scoring system.
3(a) You learn about and become experienced in in-play betting and are prepared to devote almost all your time glued to a computer screen while following each match, sometimes more than one simultaneously.
3(b) You use software that tells you exactly the odds to request and offer and the stakes to place in pre-event betting in only a few minutes, thus allowing you to get on with your normal life.
submitted by PresentType to 1xbetjapandotcom [link] [comments]

The Hell App

I’m from New York, upstate in the mountains. I’m also a senior in high school, which means I’m worried about the Corona lockdown and how all that mess is going to impact my chances once I’m finally able to get out into the real world. I mean, it’s not as though things weren’t bad enough already.
Anyway, my high school, which only has about a hundred students per grade, has long since canceled all official school functions, which included our graduation ceremony. Personally, I don’t really care about walking across a stage to get a piece of paper, but I know my parents are disappointed, as are parents all over our little hamlet. I gather that some of my classmates are disappointed as well, but mostly just the ones at the top of the class who were going to get special recognition when their names were called. To hell with them.
Not that this really needs saying, either, but if you’re from my generation, your smartphone is probably well-integrated into your daily life. You probably also have at least one friend, though, who doesn’t really fit in where smartphones are concerned, who doesn’t care whether their latest tweet is liked or not—if they even tweet at all. That’s me. I actually have a smartphone, but more often than not I don’t even know where it is. I don’t like social media as a rule, and stay away from it as much as I can.
Because of that, I was more than a little irritated when the geniuses in our school administration decided that they’d use some sort of community chat room to hold a virtual graduation for us, and even more irritated when somebody decided that each and every one of us in our graduating class would have to prepare some sort of short video about patriotism or economic prosperity or general optimism about the future as a final assignment before we graduated. The staff would then choose a handful of the videos to be included in our virtual graduation—for the love of god. Reluctantly—and only because I wanted to graduate—I made a silly little video and used their app to submit it along with all the others.
There was a wormy little guy in our class who everybody called Cleave—I think his name was actually Bernard, but that’s beside the point. He didn’t have any friends as far as I could tell, and had often been the subject of ridicule and bullying over the years. Not by me, mind you, but I can’t say that I ever stood up for him, either. He was just odd, and always seemed to be either in the computer lab or walking the halls with his nose glued to whatever device he happened to be carrying.
Apparently, someone in our class had gotten hold of Cleave’s patriotism video, and had shared it with everybody else. It was about ten seconds long, and was a short stream of a carpenter driving a nail into a board with the National Anthem playing in the background. It was pretty lame, and it didn’t take long for the cruel-minded in our class to start with the memes. One last chance to rub Cleave’s nose in it, so rub they did. I swear . . . I even like some of those people, but I’ll never understand why they feel the need to act so heartlessly.
I was over at my friend Ronnie’s house yesterday morning and we were talking until his phone dinged and interrupted our conversation. Another thing I’ll never understand is why something coming in on your phone is always more important than what somebody in your physical presence is saying—but I digress. Anyway, Ronnie started laughing, saying that ol’ Cleave had decided to send out a replacement video. He tried to get me to watch it, but I refused on principle, so he told me about it. Seems that it was pretty much the same as the first one, except when the carpenter had driven the nail into the board, he’d stopped, looked into the camera, said Gentlemen, start your engines, and had then placed his hand on the board and smashed his thumb with his hammer, sending blood spurting everywhere. Unlike my friend Ronnie, I didn’t find it funny, but I had to admit that Cleave was one weird dude. I mean, I still didn’t care to watch it, but that was pretty messed up.
Around noon, I got a text on my phone just as Ronnie did. As we’d soon discover, the text was sent to everybody in our class. All it said was 4:00—high school student parking lot—don’t miss, or you’ll regret it. Pretty obscure—and to make it more mysterious, the text was from an anonymous source. Ronnie checked around, and nobody knew who had sent it. Still, at about a quarter to four, we hopped in Ronnie’s car and drove to the high school.
We weren’t the first to arrive, nor were we the last. As it drew ever nearer to four o’clock, it looked to me like just about everybody in our class had showed up—as had a number of juniors and sophomores. It was strange—but who knew what drove the pack mentality of teenagers. You just had to go with it.
Everybody was starting to get a little rowdy, probably because we were excited to be in a social setting of any sort—it’d been a while for most of us because of the stay at home order. Just when I was beginning to think that somebody’s desire to see everybody together one last time had been the reason for the mysterious text, Cleave came driving up in his rattrap of a car and parked close to the herd. We all stopped talking and watched as he got out of his car carrying a hammer. He walked to the rear of his car, unlocked his trunk and let it fly open, and then he climbed up on the car’s roof. A few people laughed, and several others made derogatory remarks. Cleave had a silly look on his face—which he always did—but this one was different somehow.
Some girl said something about Cleave’s panties showing and the group around her laughed, but Cleave paid them no mind. In a jerking motion, he raised his hammer up over his head, and then hurled it as hard as he could into the windshield of the nearest car to him, which happened to be a sports car that belonged to the captain of the football team, a guy named Rocky. The hammer lodged itself there, like an erect penis.
Rocky’s body sort of spasmed, and then he whirled toward Cleave. I was pretty sure we were all about to see him beat the living shit out of Cleave, but before Rocky moved, Cleave yelled out over the crowd. In his nasally voice, he said Gentlemen, start your engines. Then, his silly expression returned.
No one moved for a moment. Finally, though, Diane, a cheerleader type, walked to the rear of Cleave’s car, reached in the trunk, and pulled out another hammer. She then walked to Rocky, and as he stood perfectly still and watched her, she raised the hammer high and brought it down right between his eyes. He fell like a stone.
Except for Rocky’s rasping breaths, there was total silence. That blow had to have caused him serious injury, yet no one was moving to help him. I was a ways from him, and despite the surreal nature of the moment, I decided that I would go over to see if there was anything I could do. Before I’d taken a step, however, pandemonium swept the crowd. Everyone seemed to rush toward Cleave’s car all at once, to the trunk. Those that made it there managed to come away with yet more hammers, a variety of different kinds. Those who didn’t make it were locked in seemingly mortal combat with fellow classmates—and when I say mortal, I mean mortal. I saw not only punching and kicking, but clawing like wild animals, and choking, and biting. I actually saw a guy bite a hunk of flesh from a girl’s chest and commence to chew it like a piece of steak, except he had blood running down his chin. I saw a friend of mine, Michael, lying on the pavement, a friend of his straddling his torso and driving his hammer over and over into Michael’s ruined forehead. Everywhere I looked there was animalistic rage, and carnage, and blood.
What I was seeing was bad enough, but the sounds were absolutely horrifying: guttural screams everywhere, cries of agony, thuds of hammers cracking into skulls, and legs, and chests. I have to admit it—I froze. I couldn’t believe what was going on all around me, complete and absolute mayhem, and it was for real. My classmates were dying right in front of my eyes, and I didn’t have the faintest idea what to do. I was completely unprepared.
I don’t know why, but I remember looking up and seeing Cleave, still on his car’s roof, looking down at all the carnage going on around him, still wearing that silly expression on his face. I don’t know how he did it or how I knew, but in that moment I was absolutely certain he was responsible. He had done something, and this had been his intention. The ultimate revenge perpetrated by a computer geek, for all the cruelties and abuses he’d suffered since we were little kids.
I actually had the thought that I had to go to him; I had to yank him off the car and get him to make it stop. But before I could move I saw two of my classmates bearing down on me—a boy and a girl. They were both wild-eyed and screaming; Lauren had a hammer raised over her head, and Thomas seemed to be missing a hand, blood pouring out the end of his arm. I reacted on instinct. I went low and flipped Lauren over my back—she was crazed, but still light as a feather—and as Thomas approached, growling and biting his own tongue, I kicked him as hard as I could in the groin. He let out with a blood-curdling yelp and fell to his knees.
It had become clear to me that I had to get moving. That I hadn’t been infected with hysteria as most everyone else had hadn’t made me immune from their hostilities. I dodged through the crowd till I got back to Ronnie’s car. Ronnie wasn’t there, nor were his keys—damnit! I turned just in time to see Ronnie coming up behind me, his hammer swinging down toward my head. I managed to dodge the blow, and his hammer careened off the roof of his car and clattered to the concrete. I punched him in the jaw, and he went down. No sooner than he’d hit the pavement, a girl named Becky came down on him and began clawing at his eyes. I kicked her in the side of the head, and then I took off. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t save anyone—that much had become clear.
The parking lot was alive with pure, unadulterated bedlam, and it was of the most evil kind. I saw things happening right before my eyes that I’d only seen in video games—never in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined I’d see them in real life. I ducked a hammer blow, but wound up directly in the crosshairs of another. The boy, Bruce, was about to bring his hammer down on my head, but a girl, Jamie, bit down on his leg. Bruce roared and turned his attention to her.
Just as I thought I was about to make it out of the din, as I dodged yet another attack, I ran smack into someone, and it knocked me down. I even saw stars for a split second, but when my vision cleared, I saw that I was sitting face-to-face with a girl named Jamie. To my relief, she looked just as terrified and disoriented as I felt. Just then, two guys who appeared to be biting at each other’s throats came rolling between us and across our laps. Luckily, they kept rolling.
I’d never really spoken to Jamie—she’d only been going to our school for a couple of years—but something told me she was about to become my new best friend. I told her we needed to get out of there, to head for the woods. With her eyes wide and filled with fright, she nodded. I looked back toward the crowd as we stood, and what I saw defied belief. My classmates, most of whom had known each other their whole lives, were going at each other like rabid dogs. There were bodies on the ground, lifeless bodies, and even they were still being attacked, beaten and bitten. I also noticed that Cleave was no longer on his car. I wondered if he’d fallen prey to his own ploy.
I took Jamie by the hand, and we ran. We ran across an open field for a hundred yards or so until we reached the edge of the forest, and only then did we dare stop running. We took cover behind some bushes before looking back toward the parking lot, and to my surprise, at least, the hostilities seemed to have ceased for the most part. There was the occasional skirmish, the random scream, and several times I saw someone attack a body that was lying lifeless on the ground, but things had calmed considerably. It was almost as though the ones standing had decided that they were all on the same team, and were surveying the field as victors would. It was eerie in the extreme. Just then, though, I heard a shout come from the edge of the field, off to the side. It was Cleave, and he was yelling at the victors and pointing at the forest—directly at us. The victors seemed to focus their attention in our direction, and then as if of one mind, they all started running toward us.
Jamie yelled a string of profanities as I was standing and dragging her to her feet, and we were off, heading for the deep of the forest. I caught my foot on a root and went down face first; Jamie helped me to my feet, and we were off again. We ran as hard as we could for as long as we could, dodging trees, scaling and descending inclines, and we even leapt across a stream. We ran until we couldn’t run anymore, and then we found cover behind a rock ledge before we looked back to see what might’ve been coming.
We could hear crazed yelling, some closer than I would’ve liked, some farther away, and there were sounds of bodies moving through brush. The canopy was fairly thick where we were, so there were lots of shadows, a fact that would work to our advantage. We continued to hear the noises, the yells, the occasional ungodly roar, but no one ever came into our view. Once we’d rested long enough, we both agreed we should probably get moving. So, that’s what we did, though more calculated than before. We stayed low and moved from cover to cover best we could, under control and deeper into the forest, trying not to make sounds than would give us away.
We must’ve moved in that manner for half an hour, until we finally came upon what appeared to be a firebreak, a clearing of trees and brush about twenty yards wide and stretching as far as we could see in either direction. We crouched at the firebreak’s edge, scanning the area to make sure it was safe to come out from the cover of the trees. Once we were satisfied there was no immediate danger, we started across.
No sooner than we’d come into the clear, however, I saw Cleave step into the firebreak from the other side. Jamie and I froze; Cleave just stared at us with that silly look on his face. Then, before I could think of what to say to him or what to do, he started yelling, that he’d found us, that there was fresh meat. We started to go back the way we’d come, but we could hear crashing noises coming up behind us, and pretty soon I saw movement. There was yelling, and growling sounds, and I could feel my heart in my throat.
We started to the right, but several of my classmates came out of the woods just a few dozen yards away. The same thing to the left. In my mind, that left us but one option. We had to go straight ahead and run for our lives. Jamie agreed, but before we took a single step in that direction, of all things, a bear came into the clearing directly behind Cleave. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!, I remember thinking. Has he brainwashed the animals as well? I soon got the answer to that question, though, and it was a resounding no.
The bear raised up on its hind legs, and came down on Cleave’s shoulders like it was trying to stomp him into the ground. We didn’t move. Neither did my deranged classmates who had found their way to the firebreak—not for a few seconds, anyway. Then, as though they’d been given a new directive, or perhaps because they’d been confused by the introduction of a truly wild animal into the equation, they all headed for the bear, who was now mauling a screaming and defenseless Cleave. One by one they began hurling themselves at the bear, those who had hammers swinging them wildly as they charged. The bear seemed intent to stand its ground, and swiped at them with its powerful paws.
Jamie and I didn’t hesitate—we took off in what we perceived to be the safest direction, which would also lead us deeper into the forest, and it was getting darker by the minute. But we had to think of the moment; it was all about survival.
We could hear the battle rage as we fled the scene. There were snarls from the bear, roars from my classmates, and cries of agony. As we moved farther and farther away, however, the sounds grew more faint until we couldn’t hear them at all. We didn’t stop, though. We kept moving until it had become totally dark, and the only noises we heard were those common to the forest.
We guessed we had to be a number of miles from the clearing where we’d last seen our pursuers, and it had been a while since we’d heard anything from them. I don’t know how comfortable either of us truly was with the idea of stopping, but we did. It also occurred to us that we were lost, but somehow that seemed to be a secondary consideration.
As I’d mentioned, I’m not a phone person. Probably because of that fact coupled with the trauma we’d been operating under, only then did it occur to me that we should call someone. As fate would have it, though, I didn’t have my phone on me—I think I’d left it in Ronnie’s car. Come to find out, Jamie wasn’t much of a phone person, either, but she did have her phone with her. As it turned out, though, out here in the middle of the forest, her phone had no reception—at least not for phone calls and texts. She was able to access the Internet occasionally, though, for what good that’d do. We tried higher ground, and got the same result.
We found the best shelter we could, which was a rock ledge guarded by brush and a number of granite boulders, and we hunkered down. We listened for a long while, and never heard anything that sounded like our classmates. We discussed whether or not we should try to find our way back to town, but quickly decided that to be a foolish idea. It would be best for us to stay where we were, and hope we made it through till morning. Not only were some of our classmates still possibly out there, but there was at least one bear in the general vicinity—assuming they hadn’t managed to kill it—and there were any number of creatures in the forest that could do us ill. All considered, it was best to stay put.
I leaned against the rock ledge, and Jamie leaned up against me, her head resting on my shoulder. At some point I put my arm around her. I’m not sure if she managed to sleep any, but I think I might’ve dozed once or twice—nothing like real sleep, though. I was too wired to really sleep. Also, the occasional ghoulish roar from the distance didn’t help.
Now, however, the sun has just started to rise, and we just had what I consider to be a fairly disturbing conversation. Neither Jamie nor I watched Cleave’s second video, the one where the man said to start your engines and then smashed his thumb, but I’d bet most everybody else did. It was crazy to think, but what if that video had hypnotized the people that watched it, cast them under some sort of spell? Yeah, ridiculous—but then again, what we’d witnessed yesterday was nothing short of insane. What if? If it wasn’t the video, what was it? There had to be something. There had to be a reason all our classmates simultaneously lost their minds and began viciously going after one another. Were our classmates the only ones who watched the video? Was what happened in our parking lot an isolated event? Was it even safe for us to head back? To head anywhere?
All I know for sure is this—I’m hungry, and I’m thirsty. We can’t stay here behind these boulders forever. We have to . . . do something. Oh, and Jamie just checked her phone. She had one bar and managed to call her mother, but got no answer. I tried both my parents—no answer from either. She called 9-1-1—again, no answer. I don’t know what to do.
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Have you just been really unlucky, or does your betting strategy need some work? Methods to Estimate Prediction Error

Everyone has gotten unlucky on a seemingly sure bet that backfired. We hate losing that nail biter. It hurts a lot more than that blowout loss where you weren’t even close. The question is: should each loss (and alternatively each win) be treated equally?
Margin of Victory
If most of your wins are by a single point and you’re getting blown out in your losses, it might be a sign that your Win/Loss performance is due for a regression. Alternatively, if your only losses are of the nail biter variety, you might just be on the wrong side of variance. As an assessment, it might be helpful to measure your margin of victory on your wagers.
The margin of victory (“MOV”) measurement is a simple but useful measurement of how well your bets are performing. Since bets are generally binary outcomes (win or loss) there is a quite a bit of variance when it comes to measurement by simply wins and losses. Using the MOV measurement can give you a more precise measurement that isn’t as influenced by the binary nature of wager outcomes. This is identical to evaluating team performance using net differential as opposed to W-L.
MOV Example:
Say you placed the 15 NBA ATS bets below, winning 7 and losing 8 during the first week of March:

Date Wager Odds Win/Loss
3/1/2020 Kings -7.5 -110 L
3/1/2020 Nuggets -2.5 -110 W
3/2/2020 Cavaliers +10 -110 L
3/3/2020 76ers +12.5 -110 L
3/3/2020 Warriors +15 -110 W
3/4/2020 Pacers +11.5 -110 L
3/4/2020 Thunder -8 -110 L
3/4/2020 Blazers -7.5 -110 W
3/5/2020 Raptors -9 -110 L
3/6/2020 Bulls +2 -110 L
3/6/2020 Celtics -1.5 -110 L
3/6/2020 Mavericks -7.5 -110 W
3/7/2020 Grizzlies -6.5 -110 W
3/8/2020 Pacers +6.5 -110 W
3/8/2020 Magic +8 -110 W
Wins 7
Losses 8
Win % 46.7%
A 46.7% winning percentage at -110 is certainly not a profitable record when betting the same amount every time. We could just assume that these weren’t very good bets. What we’d rather do, however, is examine our margin of victory for these games. The first wager of Kings -7.5, for example, was a game that the favorite failed to cover by 1.5 points, winning the game by 6 points when favorite bettors had to lay 7.5. Your wager (Kings -7.5) would have a MOV of -1.5 since your bet lost by 1.5 points.

Date Wager Pts Opp Pts Result Line W/L MOV
3/1/2020 Kings -7.5 106 100 -6 -7.5 L -1.5
We can do this same analysis for each wager and find that your MOV averaged 17.5 points in your wins and -3.1 in your losing wagers. Thus despite a losing record, your wagers had a total MOV of 6.5 points.

Date Wager Odds Win/Loss MOV
3/1/2020 Kings -7.5 -110 L -1.5
3/1/2020 Nuggets -2.5 -110 W 12.5
3/2/2020 Cavaliers +10 -110 L -3
3/3/2020 76ers +12.5 -110 L -0.5
3/3/2020 Warriors +15 -110 W 31
3/4/2020 Pacers +11.5 -110 L -7.5
3/4/2020 Thunder -8 -110 L -1
3/4/2020 Blazers -7.5 -110 W 13.5
3/5/2020 Raptors -9 -110 L -1
3/6/2020 Bulls +2 -110 L -4
3/6/2020 Celtics -1.5 -110 L -6.5
3/6/2020 Mavericks -7.5 -110 W 17.5
3/7/2020 Grizzlies -6.5 -110 W 10.5
3/8/2020 Pacers +6.5 -110 W 9.5
3/8/2020 Magic +8 -110 W 28
Wins 7 17.5
Losses 8 -3.1
Average MOV 6.5
This certainly indicates that variance was not on your side as you were on the losing side of several one-possession games and most of your wins occurred at pretty comfortable MOVs.
Now certainly there are limitations to an MOV analysis. First, since it is an “average” measurement, it can be influenced by outliers. You might consider capping the MOV (say a 10 or 15-point maximum MOV) to reduce the impact of outliers.
Second, different sports have different key numbers and a simple MOV analysis does not account for key numbers or non-normal distributions.
Lastly, this type of analysis doesn’t translate as easily for moneyline wagers. To make an apples to apples comparison, you would need to assess the average score differential at various moneylines. We computed the average run differential of away teams in the MLB based on the breakeven win probability of their moneyline odds in the graph linked below.
Normalizing Run Differentials Based on Implied Win Probability
More Granular Measurements
For sports that have lumpy scoring (NFL, NHL, MLB) you might perform a similar analysis using even more granular data than scoring. For example, to remove cluster luck from baseball scoring, you might do an analysis of net base production or in football you might analyze yards per play or play success rates.
Grading Your Own Predictions
Now let’s say you’ve made a model to come up with your own predictions for games (we’ll cover several ways to do this in our model building section) and you want to assess your predictions vs the market (or someone else). In statistics and machine learning, two common ways of assessing performance are by the mean absolute error (“MAE”) and the root mean squared error (“RMSE”) of various models.
Mean Absolute Error
The great thing about these terms is that their names so accurately describe their calculations. The mean absolute error is the average (mean) of the absolute value of your model’s prediction error. So if you forecasted a game to be -5 and the game ended in -3 the absolute value of the error of your model was 2 points. Do that for every prediction and take the average. Simple enough.
Root Mean Squared Error
The root mean squared error is conceptually very similar to MAE except that you first 1) square your error term, then 2) take the average (mean) of the squared error terms and finally 3) take the squared root of those squared errors.
We’ve calculated the MAE and RMSE for the NBA ATS wagers that you made linked below. Naturally, since those wagers had a positive average MOV, we’re not surprised that the prediction error was less than the market.
The difference between MAE and RMSE is that by squaring the error values, you are more heavily penalizing predictions with large errors. If large errors are significantly worse than smaller errors, then RMSE might be a better calculation for you to use. Otherwise MAE will work just fine.
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I'mma head out

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Pit: Book 1-Episode 8 part 2

She stands almost six feet, and should I not have heard her voice, “she” is not the first thing that would come to my mind. She is garbed entirely in some kind of black steel, embossed with odd patterns , whether these are structural or decoration I have no idea. She has an angled steel dome , reminiscent of tank armor , as a helmet, with a mane of deep black hair , shoulder length hanging out of the back. No visible slits for eye holes, or for that matter ear holes, in fact the only flesh I can see is directly under her chin, everywhere else is steel clad.
Overtop of this is a long brown leather coat, the right tail completely gone, and various burn marks, holes and tears adorning it. My first guess is that, unlike my own coat, hers is simply for decoration , or maybe a memento of some form. And this honestly causes quite the sinking feeling in me. One of the biggest changes from the original “equipment” is that I have re-enforced the coat, pants, well, everything with layers of leather, on the inside of course, a trick learned from various books on prison life. But what I think of as solid protection, she thinks of as decoration.
Lastly, something is spraypainted across her chest, I can’t quite see the entire word but with a lucky gust of wind, I eventually see all of it, a simple decoration, the word “ Not” in an angry scrawl.
But this is where it pays off to be me, I’m scared, or rather I know that this fight is unbalanced in her favor as much as the last was sided against the gang bangers, but I don’t really care. It’s not fearlessness, nor apathy, just the simple fact that this is what I do. I no more care that I may get squashed by this steel clad warrior woman, than a plumber cares that he will spend his day elbow deep in someone else’s shit. It is just part of doing business.
A burst of helium, and I start in, but not before I palm one of my as of yet, untested new toys to Eric.
“ Well I bet you thought that would have been a lot more impressive, how’d that fall work out for you?” my tone is schoolyard bully obnoxious, and the helium makes it grating , hard on the ears.
She says nothing, she just looks at me. So I continue, “ And now comes the silence, is this the point where I am supposed to realize your unshakeable? A vanguard of one, trained to be unstoppable?” I laugh, a shrill barking giggle “ Well look at my scared face…What the fuck do they call you anyway? Vaginator? The crimson flow? Give me that at least.”
A couple of seconds go by, and I can see by a slight shift of the helmet that she might say something, I pounce on this like a karate master pounces on a lowered guard.
“ Come on , I really want to hear it, I want to shake with fear at your moniker, tremble at the very mention of your name, remember forever the label of the one who finally put an end to my reign of terror.” I snicker a bit, as if I am holding it back, giving her no more concern than a raised eyebrow and a relaxed pose.
“ Not-girl” She says simply.
I bring my hand up to my mouth, as if to stifle overwhelming laughter, actually I am taking a breath of the heavy, and after a brief ejaculation of deep laughter I continue , “ Holy shit, were you and freebird off fucking when they were passing out names? Wow, my jokes were better than that. Why the hell would you pick that?” I keep up the conversational tone , really I am just buying time, the cops saved my ass last time, and maybe it will work out the same way again. But not of I get my faced crushed in 30 seconds.
“ Why?” she gives her own snicker and starts slowly walking over, not that sensuous ‘fuck-me’ walk you see female villains have in the movies, but a simple, almost graceless stride. “Because girls are soft.” She lashes out at a wall, it doesn’t cave in, she doesn’t leave a hole, but none the less chunks of brick fly off of it hard enough to make high pitched Tinging noises off of her armor. “And I am, Not. Girls are scared” she continues as she twists her arm, and a set of small spikes extend from her right fist, not giant, three quarters of an inch at most, but nothing I want to be hit with. “ I am, Not.” As she keeps talking, I realize that maybe I am not the only one taking advantage of the pre fight rant. The arming, or drawing, or whatever you would want to call those appearing , is something that looked like it took a bit of effort. Not much, but if there is anything I have learned from the volumes and volumes of shit I have had to read, its that , that little bit of effort can be all it takes.
“Girls get fucked, and I can assure you , “ I see her leg lash out to the left, quickly, very quickly considering the armor she wore. It wasn’t cumbersome so much as simply heavy looking, in a very obvious way. But regardless of that, the movement is quick, almost unintentional looking, and a cinderblock comes flying at me, not a heat seeking missile, by any means, but it comes close to taking me in the stomach none the less.
“ I am not going to be the one fucked when this is all over.” She finishes and is now standing a mere ten feet away.
I let my face go slack, as if I just realise that unavoidable death is staring me down, I drop my cane, Lucite with a lead core , from a design standpoint virtually indestructible for my uses, but something I don’t have much faith in at the moment. “ You know, I just realized, I have no chance do i?” I say letting my voice shrink back to my normal tone and pitch, no gas, no falsetto, I see her give a superior kind of chuckle.
“ No, I’m the person they send in when asshead up there fucks up, and considering that happens on a pretty regular basis, you know I’ve had a lot of training.” I have to stifle a laugh, everything coming out of her mouth seems like she takes her job entirely too seriously. I have the soundness of mind to realize that whatever it is we are doing, or engaged in, it is absurd. Absolutely , out and out , absurd.
“ I get it, I just need to know one thing.” I sigh, a hangdog kind of noise, “ How long did it take you to think of that? How many hours did you sit down, and try different little variations , to see which one would induce the most pants shitting?” I give her a big smile, and as I do so I slip on a set of brass knuckles. Not the cheap kind found at flea markets and shady pawn shops, but genuine custom made , meant to kill , brass knuckles. Rigid, spiked, and in a deep, black purple the same hue as my gloves, ( hours of dying had stained my fingertips the most horrible shade of blue, but thankfully after 2 months I realized it was going to go away.) the thinking being, if people didn’t notice, the crushing, gaping puncture wound it would create would appear to be just my fist. Appearance is everything, well when your working with one eighth of the raw power of your competitors at least.
She growls a bit but seems to be deliberately trying to keep her cool.
“Okay, lets start again, I am not necessarily here to try and break you clown. You show talent, I mean you’d never be in my shoes, or even Freeman’s , but you could be a tech guy, a trainer, sparring partner, we have all kinds of support staff. “ she isn’t trying to provoke me. But if I have ever head a backhanded compliment it was now.
But she wasn’t finished.
“And don’t worry, not all of our support staff end up life a lonely old prick who has no one but a confused twenty something he tricks into being his friend.” She gives her own laugh and looks to Eric.
“ They still talk about you old man, a bit, is it true that in the Korean war you pulled a chunk of wooley pete out of a guy’s stomach, and stitched him up so good he was fighting the next day?” her voice does have a military tone about it, a little too loud, and a little too condescending if not talking to someone who is wearing the appropriate stripes to be condescending to her.
Eric takes a long drag of his cigarette, the alley is quiet and you can hear the bottom of the line , pale yellow tobacco pop and crack as he does so. “Stories kid, they always get exaggerated. It was a burning chunk of tree, and it only broke his stomach open a bit, but yeah, he was up being a better soldier than you’ll ever be the next day, you cunt.” Eric, never one to sugar coat an opinion, says.
I wish I could see her face, to see what reaction that got, because her tone got colder, and for a moment I thought she was going to kill him right then and there.
“ Old man, your lucky I am not here to simply take you out for being you. But letting you live is much funnier, isn’t it going to be funny going back to sitting around your apartment all day, doing nothing, hoping that you can think up some excuse to show up, at this insane fuck’s place? No more adventure , no more being the Mr. Miagi, to his fucked up karate kid.”
He takes another long, noisy puff of the cigarette, as a gust of wind, thick with the smell of industrial cleaners, motor oil, and various types of garbage, blows by.
“ When he is done breakin ya in half, you know what I am going to do?” he says casually, but I know him, and he is holding back rage by the bucketful, “Take a cab down to a pharmacy, buy all the Viagra they have.” His tone slow, as if describing a series of events it is important she knows. He takes one final puff of the cigarette, and he must have got a decent amount of filter in it, judging by the smell, but the smoke cloud Is yellow and thick, and makes a good backdrop for his next words, he chucks the butt on the ground, sparks flying away, almost as if they know something horrible is going on and are hoping to get away before the shit hits the fan. “ and then, there is a 50/50 chance if I snort it all, I might get a woody. And if that happens, I am going to rape the living shit out of you. I was helping this fuckin country, really helpin this country, savin lifes, saving the fuckin world, you hear stories, then you god damn know what we were really doing back then, and what we really had to fuckin deal with , and I was doin this long before you were getting paid to hunt down joe asshole in a back alley.” He says finally.
His rage breaks through about after the word woody, and it takes everything in me not to look disturbed to him. But I assume, with everything he has seen, he has his reasons for the reaction. I make a mental note to try and see what he meant though. I have never seen the old man snap that bad, so whatever it is she was pissing on, metaphorically of course, it was big.
“ I wouldn’t start planning the bus ride there quite yet fucker.” She says, and I am sure if she could spit upon him she would. “So you really want to do this… what is it they call you?” she asks the question almost as an afterthought.
“ What do they call me? Mike, actually. The concept of actually having a superhero name, doesn’t that just seem a little too camp to you? A little too like your trying to force something that isn’t there? You aren’t a hero, and I am not a fucking villain.” It takes everything I have to keep up a mocking , cartoonish tone. In all honesty I want to get her real opinion on the matter.
“ Not a villain? Really, you just killed, what, a half dozen men, up close and personal, and for what? You’re a murderer, plain and simple, no different from any number of mentally lopsided…” in the middle of the sentence , she does something, at first I think a punch is coming, but by the time I am moving I am staring down the barrel of a massive handgun, drawn and aimed with her left hand. “ Think you’re the only one that knows how to catch someone with their pants down?” she says, as I can hear a grin behind the mask.
“Fuck” I say simply, this is a moment I have been dreading, someone with a gun, and someone who knows how to use it, having a bead directly on me. We are no more than 6 feet away by this point, I doubt she will miss.
I see the barrel start to dip, not because of any loss of concentration, if I were to hazard a guess I would say she was trying to shoot me in the leg, maybe just in the gut, but regardless this is my only chance, another wasted second and I am going to be missing a large part of my body.
I take a massive swing , and turn my body, both putting my weight behind it, and shifting her target enough that she will have to take another bit of a second to aim. The brass knuckles connect solidly just below her wrist, the shock numbs my arm, on a normal person this would have shattered , if not severed the hand, not so much due to my own skill, as the vicious design of the weapon. But to her, it causes nothing more than a few inches of movement in her arm and a somewhat looser grip on the gun.
But in her haste to end this quickly she tries to fire off a shot, hoping that luck will be on her side. The gun goes off inches from my ear, a deafening blast, more akin to a rifle than a handgun, the sound sends a bolt of pain straight through my grey matter, but the recoil of this hand held SCUD in a compromised grip sends it up high. All training, all of the work I put into trying to know what to do and when to do it, goes out the window. I grab the gun, being as large as it is , I have enough room to get both hands on it, in a solid grip, and I yank, dropping myself toward the ground to get more leverage. For a brief moment I am staring again down the barrel, my heart leaps and there is a pit in my stomach, but as I yank my body to and fro like a pitbull trying to tear off a chunk of meat, I feel the resistance suddenly disappear.
It would have been the smart thing to do to keep the gun, it was in my hands, and judging from the noise that is leaving me (hopefully) temporarily deafened it would be a more effective weapon than anything I have. But this is why you don’t disregard training, instinct is seldom the smartest option in a situation. So instead of thinking it through, standing up and firing the gun into her until I hear a ‘click’, I toss it aside. As soon as I hear the metal on stone grinding noise of it sliding down the alley , I regret my decision.
I regret it further when I notice she has stepped in, and a steel clad knee is sailing up toward my chest. I roll with the momentum of the blow, straight up and backwards, saving my ribs from becoming pulp, but leaving me no other choice than to fly on a low flight, backwards, through a window. I land with three quarters of my body on the inside of the dim building, from the looks of it, some kind of car repair bay, hanging by my knees, my head just barely touching the ground. I am instantly grateful for my somewhat cumbersome, yet, now tested and found effective, leather re-enforcement.
I flip myself forward out of the window just in time to see her bearing down upon me in a manner that makes me instantly think of a football player, a damn good one. This is the point where I notice the fight has began in earnest.
All of the books start to slowly trickle back to me, there is no way I am going to be able to grapple with her, so I continue my flip into a bellyflop to the cement, I tuck my legs in , and spin , on my side, in an arc, that avoids the steel shod feet of my attacker. I notice the Lucite cane, on the ground and scoop it up before turning the spin into an awkward, but speedy rise to my feet. She hits the wall with her shoulder, shattering a few bricks in the process.
And a thought comes to me. The same trick I used in the warehouse.
As she turns around, casually, I dash in, she is taken off guard by the sudden reversal, ( and probably due to the stupidity of the charge as well.), and the Lucite stick comes straight up, I am hoping to hit right under the chin, as it is the only place I could not see solid steel, and drive the thing upward till it hits skull.
My chagrin as the staff encounters a thin steel plate, running between the exposed bits under her chin, is immense. And as I try to back up, cold, heavy steel arms wrap around me and I am slammed into the brick wall, being crushed between it and the iron monolith that has chosen to stop me.
I see the headbutt coming, and manage to crane my neck out of the way, the steel clangs off of the brick wall, and I fumble through my pockets for something that will extract me from the current situation.
I grab a knife, one of the original set I kept since day one, and try and slide it between the steel plates, the kind of maneuver that is standard to the point of cliché in fantasy movies and novels. But the knife encounters nothing but steel, it slides in a few inches, to be sure, but after those , there is nothing to shank, it seems armor has came quite some way since medieval times. Who would have thought.
The action costs me use of my left hand , she grabs it in a steel death grip, holding it down by my side. I feel her weight shift, and can see her balancing, on her right leg, the one that was damaged in the fall, if only slightly. Her left starts speeding upward, using my own leg as a rail to fire it unerringly into my groin, I hear, from a dozen or so feet away , Eric scream “ Pennies in a doorframe!”. The meaning is immediately clear, and gives me further respect for the old guy. I might not be able to get through the steel, but…
I twist my body in a contortion only comfortable to those who have been doing the splits since age 3, my left leg curls up , in a race to outdistanct the knee that is coming directly at my stones, it wins, and I use it to push myself forward and down, she keeps her grip on my left hand, and I ignore the pain, further twisting and shoving myself until I am almost wrapped around her right leg. I drop the cane for a moment, and draw a small paring knife, and jam it between the joints of the knee. She tries to kick off the wall herself, tossing her left leg so that her foot is resting on it, my guess is that she was looking at a full rotation while still holding on to my arm. A maneuver that , no doubt would have sent me sailing through the air, to a broken spine as I hit the wall. But as she tries to push back, the right leg will not cooperate, locked in place, if only for a moment by the knife.
I do a lot of laughing, but the fact that my best retort to her assault was inspired by something created by siblings trying to screw with each other, starts me into a gale of not-so-sane laughter as I pick up the cane, and get to my feet.
She teeters backward, with no give in the steel boots, and a leg locked ( though the knife bends , and falls out within a few seconds.) , she falls, flat, gracelessly onto the ground.
“Want me to give your old man a call?” I hear freeman scream, with a laugh. And with a growl, my adversary gets to her feet. It isn’t a cumbersome movement, but it isn’t a graceful movement like my own either. As she gets to one knee, I take a run forward, swinging the cane like a golf club, and at the last moment even adding “ Fore!” as it connects in the best way possible.
She falls back down, probably more due to the surprize that I had anything that could get through her steel skin, than any actual damage the blow did. And I decide to spring, I fall upon her, in what is commonly referred to as the “ Big brother” position ( full mount to all of you folks educated in the martial arts.), sitting on her stomach, with my arms free , I slam the cane into the helmet, as hard as I can, heedless of the short, jabs she is throwing into my ribs. But as the first half dozen of my blows connect, I start to realize that it may be annoying, may even be disorienting, but it is not causing any actual damage. And with each blow, she seems a little less dazed , my momentum starts to play out rapidly and I try to disengage.
This was a mistake.
Unlike myself who has had little ability to test out the book learning I have endured for 8 months, she has. And once she feels my weight start to shift, she is in motion. Before I realize what is going on I am spun to the ground, hundreds of pounds of steel and flesh atop of me, it feels like I am grappling with a safe. There is no position I can get into to change my leverage , and as I realize this, our previous entanglement is reversed, I am still holding the cane, now in both hands, to try and deflect some of the blows that I know are coming my way.
Gone is any semblance of martial defense, I fight like a wildcat, twisting, and lashing out with the cane, scoring hit after useless hit, but managing , to a point to keep the blows to the side of my head, or my shoulders, knowing that one solidly connecting shot, from this angle, with my head between a steel fist and the cement ground, would be fatal. Or at least would give me enough brain damage that my new career would be quickly ended.
One blow knocks the cane out wide, my left hand losing its grip, I try to get it back, but I instantly know this is the mistake that is going to hurt, a lot.
The first blow is off balance, almost as if she was surprized at the fact that the cane, finally went out wide. It connects almost perfectly, but she pulls the punch much too early.
I see black spots, the spot just above the nose she hit starts sending red waterfalls of blood into my eyes, and as I try to blink them, and the spots away , I feel a cold hand grab high on my neck. She does not intend to make the same mistake again.
The second blow does not get pulled, I manage to move my head, slightly to the left though, taking the lethality of the blow away.
Which isn’t to say it wasn’t damaging.
My jaw dislocates, and as I look to the floor of this dirty alley, I see piles of thin white splinters, the remains of my teeth up to the last molar. My mouth is pouring blood, and I start to cough as my head gets roughly yanked to stare up at her. I try to get in enough air to force the blood away from my throat, but doing so just leads to a feeling eerily similar to being waterboarded. (Part of our training was to put me through the paces of some know techniques employed by the us military to get folks to talk. ). I try to get a mouthful of blood, to maybe spit it , and blur her vision, anything to get myself out of the fatalistic situation I find myself in.
She yanks upward on my chin, slamming the back of my head into the ground, and making damn sure that I am watching her.
“ You know what is going to happen when I kill you, fucker? I am going to have to do about 5 days worth of paperwork. “ she says, a heavy steel slap threatens to make me lose consciousness , and opens up a ragged wound on the side of my face. “And you know what, I fucking hate paperwork.” Another slap furthers the wound, blood flies from my mouth in an almost fake looking amount. She continues “ But I am not going to have to go through this bullshit again. You weren’t a challenge , cocksucker, you are annoying. Like a fly that always seems to be just an inch out of your reach. And you know…”
I see something creep into the edge of my vision, and my heart jumps. Three barrels, a little thicker than a broomhandle, dyed a light purple, with a stock carved from dark oak, thick screws hold it together. It is based off of a design popular among the youth gangs of 1930 , or so I was told, reliable , powerful, but with the accuracy of a garden hose. And in regards to this particular item, completely and utterly untested. The intent is to fire a solid steel shotgun slug, from something no bigger than a handgun.
There is an ear shattering explosion, not dissimilar to the sound of the gun that she had pulled on me earlier in the fight. This one though, has no elegant flame, but rather a cloud of sabot, gunpowder, and various different burning chunks. But the effect, the effect makes mockery of any appearance it may have.
Her head jerks to the left violently, a metal on metal scream as I feel shrapnel, maybe from the slug, maybe from the helmet hit my upper body, my first thought is that her neck is broken, but by the way she falls to the side, as if she had a second or so before the lights went out , I guess this is not the case, but regardless, I manage to pull myself out from under her bulk, or rather, the bulk of the suit, and get to a somewhat dazed standing position.
I run my tongue along my teeth, almost each one is shattered, making them almost reptilian, random points, jutting out at odd angles, but none actually knocked free of my head. I go to say something to Eric, and all that comes out is an unintelligible mumble, my jaw hanging at a cocked angle , that makes speaking impossible.
Eric, still holding the smoking Zip-gun, gives me a pretty good uppercut , the pain is intense , but I find, after a large bloody oyster, hocked to the ground, I can actually talk again.
I don’t take too much time to savor the moment, but rather look up at where I believe freeman to be standing. “So, dickface, you want to come down and have another go?” I say, legitimately expecting him to come down.
His reaction is a loud bark of laughter. “ No, but I do want to take a picture , any chance you could step on her chest?” he says.
I give a confused look to Eric, I honestly would have expected a little more… I don’t know, I guess professional courtesy is the word. They are, after all fighting on the same side. But I oblige, I assume this picture will get around their circles, and seeming good enough to take down someone like this, will contribute greatly to their perception of the lowly clown.
So I put my foot on her chest, like a big game hunter standing over a rhino, I expect to hear a click, or see a flash, but I get a simple “Thanks for that one.” And I assume he is done his picture.
There is somewhat of an awkward silence, and myself and Eric start to walk away, down the alley, picking up the Lucite cane as we do.
“Thanks for saving my ass…” I say, intending to follow it up with a joke of some form, and I hear a rough grating of steel on stone. And my joke turns to a dismal , soft “ For fuck sakes…” as I look behind us.
She gets to her feet shakily, seeming to be breathing heavily, she rips off the helmet and it slides, screeching, and hopping down the alley.
The girl behind the mask isn’t ugly, but she isn’t cosmopolitan pretty. She has more of a “ Natural beauty” , which is to say, that hunter gatherer part of one’s body knows that she would produce strong offspring. But that natural beauty is now fairly marred.
She sways on her feet a bit, and blood is coming down in small trails from her nose and ears, her dark brown eyes seem glazed, and maybe it is just the light, but one pupil looks much bigger than the other. She wipes a steel forearm across her face, smearing the blood more than clearing it away, and fixes me with a stare.
She looks as if she is going to say something, but instead just charges forward. This isn’t the calculated, professional charge that she brought out earlier, but more like a drunkard trying a hail Mary maneuver against a bouncer that has gotten the best of them.
For some reason or other, this actually enrages me. If I was to put a point on it, I would say it is because, regardless of how fair it may have been, she lost the fight. And above and beyond that, I didn’t do what I should have done, and simply separated her head from her shoulders before I left. ( that decision was 5% morals , 95% thinking if death was on the table, Freeman may have been more likely to step in.) That is not a mistake I am going to make twice.
She is far enough away that I can toss the cane , spinning in the air, just a bit, to catch it in a baseball bat like grip. I can tell by the way her line to me is swaying, and she is trying her damndest not to trip, that this isn’t going to be a hard blow to land. My intent is to simply hit her full force, the momentum of the swing, and her armor, should be enough to damn near snap her head off. I take careful aim, predict about where she is going to try and tackle me to the ground , and let fly.
The only problem is, that in my possibly concussion having state, I don’t take into account that the level of the head is going to change at the last moment. The blow is off, but not by much. It skips off the breastplate, enough momentum stolen, that it does not decapitate the tenacious wench, but explodes her nose, caves in one sinus, and sends her into a backward spin that slams her head against the ground with a sickening noise, like a semi-frozen orange, tossed in a sock and beaten against a counter.
This time, she is out cold, and by the garishness of the wounds, she may not be getting back up. I kneel over her still form , saying just loud enough to hear, in my real voice, “If you come out of this, remember that all it would take me right now is one fuckin stomp, and I would never have to worry about you again. But to be honest, after the tooth fucking you gave me, I am more concerned with getting drunk at the moment. If we see each other again, when I know your schtick, its going to be a slow fucking time dying, I would suggest a career change. “ While I am not confidant that a second encounter would de facto be in my favor, my intent is simply to degrade her, to shake her up, and maybe not have to fight a quazi invincible bitch with a chip on her shoulder again.
As I rise, I notice Eric has another smoke lit, already half way finished. He walks over, almost casually.
“ As far as that rapin business, I was thinking about it. I didn’t like getting the clap in ’43 , and I probably still wouldn’t like it. “ He finishes this by spitting a disgusting glob of phlegm, speckled with black bits, onto the mess that is now her face.
A few hours , and a stop for booze later, I am sitting in Eric’s apartment, screaming in agony, as he pours some kind of film over the jagged mess that my teeth have became. He tells me, with any luck, it will let them heal right.
And what am I, if not lucky
submitted by HughEhhoule to DrCreepensVault [link] [comments]

Leveraging Optionality: Applying financial theory in the sportsbetting markets

Option Pricing Theory
Stock options are equity derivatives that are frequently used for employee compensation or speculation within the finance realm. Anyone who spends more than 5 minutes on /wallstreetbets should know what I’m talking about. A typical plain vanilla call option provides the upside of capital appreciation with capped downside risk.
The upside potential provided by options frequently holds considerable value. Stock option are frequently valued using the Black-Scholes option pricing method, using variables such as the price of the underlying asset, the exercise price of the option, time to expiration, volatility and a risk-free interest rate.
For our purposes, we’re going to simplify things a bit by using a simple binomial option pricing model which determines option value by assuming the price of an asset can either increase or decrease by some estimated amount with some estimated probability.
Quick example: let’s assume Tesla is trading at $700 per share and they report earnings tomorrow. We assume that depending on how many cars they sold, the price will either be $800 or $600 tomorrow with 50/50 probability. If one of your friends said “Hey, I’ll sell you my share for $700. Just let me know tomorrow if you want it” what should your reply be?
My reply would be, “Sure I’ll let you know tomorrow.” And then I would wait to see how earnings went. If Elon sold a lot of cars (and the price increased to $800) I would go ahead and buy my friend’s share for $700. If earnings crap the bed, I would pass on my friend’s offer and not buy the share. Basically, you have no downside, only upside.
To value this option that our friend gave us, we would simply multiply the payoff in each scenario by the probability of each one occurring:

Scenario Option Value
A) $100 Increase Max($800-$700, 0) = $100
B) $100 Decrease Max($600-$700,0) = $0
Value of Option 50%*$100 + 50%*$0 = $50
In this hypothetical scenario, our friend gave us a free $50 worth of option value.[1]
Optionality in Sports Betting
A key advantage that sports bettors hold is deciding when to bet. We have covered this in a previous post, but it’s important to recognize that lines are dynamic and frequently vary across sportsbooks. Sometimes the lines differ considerably across books and sometimes they are very similar. In the former scenario, bettors can get tremendous value from shopping lines. In the latter, bettors might hold significant option value.
Let me demonstrate with an example.
This season, the New York Jets hosted the New England Patriots in a divisional clash on Monday Night Football. Let’s assume that your model suggests that there is value to betting the Jets on the moneyline (lol). You got your paycheck on Friday and you want to fire off your bet at one of your two sportsbook accounts that evening. Book 1 offers the Jets at +345 and Book 2 offers the Jets at +344. You should go ahead and place your bet at Book 1, right?
Not necessarily.
With odds that are nearly identical, your option value is worth more than the one penny in price difference (on a huge dog). If the line at either book moves up, you can get a better number. If the line at either book moves down, you bet at the book that didn’t move. This is option value. The value of that optionality depends on 1) if the books generally move in tandem, 2) the expected magnitude of the line movement and 3) the amount of time remaining until the game starts.
With the historical lines of each book, you can determine the average discrepancy between the lines to figure out what the likely magnitude of a future line move. In the table below, you can see that there was often a considerable difference between the lines offered at these two books.
Time Series of Odds between Two Books
From line release until 6pm ET on Friday night, there was an average difference of 10 cents between the books. Let’s assume that a 10-cent move is a reasonable estimate for the expected magnitude of the next line movement.
At this point, we don’t know if the next line movement will be in our favor or against us. Let’s assume that there is a 50% likelihood of the next line movement will be -10 cents and a 50% likelihood of the next line movement being +10 cents (on Book 2). [2]
Optionality Example
If the line at Book 2 moves down 10 cents, we bet Book 1 at +345. If the line at Book 2 moves up 10 cents, we bet at Book 2 at +354. By waiting for a line move, we can increase our expected odds from +345 to +349.5.
Value of Optionality
Now, we assume you are betting on the Jets ML because you believe there is an edge and that your expected win percentage exceeds the breakeven win percentage. As an example, let’s assume your expected win percentage is 24.0%. We can now determine your expected profit by 1) betting the odds at +345 or 2) waiting and getting expected odds of +349.5.
As calculated below, the expected profit for a $100 bettor increases from $6.80 to $7.88 by preserving your optionality and waiting to bet. As a result, the indicated value of the optionality is $1.08.
Option Value Calculation
Now – a common critique might be that “hey, we can’t predict the future and there is a chance that both lines move down simultaneously” or that “the lines were volatile early in the week but since reached efficiency”. Certainly, it’s possible that lines move in lockstep, but given the historical spread between the lines, I wouldn’t count on it.[3]
The argument that the lines have settled (and are thus less volatile) can be disproved by the line movement from 6pm ET on Friday until kickoff. If lines have settled, we would expect a negligible difference between the lines going forward. This, however, is not the case as the average difference between lines averaged 11 cents from 6pm ET Friday until kickoff, frequently exhibiting a 20-cent difference and peaking at a difference of 30 cents around midnight on Monday.
Time Series of Odds between Two Books Continued
So - what can we learn from this?
Big picture: if you have multiple sportsbooks with the same line, you’re generally better off waiting for one of the lines to move rather than pull the trigger. This especially holds true when there is a considerable amount of time before kickoff/first pitch/etc.
[1]We’ll ignore some of the technicalities of discounting that you would typically do with financial assets as the term (one day) is negligible and U.S. treasuries are yielding next to nothing.
[2] Doesn’t matter which book we assume will move next. The math is the same.
[3] Let’s also not forget that you’re contemplating placing a wager 72 hours before kickoff. If there are only 5 minutes to kickoff, that’s a different story(clearly not as much option value).
submitted by cleatstreet to sportsbook [link] [comments]


An accumulator bet is one of the most popular and well-known forms of multiple bets available. It is particularly common in football, where it is used by bettors to bet on a range of matches across one or several leagues. It is often referred to as an 'acca'.
The minimum number of games that can be bet upon in an accumulator is four, but many more are available. Yankees and Lucky 15s, for example, are forms of accumulators that allow bets to be placed on 11 or 15 events respectively. Two and three-fold accumulator bets can be placed, but these types are not commonly called accumulators. While they follow similar rules to accumulators, they are instead referred to as doubles and trebles respectively.
As there are so many matches involved, accumulator bets are a great way for bettors to make high returns for a relatively low stake. However, it is important for anyone placing an accumulator bet to have a detailed knowledge on the sport and the participants they are betting on. While stakes are low, risks are high as just one lost bet could result in the entire accumulator losing. Clear insight is therefore important if bettors are to avoid losing their stake.


The attractive element of accumulator bets is that their odds are calculated in a very different way to traditional odds. Accumulator bets bundle the odds together to create greater value for the person betting. There are two potential ways to explain the way this is done. Sometimes the maths of an accumulator bet is described by increasing the odds of the participants being bet upon and then multiplying them together.
This means that if a four-fold accumulator were being placed on four horses and those four horses were given odds of 2/1, 3/1, 2/1 and 4/1, the odds would increase to 3/1, 4/1, 3/1 and 5/1 respectively. These numbers would then be multiplied to produce a figure of 180. In this scenario, the odds would be 179/1 as 179+1=180.
A second, and somewhat clearer, way also exists. In this methodology, the return from each bet is essentially rolled over onto the next bet. In the example previously given, a £2 stake on the first bet (at 2/1) would return £6 (£4 and the original £2 stake). This £6 would then be used as the stake for the second bet and the return from that used on the third bet and so on. While these two descriptions sound very different, the idea is essentially the same: accumulator bets are, as the name suggests, cumulative bets that grow in value with each additional bet.
Applying this to a real-world example, it's easy to see how an accumulator can reap very high rewards for bettors. In this scenario, the person is placing a six-fold accumulator, meaning that they are placing six bets. These bets are:
1) Manchester United to beat Newcastle United at 2/1
2) Arsenal to beat Tottenham Hotspur at 2/1
3) Liverpool to beat Leicester City at 4/1
4) Chelsea to beat Bournemouth at 3/1
5) Manchester City to beat West Ham United at 3/1
6) Wolverhampton Wanderers to beat Cardiff City at 4/1
The bettor puts down a £2 stake and all the bets win. The first bet wins £6 (£4 plus the original £2 stake).
This money is then placed on the second bet and that returns £18 (£12 plus the £6 stake).
£18 is then put as the stake for the third bet, earning £90 (£72 plus the £18 stake).
The fourth bet is therefore a £90 stake, creating a £360 return (£270 plus the £90 stake).
The fifth bet is a £360 stake, creating a return of £1,440 (£1,080 plus the £360 stake).
Finally, that £1,440 is staked on the final bet, and this makes for a final return of £7,200 (£5,760 plus the £1,440 stake).
It's clear to see how the winnings on an accumulator differ greatly from the winnings that would be made from six £2 single bets. In this scenario, the bettor would make just £48 (plus the original £2 stake) as the winnings from the prior bet are not being rolled over and used on the next one.
Accumulators are available for a wide range of sports, including the likes of greyhound racing and horse racing. However, they can not be placed on one single event. They must be placed across a range of different matches or races.


As mentioned, there are a number of different accumulator bets that are available to bettors.
A double bet is comprised of only two selections. If both selections win, then the bet is won. If not, it is lost.
A treble bet adds another selection to the double bet and follows the same rules. If all three selections win, then the bet is won. If they do not win, then the bet is lost.
A trixie bet is somewhat similar to a treble bet in that the bettor makes three selections. However, in this kind of a bet, there are four bets being made: three double bets and one treble bet. The advantage of a trixie bet is that even if one selection loses and the treble bet fails, there is still the chance that one of the double bets will win and some kind of a return will be secured.
A yankee bet is an accumulator consisting of 11 bets. There are a number of different kinds of bets within this group: a single four-pronged accumulator, alongside six doubles and four trebles. This means that even if some of the participants in the accumulator do not win, there is still a good chance that one of the bets will win and a return of some form will be earned.
Finally, there are Lucky 15 bets which, as the title suggests, is a 15-fold accumulator. This kind of a bet is made up of four singles, six doubles, four trebles and one four-fold accumulator. This means that the chances of a return are even higher, and there is the added benefit of the bonuses that many bookmakers offer for certain outcomes. These bonuses are the reason the Lucky 15 has its name.
Accumulators are difficult to win but can result in very high returns for very low stakes. Bettors who feel that they are well versed in the sport they are betting on and the participants who are competing can stand to significantly benefit from a well-chosen accumulator.
Plus, don't forget to check out our bet calculator, where you can calculate your winnings.
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Understanding Odds: An Explanation of Decimal and Fractional Odds How to input odds - True Odds Calculator & Value Bet Detector How to Sports Bet 3: Implied Probability, Implied Odds, and Expected Value Calculating Odds and Probability The Math Behind How Betting Odds Are Set  Mach  NBC News

Pete Nordsted's betting guide: Calculate your own odds to find value . Pete Nordsted is the co-author of the Premier Football Betting Handbook 2011-12 which has just been released. The follow How to calculate betting odds. Getting a handle on how to calculate probability yourself and converting it into odds is the first step in developing your own assessments of betting value. Once you know how to calculate probability, turning that figure into odds is a straightforward process. A betting odds calculator takes the odds and stake of a particular bet and figures out the payout automatically. Thus, in order to understand how to use a betting odds calculator, we must first understand the different types of betting odds. To calculate the profits for (+) American odds wagers you may use the formula: Profit = (Stake You can use odds to calculate the implied probability of a certain outcome in a sporting event Understanding how to read odds is a crucial step to becoming a successful sports bettor. From determining how much money you want to wager to figuring out which bets offer the most value, it all starts with a solid understanding of the odds. You can calculate the odds of the bet you wish to take and work out how much the bet would return if it was a winner by using our simple bet calculator. Just enter the bet type from the options on the drop down menu below, enter your stake and the prices of the your selections and our betting odds calculator will do the rest for you. Pick from

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Understanding Odds: An Explanation of Decimal and Fractional Odds

A brief lesson on odds and probability. This is part of Brian Nelson's Boston Red Sox Summer Math Program. Sports betting is big business in America and no event is larger for American sports than the Super Bowl. ... The Math Behind How Betting Odds Are Set Mach NBC News ... Behind the Big Business ... football betting odds soccer betting documentary football betting documentary football gambling football gambling system soccer gambling system. Category Sports; Show more Show less. India Bet betting expert George Oborne explains how odds work for online betting. He explains the difference between fractional and decimal odds and how you can use them to work out how much you ... How to input betting odds into the true odds calculation spreadsheet & where to find "missing" odds not offered in exchanges Loading... Autoplay When autoplay is enabled, a suggested video will ...