The Modern Twilight Zone

Mark slouched on the sagging couch in his parents’ basement, the glow of the 55-inch TV bathing the room in a flickering orange and black haze as the Baltimore Orioles took the field. The faint hum of the air conditioner battled the late summer heat seeping through the walls of the suburban Baltimore home, where Mark, 24, still lived rent-free, mooching off his parents’ cable package and high-speed Wi-Fi. His shaggy brown hair poked out from under a faded Orioles cap, and his oversized team jersey hung loosely over his pudgy frame and cargo shorts. A half-empty bag of Doritos sat on the coffee table, crumbs scattered like confetti from a night of yelling at the screen.

“Dude, Mullins is gonna pop off tonight, I’m calling it,” Mark said, cracking open a Natty Boh and leaning back, his sneakers propped on an ottoman cluttered with empty cans.

On the other end of the FaceTime call, Luke’s pixelated face grinned from his cramped bedroom in a group house in Baltimore’s Fells Point. At 23, Luke was scraping by with two roommates, a bartender gig, and a side hustle delivering for DoorDash. His room was a chaotic shrine to the Orioles—posters of Cal Ripken Jr. and Adley Rutschman plastered on the walls, a mini bat leaning against a pile of unwashed laundry. Luke’s laptop, balanced on a milk crate, streamed the game through a sketchy app he’d found on Reddit, the feed stuttering every few minutes and lagging a solid two minutes behind Mark’s pristine cable broadcast.

“Cedric? Nah, bro, he’s been swinging like he’s blindfolded,” Luke shot back, his voice tinny through Mark’s phone. “Gunnar’s the guy. Bet he goes yard tonight.” He adjusted his own Orioles cap, backward as always, and took a swig from a warm beer he’d fished from under his bed.

Mark snorted, scrolling through their betting app on his phone. “Alright, wise guy, let’s lock in the parlay. Twenty bucks, our usual. What’s the vibe?”

Luke leaned closer to his screen, squinting as the stream buffered again. “Ugh, this app’s trash. Okay, let’s do… Gunnar Henderson over 1.5 hits, Mullins steals a base, and… Santander gets an RBI. 20-to-1 odds, baby. We hit this, we’re eating Waffle House for a month.”

Mark laughed, punching the bet into the app. “Waffle House? Bro, if we hit 20-to-1, I’m getting a new vape and maybe, like, a real bed frame. This futon’s killing my back.”

“Your parents’ basement is a palace, dude. Try sleeping next to a sink that smells like regret,” Luke fired back, dodging a stray sock his roommate tossed at him from off-screen. “Aight, bet’s in. Let’s ride.”

This was their ritual, a sacred tradition born from years of friendship and a shared obsession with the Orioles. They’d met as randomly assigned freshmen roommates at the University of Maryland, thrown together in a dingy dorm room that smelled like old pizza and ambition. Back then, Mark—timid, unathletic, and buried in textbooks—had been the odd duck, while Luke, with his easy charm and quick smile, navigated the social scene like a pro. They’d smoked their first joint together on the fire escape, giggling at reruns of South Park until dawn. Luke dragged Mark to his first college party, coaching him on how to talk to girls without freezing up, even though Mark’s awkward stumbles often left Luke fielding questions like, “Who’s that guy? He’s your friend?” Deep down, Luke wondered if they’d ever have clicked without that random assignment—Mark was the Peter Pan type, forever stuck in that freshman-year fantasy, never quite growing up. But the Orioles bonded them, a shared escape from the grind.

Luke had always felt a step ahead socially, flashing that grin to charm the ladies while Mark hung back, pudgy and self-conscious. But academically? Mark excelled, acing tests while Luke struggled, often copying Mark’s class schedule so they could “collaborate” on homework or land in the same group projects. Mark did the heavy lifting on the boring stuff—equations, essays—while Luke led the charge on keggers and hookups. It was the perfect imperfect match, or so Luke told himself, though resentment simmered beneath the surface. Why did Mark get to coast at home with mommy and daddy footing the bill, doing odd jobs like mowing lawns, while Luke hustled in the city, hiding these FaceTime calls from his cool downtown roommates? He didn’t want them knowing about his “Peter Pan friend,” the one who still lived like a kid.

“Adley just doubled!” Mark shouted, forgetting the lag. “Dude, spoilers! My screen’s still showing the pitcher scratching his balls,” Luke groaned, smacking his laptop like it owed him money. “This stream is gonna make me smash my laptop.”

“Get a real setup, then,” Mark teased. “Move back to the ‘burbs. My mom’s making lasagna tomorrow.”

“Nah, I’d rather die in this house than deal with your dad’s ‘get a real job’ speech again,” Luke said, mimicking Mr. Thompson’s gruff voice. There was an edge to it, a flicker of bitterness that Mark missed. Luke’s roommates were out at a bar crawl, and he’d turned down an invite to stay in for this—again. “You’re still on that landscaping gig, right?”

Mark sighed, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, mowing lawns for rich dudes who tip like I’m their personal servant. You still slinging beers at that hipster bar?”

“Yup. Last night, some dude in a man-bun tipped me in crypto. Like, bro, I need cash for ramen, not Bitcoin,” Luke said, shaking his head. They both laughed, but Luke’s came out hollow. He pictured Mark’s cushy setup—no roommates stealing food, no late-night dashes through rain-soaked streets—and felt that familiar twinge. Mark was embarrassing sometimes, sure, but Luke needed him for these moments, these bets that made life feel less like a dead-end.

As the Orioles battled through the season, the playoffs loomed like a holy grail. The team was neck-and-neck for a wild card spot, every game a high-stakes showdown. Mark and Luke’s parlays hadn’t hit in weeks, their $20 bets bleeding into a string of near-misses that fueled their banter. But with a crucial weekend series against the Yankees approaching, they decided to splurge on something bigger than a parlay: an in-person trip to Camden Yards. No laggy streams, no FaceTime—just them, the bleachers, and the electric hum of a live game.

The Friday night air in Baltimore was thick with humidity and anticipation as Mark and Luke stepped off the Light Rail, the Orange glow of Camden Yards beckoning like a cathedral. Mark, in his same old Orioles jersey, carried a backpack stuffed with snacks to avoid the $10 hot dogs. Luke, rocking a knockoff Henderson jersey he’d snagged for cheap on eBay, adjusted his cap and grinned wide enough to show the gap in his teeth from a high school baseball mishap—wait, no, that was from their sophomore year, when Luke had convinced Mark to join a pickup game, and Mark’s clumsy swing had sent the ball ricocheting off Luke’s mouth. “You owe me for that dental bill,” Luke had joked back then, but it stung—another reminder of Mark’s awkwardness dragging them down.

“Dude, we’re here. Actual Camden Yards. No buffering, no lag,” Luke said, practically bouncing as they joined the throng of fans streaming toward the gates.

Mark slung an arm around Luke’s shoulder, the gesture familiar but a bit too clingy for Luke’s taste. “Yeah, and no mom yelling at me to take out the trash during the seventh-inning stretch. Let’s get lit.”

They’d pooled their meager savings—Mark dipping into his landscaping tips, Luke scraping together bar cash—for upper-deck tickets, $20 for the parlay, and enough left for a couple overpriced beers. The playoff race was tight, and this game was pivotal for seeding. The Orioles were up against the Red Sox, a team that always brought out the rowdiest fans. The two friends hit the concourse, weaving through vendors hawking foam fingers and kids waving pennants. The smell of grilled sausages and spilled beer hung in the air, mixing with the distant crack of batting practice.

“Alright, parlay time,” Mark said, pulling out his phone as they leaned against a railing overlooking Eutaw Street. “What’s the move?”

Luke cracked his knuckles, staring at the field where players warmed up. “Gunnar gets a double, Adley drives him in, and… Kremer throws six scoreless. 20-to-1, same as always.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Kremer? Dude’s been shaky. How ‘bout Mullins swipes two bags instead?”

“Two steals? You’re wild. Fine, but if we bust, you’re buying the next round,” Luke said, smirking as he punched the bet into his app. They synced their $20, the odds flashing 20:1 on the screen. “Here’s to 400 bucks and a new life,” Luke toasted, raising an imaginary glass.

“Or at least a new vape,” Mark quipped, finalizing the bet.

They found their seats in section 372, high above left field, the view stretching from the warehouse to the scoreboard. The crowd buzzed, a sea of orange and black dotted with red Boston jerseys. Mark cracked open a $12 Bud Light, passing another to Luke, who was already halfway through a soft pretzel the size of his head.

“Bro, this is living,” Luke said, mustard smudged on his chin. “No roommates stealing my food, no Wi-Fi crapping out mid-pitch.” He glanced at Mark, who was fiddling with his phone, and felt that old resentment bubble up. Back in college, Luke had introduced Mark to half the campus, only for Mark to tag along like a shadow, making Luke look less cool by association. But here, in the stadium, it felt like old times—before the real world wedged between them.

Mark nodded, savoring the moment. “Yeah, but if we don’t hit this parlay, I’m back to eating my mom’s meatloaf for a month.” He paused, then added softly, “Remember that all-nighter before finals? You crashed on my floor after that party, and I let you copy my notes. We crushed that exam.”

Luke chuckled, but his eyes darkened for a split second. “Yeah, man. You always had the brains. I just had the charm to get us invited back.” It was a light jab, but it carried weight—Luke’s way of reminding himself he wasn’t the deadweight. Deep down, he envied Mark’s easy academic wins, just as Mark probably envied Luke’s effortless social game. Their friendship was a balance, but one that tilted uneasily. Under the surface of this bond- was a simmering anger that fermented with age. The way the completed each other- it was a dead end. Their relationship was ultimately unproductive. Mark keeps reality at bay for by handling all the boring responsibilitie; just so Luke can use his time and skills to make sure they have a social life full of parties, invites, girls, booze, and of course their beloved Orioles. They were approaching an age where Mark’s skill set was more valuable and Luke envied that. He also hated that Mark didn’t appreciate what he had- Mark just used his brains to do the least amount of work possible to keep the party going.

The game kicked off, and the Orioles came out swinging. Gunnar Henderson laced a single in the first, and Adley Rutschman drove him in with a sharp double. The crowd erupted, Mark and Luke high-fiving so hard their palms stung. “That’s one leg down!” Luke shouted, spilling beer on his sneakers. But Kremer wobbled in the third, giving up a two-run homer that killed the scoreless streak and busted their parlay early.

“Goddamn it, Kremer,” Mark groaned, slumping in his seat. “There goes our Waffle House dreams.”

Luke laughed, undeterred. “Whatever, man. We’re here, the O’s are up 3-2, and I’ve got a buzz going. Parlay’s just gravy.”

Mark grinned, the loss stinging less in the electric atmosphere. He pulled out his phone, opening the ESPN app to check stats while munching on a hot dog. He set the phone in the cupholder of the seat in front of him, the screen glowing with live updates. The Orioles were on defense in the fifth, Gunnar Henderson patrolling third base, when Mark glanced at the app and froze.

“Yo, Luke, check this out,” he said, nudging his friend. The screen read: Gunnar Henderson 4-5, 1 HR. Mark blinked, confused. “Dude, Gunnar’s only batted three times, and he’s got, like, two hits, no homers. What’s this crap?”

Luke leaned over, squinting at the screen. “Your phone’s drunk, man. ESPN glitching again. Remember when it said Mullins had 12 RBIs in one game?”

“Yeah, but this is weird,” Mark said, scratching his head. The app refreshed, still showing the bizarre stat line. He shrugged it off, chalking it up to a server error, but a spark of inspiration hit. The beer, the crowd, the Orioles’ lead—it all felt like destiny. He stood up, hot dog in one hand, beer in the other, and grinned like a kid who’d just found $20 on the sidewalk.

“Luke, hear me out. Gunnar Henderson, home run, next at-bat. Fifty bucks. Let’s do it!” Mark’s voice was loud enough to turn heads in their section.

Luke’s eyes widened. “Fifty? Bro, that’s, like, half my rent. You serious?”

“Hell yeah! Look, the app’s got a promo—25% bonus on prop bets. It’s 20-to-1 odds, so with the boost, we’re talking… what, 25-to-1? That’s 1250 bucks if it hits!” Mark was practically vibrating, mustard dripping onto his jersey.

Luke hesitated, then caught the fever. “Screw it, I’m in. Gunnar’s due, right? Let’s ride the glitch!” But as they huddled over the phone, Luke felt a pang—Mark always spotting the opportunities, always leading the charge now. Where was the guy who needed Luke to hold his hand at parties?

They navigated the sportsbook app with clumsy, beer-buzzed fingers. They found the prop bet: Gunnar Henderson HR in next plate appearance. The odds flashed 20:1, and the promo bumped the potential payout to $1250 for their $50. They each chipped in $25, confirming the bet with a fist bump that felt like a blood oath.

“Gunnar’s gonna save our broke asses,” Luke said, leaning back and cracking another beer. “If this hits, I’m getting a real mattress, not that IKEA death trap.”

Mark laughed. “And I’m moving out of the basement. Maybe get a place with you in the city.”

“Ha, you’d last two days before you miss your mom’s laundry service,” Luke teased, dodging a playful shove. But the joke landed with an undercurrent—Luke didn’t want Mark crashing his city life, not really. Mark was the past, the embarrassing relic.

The fifth inning ended, the Orioles still leading 4-3. Mark and Luke settled in, the crowd’s energy pulsing through them as the sixth began. Gunnar Henderson strode to the plate, his bat gleaming under the stadium lights. The Red Sox pitcher, a lanky right-hander with a nasty slider, stared him down.

“Here we go,” Mark whispered, gripping his beer can like a lifeline.

The first pitch was a fastball, low and away. Strike one. The crowd groaned. The second was a slider that Gunnar swung through, airballing it. Strike two.

“Oh, come on, Gunnar, don’t do us dirty,” Luke muttered, leaning forward.

The third pitch was a curve, high and outside. Ball one. Then a fastball, fouled off into the stands. The count dragged on—another ball, another foul. The tension built, the crowd growing restless. Then, disaster: a fastball clipped Gunnar’s shoulder, grazing his helmet. He stumbled back, ripping off his helmet and glaring at the pitcher. The crowd booed, a wave of orange-clad fury. Gunnar took a step toward the mound, jaw clenched, before the umpire stepped in, calming him down.

“Holy shit, he almost got beaned!” Luke said, standing up. “If he charges, I’m running down there with him.”

“Sit down, you’re not fighting anybody,” Mark said, laughing despite the nerves. “He’s fine. Next pitch, he’s going deep.”

The pitcher reset, Gunnar dug in. The crowd was on its feet, sensing something big. The pitch came—a hanging curveball, right in Gunnar’s wheelhouse. He swung, the crack of the bat echoing like a gunshot. The ball soared, a white speck against the night sky, arcing toward the right-field bleachers. Mark and Luke leapt up, screaming, beers sloshing as the ball cleared the wall. Home run.

The stadium exploded, 40,000 fans roaring as Gunnar rounded the bases. Mark and Luke hugged like they’d just won the World Series, jumping and yelling until their throats hurt. “We did it! Twelve-fifty, baby!” Mark shouted, checking his phone as the app confirmed the win: $1250 credited to their account.

“Dude, we’re rich!” Luke hollered, high-fiving random fans around them. “I’m getting a PS5, a new mattress, and, like, actual groceries!”

Mark was still grinning, but his eyes flicked to his phone, the ESPN app still open in the cupholder. The stat line from earlier—Gunnar Henderson 4-5, 1 HR—now matched reality. Gunnar’s homer had just happened, and the app had called it an inning ago. His buzz faded slightly, replaced by a weird tingle of unease. “Yo, Luke,” he said, voice quieter. “That glitch… it showed Gunnar’s homer before it happened.”

Luke, still riding the high, waved him off. “Bro, it’s just ESPN being dumb. Don’t overthink it. We’re up twelve hundred! Let’s hit the sportsbook again!”

Mark nodded, but his fingers hovered over the app. The glitch felt like more than a fluke—like a cheat code to something bigger. He was convinced this was more than a glitch; it was a rare moment in time where the gods were smiling on him, and he’d be damned if he didn’t go all in. While Luke danced in his seat, singing “Sweet Caroline” off-key and charming a group of fans nearby with stories of their college days, Mark went quiet, intently clicking through ESPN game stats, his face lit by the screen’s eerie glow. Luke noticed, rolling his eyes internally—typical Mark, turning fun into some nerdy obsession.

The game progressed for another 45 minutes, but Mark was no longer enjoying it. He was a total buzzkill, muttering to himself, “C’mon, damn it, show me something, show me something.” Luke, now three beers deep and living for the crowd’s energy, got pissed. “Yo, Mark, you’re killing the vibe! Put the phone down before I yeet it into the bullpen!” There was real irritation there, a flash of the resentment he usually buried under bro banter.

“Chill, bro, I’m checking for another glitch,” Mark snapped, not looking up. “This app’s my ticket out of the basement. Just give me a sec.”

Luke grabbed at the phone, half-joking, half-serious. “Gimme that, you nerd. We’re at Camden Yards, not MIT. Watch the damn game!” He thought back to college, how Mark’s academic focus had saved his ass multiple times, but also how it made Luke feel small, like the charm wasn’t enough.

Mark yanked it back, clutching it like a lifeline. “I’m telling you, man, this is bigger than us. If I get one more glitch, we’re set for life.”

The game rolled into the eighth inning, the Orioles clinging to a 4-3 lead. Luke was back to cheering, high-fiving strangers when Mullins stole a base, but Mark was lost in his phone, oblivious to the crack of bats and the crowd’s roars. Then, in the top of the ninth, with the score tied 4-4 after a Red Sox rally, Mark froze. The ESPN app updated, spitting out a stat line that made his heart skip: Adley Rutschman walk-off single, 10th inning, Orioles win 5-4. He blinked, double-checking. The game was still in the ninth, not even in extra innings yet, and Adley hadn’t batted since the sixth. This was it—the glitch was back, a neon sign from the gambling gods.

“Luke!” Mark grabbed his friend’s arm, nearly knocking over a tray of nachos. “Look at this, man! Adley’s gonna hit a walk-off single in the 10th. Orioles win by one. This is our shot!”

Luke squinted at the screen, his buzz fading into skepticism. “Dude, you’re trippin’. The game’s not even in extra innings. You’re trusting a buggy app over, like, reality?”

“Reality? Bro, the Gunnar homer happened exactly like the glitch said!” Mark’s voice was feverish, his Orioles cap crooked from excitement. “We put $400 on this, 50-to-1 odds. That’s…” He punched numbers into his calculator app. “Twenty grand, Luke. Twenty. Freaking. Grand.”

“Four hundred?!” Luke’s jaw dropped. “That’s, like, all our profit! What if you’re wrong? I need that cash for rent, not your psychic phone experiment!” Inside, Luke seethed—Mark acting like the genius again, risking their money on his hunch. But the allure was too strong.

Mark leaned in, eyes blazing. “All in, bro. This is our moment. The gods are smiling. We could be set for life—PS5s, new apartments, no more mowing lawns for old dudes who pay in loose change.”

Luke groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re insane. I wanted to go all in—$1250, the whole pot—but you’re talking me down. Fine, $400, not the whole thing. If this busts, I’m stealing your mom’s lasagna for a month.” He agreed, but the seed of doubt grew—why did Mark get to call the shots?

They huddled over Mark’s phone, fingers trembling as they opened DraftKings. They built the parlay: Orioles win +1 margin, over 9.5 innings, Adley Rutschman single in next at-bat. The odds flashed 50:1, a $20,000 payout on $400. Luke hesitated, his thumb hovering over the confirm button. “If we lose this, I’m selling your vape on eBay.”

“Deal,” Mark said, grinning like a maniac. They locked in the bet, the confirmation screen glowing like a holy relic.

The ninth inning dragged on, tense and scoreless. Luke was a mess, barely watching as the Red Sox loaded the bases in the top of the 10th. “I can’t look, man,” he muttered, covering his face. “If they score, we’re screwed.”

Mark gripped his arm. “Chill, bro. The glitch said 10th inning. We got this.”

The Orioles’ pitcher, some rookie reliever, battled through a full count, the crowd on its feet. A final slider caught the corner—strike three. The stadium erupted, Luke screaming despite himself. “Let’s gooo! We’re still alive!”

Bottom of the 10th. The Orioles’ first two batters went down swinging, and Adley Rutschman stepped to the plate, third in the order. Mark and Luke sat in dead silence, the weight of $20,000 hanging between them. Luke’s leg bounced like a jackhammer, his earlier anger at Mark’s obsession replaced by raw nerves. The first pitch was a ball. The second, a strike. Adley fouled off the third, then took another ball. The count stretched to 2-2, the crowd roaring with every pitch.

“C’mon, Adley, you beautiful bastard,” Mark whispered, clutching his phone like a prayer.

The next pitch was a fastball, middle-in. Adley swung, the crack of the bat sharp and clean. The ball shot into left field, a line-drive single that landed with a thud in the grass. The runner on second sprinted home, sliding under the tag. Walk-off. Orioles win, 5-4.

Mark and Luke exploded, hugging and jumping like they’d just won the lottery. The stadium was chaos—fans screaming, fireworks popping over the scoreboard. Mark’s phone buzzed, DraftKings updating: $20,000 credited. But before they could fully process it, a pop-up flashed: Account suspended. Suspicious activity detected. Withdraw funds and contact support.

“What the hell?” Luke said, staring at the screen. “They’re banning us? For winning?”

Mark laughed, still high on the win. “Screw ‘em, bro. We got twenty grand! Let’s get outta here and live like kings.”

They stumbled out of Camden Yards, drunk on victory and cheap beer, and headed to a swanky steakhouse in Harbor East. The place was all dark wood, dim lighting, and waiters who looked like they judged your net worth by your shoes. Mark and Luke, still in their sweaty Orioles gear, ordered the biggest ribeyes on the menu, truffle mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and a $200 bottle of Cabernet that the waiter described as “velvety with notes of blackberry.” Luke raised an eyebrow. “Velvety? Bro, it’s wine, not a bathrobe.”

They clinked glasses, toasting to “millionaires’ night.” Over dinner, they pulled out their phones, paying off bills like they were playing a video game. Mark sent $2,000 to his car loan, $1,500 to a credit card he’d maxed out on concert tickets. Luke cleared $3,000 in back rent and $4,000 in student loans from his one semester at community college before he’d dropped out. They went on a spending spree—Luke ordered a PS5, a new mattress, and a pair of Air Jordans from his phone. Mark bought a leather jacket, a coffee table that wasn’t from a dumpster, and a gym membership he swore he’d actually use.

By the time the bill came—$800, including a tip they threw in because they felt like ballers—they checked DraftKings. After the spending orgy, they were down to $4,800. The high crashed hard. Luke stared at his plate, pushing a piece of steak around. “Dude, we had twenty grand an hour ago. All we did was pay bills and buy some crap. We’re still broke.”

Mark nodded, the Cabernet suddenly tasting sour. “Yeah, man. We’re just… us, but with slightly better stuff. No penthouse, no yacht. Just less debt.”

Luke leaned back, his voice turning bitter. “The system’s rigged, bro. We hit a 50-to-1 parlay, and it’s gone in a night. Meanwhile, some Wall Street dude’s sneezing millions on a yacht we’ll never see.” He glanced at Mark, remembering how in college, Mark’s smarts had opened doors for both of them, but now it felt like Mark was pulling ahead with this glitch thing.

Mark didn’t answer, his eyes back on his phone. The ESPN app was open, and he was scrolling through game updates. Most of the night’s MLB games were wrapping up, but one caught his eye: Colorado Rockies vs. Seattle Mariners, 1-hour rain delay, start time 11:00 PM EST. His heart raced. A late West Coast game, a fresh chance. He smirked, the glitch’s siren song pulling him back in.

“Luke,” he said, cutting off his friend’s rant. “The Rockies-Mariners game. Rain delay. Starts in an hour. If we Uber to Atlantic City now, we can hit a casino sportsbook by the third inning.”

Luke’s fork froze mid-air. “Atlantic City? Bro, that’s, like, three hours away. You’re still chasing that glitch?” Irritation flared—Mark, always the planner, dragging Luke along like the sidekick.

“Hell yeah,” Mark said, eyes gleaming. “We’re not done. This is our night to become millionaires. The app’s still glitching—look, it’s showing weird stats for the Mariners game already. We hit one more big bet, we’re talking life-changing money. No more basements, no more group houses.”

Luke shook his head, but a grin crept onto his face. “You’re a lunatic, man. But screw it. Let’s do it. Millionaires or bust.” Deep down, though, he wondered if this was just another way for Mark to prove he was the smarter one.

They paid the bill, ordered an Uber XL, and piled into the backseat, still buzzing from wine and adrenaline. The driver, a grizzled guy with a thick Baltimore accent, glanced at their Orioles gear. “You boys win big at the game or somethin’?”

Mark grinned. “Something like that. Atlantic City, but drop us off ten minutes outside the strip—somewhere quiet, no cameras.” He shot Luke a look, his voice low. “We gotta be smart. No trace of us together.”

Luke nodded, catching the vibe. In the backseat, they hunched over Mark’s phone, furiously studying the ESPN app for the Rockies-Mariners game. Mark’s eyes darted across the screen, hunting for anomalies—improbable stats, scorelines that didn’t add up. “Look at this,” he whispered, pointing to a stat: Julio Rodríguez 3-4, HR, 2 RBIs, Mariners win 4-3 in 11 innings. “Game’s not even started yet, and it’s showing this? That’s our ticket.”

Luke squinted, his buzz sharpening into focus. “That’s wild, man. But we can’t both bet the same thing—too suspicious. Casinos talk, right?”

“Exactly,” Mark said, orchestrating like always. “We split the $4,800. You take $2,400, bet at Caesars: Mariners win 4-3, over 10.5 innings, Julio Rodríguez HR. I’ll take Borgata, same cash, but I’ll bet Mariners +1 margin, Rodríguez over 1.5 RBIs, game goes to extras. Both are 200-to-1, $480,000 each if we hit, but different enough to avoid red flags.”

Luke nodded, impressed but bitter—Mark always the mastermind. “Fine, but if this tanks, I’m eating your mom’s lasagna for a year.”

“Deal,” Mark said, smirking. “Drop-off’s separate. I’ll get out first, you wait ten minutes, then head to the strip. No cameras, no evidence we’re in this together. Meet me at Rusty’s Dive, that seedy bar off the strip in the bad part of town, after we place the bets. We’ll watch the game there, merge our winnings, and plan our escape.”

The Uber pulled over in a dark lot ten minutes from the Atlantic City strip, no streetlights or cameras in sight. Mark hopped out, backpack slung over his shoulder, and vanished into the night. Ten minutes later, the driver dropped Luke off a block away, equally discreet. They moved like ghosts, weaving through the neon haze of the city, careful to avoid being seen together.

Mark hustled to Borgata, the opulent lobby buzzing with energy. He approached the sportsbook counter, sliding his $2,400 across with a casual nod. “Parlay: Mariners +1 margin, Rodríguez over 1.5 RBIs, game over 10.5 innings.” The clerk, a middle-aged woman with a nametag reading “Deb,” punched it in without batting an eye. Ticket in hand, Mark texted Luke: Bet placed. Your turn, sidekick.

Luke, striding toward Caesars, felt a surge of anger at the “sidekick” text—Mark always diminishing him, like Luke was just along for the ride. Alone now, the night’s events swirled in his head: Mark spotting the glitches, Mark calling the shots, Mark getting all the credit while Luke hustled in the group house and slinged beers for tips. Why’s it always his glitch? Luke thought, resentment boiling over. I pushed the parlays all season, talked him down from dumb bets. I introduced him to the world back in college—he’d still be that awkward kid without me. By the time he reached the counter, greed and spite had taken hold. He placed the bet—Mariners win 4-3, over 10.5 innings, Julio Rodríguez HR—but added one extra legBumps the odds to 250-to-1. Mark won’t mind when I come back with extra cash—and if he does, screw him. I deserve this.

Ticket in pocket, Luke fired back a text: Locked in. See you at Rusty’s, glitch boy. The banter felt sharp, laced with the darkness that had always lurked beneath their bond.

The two reunited at Rusty’s with Luke keeping the secret of the added bet to himself. The two sat side by side watching the game and laughing as they watched the game play out just as expected. Every hit, run and crazy play Mark & Luke would exaggerate their ‘surprise’ and laugh and say ‘Woah look at that!’ They would even involve the bartender- ‘Heeeeey get us another shot if this guy strikes out!’ All laughs and smiles as the game played out- getting closer and closer to a million dollars. Finally- the game reaches extra innings; Mark now rubbing his hands laughing and waiting for the inevitable pay out; now Luke white as a ghost as a miscalculation of his spoils his extra parlay leg. Luke, trying to keep it together, afraid to tell Mark his bet wont cash.

The game ends and Mark whispers to Luke- ‘just like I drew it up huh? You better stick with me once you get the money so I can tell you how to invest it.’ That son of a bitch Mark is talking down to Luke once again- but Luke just fake smiles and nod ‘Yeah man… I will definitively be coming to you.’ “Well cmon lets go cash these out and meet back here again and celebrate!’ Mark says. Luke nods, calculating how he is going to tell Mark that he went rogue. Mark exits to go cash his ticket at his casino while Luke pretends to go cash his ticket out in another direction. Once Mark is out of sight, Luke sobbing, tries to plan out how he is going to tell Mark and humbly ask him to split the single 480k amongst the two of them. Luke returned to the bar and sat at a table and waited for Mark to return.

Rusty’s was a seedy hole-in-the-wall in the grittiest part of Atlantic City, far from the strip’s glitz. Flickering neon signs buzzed over a chipped bar counter, the air thick with cigarette smoke and desperation. Luke arrived first, ordering a double whiskey and slumping at a wobbly table in the corner. By the time Mark walked in, Luke was visibly drunker, his eyes red and his face drawn, the weight of his failure etched into his slouch.

“Yo, dude, you good?” Mark asked, sliding into the seat across from him, his cash envelope bulging in his pocket. “I got my 480K—check, wire, and 50 grand in cash for the vibes. You get yours? We’re set, man! Time to merge the winnings and plan our escape—new apartments, maybe a beach house!”

Luke stared at the table, his whiskey glass sweating in his hand. He couldn’t meet Mark’s eyes. “I… didn’t get shit,” he muttered, voice thick with booze and defeat. “I added a leg to my parlay. Shutout in extras. Thought it’d bump the odds to 250-to-1. Rockies scored in the 10th. It’s gone.”

Mark’s face fell, genuine hurt flashing in his eyes—like a lover discovering infidelity, the betrayal cutting deep. “You… what? I had a plan, bro. I told you EXACTLY what to do- all you had to do was listen to me. You went rogue? After everything tonight? I trusted you, man. This feels like you cheated on me.” The words echoed their fractured dynamic—Mark, the reliable one, feeling stabbed by the friend he’d carried academically, now turning the tables.

Luke shrugged defensively, assuming the fallout would be minor. “Come on, we’ll just split the 480K. It’s still life-changing money.”

Mark shook his head, voice cracking with emotion. “Split? Nah, Luke. You get nothing. You betrayed the pact—went into business for yourself on that extra leg. If it’d hit bigger, you think you’d have shared the extra with me? This hurts, man. Like, really hurts.” The resentment poured out, mirroring Luke’s own hidden feelings—Mark seeing Luke as the unreliable charmer, always taking shortcuts.

The refusal enraged Luke, his face flushing red. “Nothing? After all we’ve been through? You’re cutting me out over one stupid leg?” All those years of Luke pulling Mark out of his shell, only to be dismissed now.

Mark paused, softening slightly, and pulled out the $50,000 cash envelope. “Fine. Take this as goodbye. It’s pity money, but at least it’s something.”

Luke stared at the envelope, insulted by the gesture and the accusations. What was it about Mark that made him think he was so much better—the “smart” one, the glitch-finder, the leader? It wasn’t enough; Luke would rather blow a fortune than settle for being even with Mark. In a flash of rage, he smacked the envelope out of Mark’s hand. Hundred-dollar bills exploded into the air, fluttering like confetti over the grimy bar packed with drunk degenerates desperate for cash.

“You stupid motherfucker,” Mark snarled, watching the bills scatter. “You blow 480K and now manage to blow the 50K I woulda given you outta pity—this is so you, Luke! Go get what you can off the floor like all the other drunk losers—I’m leaving.”

Luke snapped, lunging across the bar table before Mark could turn away. The table flipped with a crash, sending glasses shattering as Luke tackled Mark to the ground. Mark, who’d never been in a fight his whole life, stared up petrified into Luke’s crazed eyes, fear freezing him as punches rained down—jabs to the face, a knee to the ribs that made him gasp. Luke’s rage poured out in venomous screams: “You think you’re better than me? You smug bastard, you stole my shot at a real life!”

The scene around them ignited into chaos. Drunk patrons dove for the flying cash, shoving and brawling amongst themselves in a frenzy. Fists flew, chairs toppled; it was a full-blown riot, the bar descending into pandemonium as bodies piled on, trampling anyone in the way. Mark, scrambling to his feet, got stomped by flailing limbs, pain shooting through his body as he gasped for air.

Luke laughed maniacally, blood trickling from his split lip and staining his teeth. He smashed a whiskey bottle on the ground, gripping the sharp shard like a weapon, and fought his way through the crowd toward a beaten but conscious Mark. “You better give me all you got, you stupid son of a bitch—or I’ll fucking kill you right here! Give me your phone!”

“Never,” Mark gasped, defiance in his eyes despite the terror. “I win.”

Just then, burly security bouncers bulldozed through the melee, tackling Luke to the ground and dispersing the rioting crowd with shouts and shoves. They hauled the bloodied friends out through different exits, barking, “Get the fuck out before the cops show! Get the hell out of town and never come back!”

Beaten and hobbling down a dark alley, Mark managed a pained smile to himself, the betrayal hardening into resolve. He flagged a taxi, sliding into the backseat with a wince. “Take me to Baltimore—I’ll give you 1K if you get me there in less than three hours.” As the cab sped off, Mark pulled out his phone, blocked Luke’s number, and deleted the contact with a final, trembling tap, muttering, “Never again, you backstabbing loser.”

One Year Later

Luke slumped in the dim glow of his laptop in the cramped group house bedroom, the same chaotic mess of Orioles posters and empty PBR cans surrounding him. At 24, he was still bartending nights, delivering DoorDash by day, no career in sight, his dreams stalled like a laggy stream. The playoffs were on TV in the background, but he ignored them, scrolling Instagram obsessively on his cracked phone.

There it was: Mark’s latest post, a glossy engagement photo in front of a sprawling suburban home in Towson—white picket fence, manicured lawn, the works. Mark, looking sharp in a collared shirt, knelt with a ring on the finger of a beautiful woman, her hand resting on a subtle baby bump. The caption read: She said yes! Can’t wait to start our family and build our life together. #Engaged #BabyOnTheWay #Blessed. Luke’s eye—the one still faintly scarred from that night—twitched as he zoomed in, muttering under his breath.

“Look at you, you smug bastard,” Luke hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Nice house, hot fiancée, kid on the way—living the dream off my glitch money. You dragged me along? Nah, you stole it all, you thieving prick. I hate you, Mark. Hate your perfect life.” His fingers tightened around his dad’s antique pistol, a rusty .38 revolver he’d swiped from the old man’s closet during a rare visit home. He rubbed the cold barrel absently, eyes locked on the screen, the gun resting atop a stack of crumpled court documents—denied lawsuits where he’d tried to sue Mark for half the winnings, only to lose spectacularly. “Oh, I can’t wait till you decide to take that precious baby of yours to Camden Yards,” he laughed darkly to himself. “One day, I’ll even the score. Your wife’ll be a single mother before you know it.”

The TV blared an Orioles homer, but Luke didn’t cheer. The glitch that started it all was long gone, replaced by a darker obsession—one that mirrored the shadowed underbelly of their once-deep friendship, now twisted into something lethal.

The End