Eviction Notice & Hallucinations: A Morning of Champions
There’s a special kind of hangover. The kind that hits not just your body, but your soul. It wakes up before you do, sits on your chest like a demonic cat, and whispers things like “You ruined everything. Again.”
That’s how I woke up this morning.
Still recovering from the Great Romanian Incident of Ple?cani de Jos, my liver was in a state of open revolt, my hands shook like a cheap washing machine on spin cycle, and my anxiety had evolved into full-blown horror movie soundtrack mode. I could hear my own heartbeat—and it sounded guilty.
Then came the knock.
No, not a knock.
A pounding.
Like someone was trying to reenact a mob interrogation on my front door.
I froze. Was it the police? The tax man? Gigi with a machete?
I tiptoed to the peephole and nearly shat myself.
Imagine Ace Rothstein and Nicky Santoro working as bailiffs
Standing there were two men in dark coats, sunglasses on indoors (classic power move), and expressions like someone had farted during their grandmother’s funeral. One was short, stocky, and had the unmistakable aura of Nicky Santoro from Casino. Not literally Joe Pesci, but if there were an underground Eastern European cosplay of “tiny rage goblin in a suit,” this guy was the star.
The other one—taller, calm, and absolutely radiating Ace Rothstein energy—stood with his hands behind his back like he was about to lecture me on casino security systems and then kick my ass.
I squinted.
Were those baseball bats?
No—wait.
Baseball bats??!
Had they really brought baseball bats to an eviction? What kind of terrifying cultural crossover was this?
I stumbled backward, limbs going cold. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in.
Except both options felt equally stupid.
Fight? With what?
Flight? To where? The last time I fled somewhere I ended up in Romania.
Panic rising, I scanned my apartment like a squirrel on amphetamines. Hide under the bed? Too obvious. Closet? Already full of broken dreams and unopened mail. Play dead? Not outside the realm of possibility.
And then my eyes locked onto something in the corner.
My badminton racket.
Yes. A goddamn badminton racket.
Not exactly a lethal weapon, but it had a good grip and decent reach. Plus, I’d already pawned anything more threatening.
So there I stood, in boxer shorts and a stained T-shirt that read “Spins Before Sins”, trembling with hangxiety, holding a badminton racket like it was a katana, and eyeing the door like it was a portal to Hell.
But I’m Jack Gamble (Name altered, for obvious self-preservation reasons).
And if I’m going to go down, it’ll be dramatically, with at least a small chance of viral fame.
The courage to face an eviction notice
I took a deep breath.
Stumbled to the kitchen.
Grabbed my last weapon: half a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Took two heroic swigs.
Coughed like a Victorian orphan.
Then walked to the door.
I opened it slowly, half-expecting a punch to the face or a bat to the knees.
Instead, Nicky Pesci raised an eyebrow.
Ace Rothstein tilted his sunglasses down.
“Jack Gamble (Name changed—trying to stay off their radar)?” said Ace.
“Sometimes,” I replied, clutching the racket behind my back like a nervous gladiator.
“We’re here to serve your eviction notice,” he said, handing over a very official-looking envelope that felt heavier than my will to live.
“Oh. Great,” I mumbled. “So… you’re not here to break my legs?”
Nicky frowned. “We’re bailiffs, not gangsters.”
Could’ve fooled me.
They weren’t carrying bats, by the way.
That was just my brain projecting violence like some over-budget Scorsese nightmare.
Nice to know the delirium tremens comes with optional hallucinations now.
Ace continued: “You have three weeks to pay the outstanding rent. If you fail to do so, you’ll be evicted. However, you’re still legally required to pay the debt. Non-payment may affect your credit score, making it difficult to receive further financial assistance or, say… payday loans.”
“Cool cool cool,” I muttered, sweating through my shirt. “And if I do pay?”
“You stay. For now.”
“Neat.”
Then came the real kicker.
Nicky pulled out a thin pamphlet and handed it to me like he was offering a Bible to a lost soul.
“This is a guide to local social services,” he said flatly. “It includes information on addiction counseling, problem gambling support, and emergency financial aid.”
I stared at it. A cheap tri-fold printed on thin paper with smiling stock-photo people who definitely didn’t smell like regret and failure.
“We suggest you consider it,” Ace added. “This isn’t a punishment, Mr. Gamble. It’s a… wake-up call.”
I nodded. Or maybe my head just drooped under the weight of shame and liver decay.
They left.
No violence.
No threats.
No bats.
Just the cold slap of reality and the faint smell of aftershave that probably cost more than my entire apartment.
I closed the door.
Staggered to the couch.
Dropped the pamphlet on the table next to an empty ramen cup and a casino bonus flyer with “CASHBACK FOR LOSERS!” written in cheerful font.
I took another swig of Jack Daniels.
This time, not for courage, but for the crushing weight of knowing I’ve become the kind of person social workers print brochures about.
How to handle eviction and make fast cash
I glanced around the room. My tiny kingdom.
Half-packed boxes from last month’s “I swear I’m moving” episode.
Pizza crusts forming their own civilization.
A cracked laptop screen, still glowing with the ghost of a lost slot bonus.
And that’s when it really hit me.
I’m not Ian Fleming’s James Bond. I’m thinking that I’m a miserable brainchild of some lonely SEO gremlin who lives with two cats, writes gambling content for a living, and vents his existential despair by making me suffer in blog form. I’m his anti-Bond—a cautionary piss stain of a character created solely to mock addicts, losers, and guys who thought one slot win would fix their life. Cheers, asshole.
Except I’m not fictional.
I’m real.
Too real.
And I’ve got three weeks to either pay up or join the ranks of the couch-surfing unemployed.
Later, I call Randy.
He doesn’t answer. Probably hiding from me.
Can’t blame him. I’d hide from me too if I could.
So I sit.
Stare at the eviction notice.
And the pamphlet.
And the bottle.
And I whisper, “Well, at least I didn’t hallucinate the pigeon this time.
Until next time,
Jack “Homeless But Still Handsome” Gamble
Future ex-tenant. Reluctant realist. Still somehow optimistic.
Disclaimer:
If you’re struggling with gambling addiction or alcohol abuse, please seek professional help. Losing money on slot machines or chasing wins in an online casino isn’t worth your health, finances, or relationships. Gambling addiction help is available—reach out to local support services or organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous in your area. You don’t have to face it alone.