The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Summer 2026 Hiatus Vol. 1

Episode Date: July 26, 2026

It's our Summer Hiatus in between seasons 24 & 25. Join us as we present bonus tales from our Sleepless Universe for those hot summer nights."Peelers Club" by Johnny Byutorie (Story starts around 00:03:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Jeff Clement"Hades Telegambling Service" by Daniel J. Greene (Story starts around 00:39:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jesse CornettCast: Narrator - Dan Zappulla, Owen - Atticus Jackson, Janis - Wafiyyah White, Pit Boss - David Cummings, Customer Service Employee - Nichole Goodnight, Hades Telegambling Service Line - Nikolle Doolin, Announcer - Graham Rowat, Commentator - Jesse CornettThis episode is sponsored by:Quince - Build your wardrobe with pieces from Quince that mix well and last. Go to Quince.com/nosleep to get free shipping and a 365-day return period.Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Take a step towards a better you. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com/nosleep.Home Chef - Home Chef's meal kits are rated #1 in quality, convenience, value, taste, and recipe ease. Head to homechef.com/nosleep to get 50% off and free shipping for your first box plus free dessert for life!Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamCheck out our NEW MERCH!Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical scores composed by: Brandon BooneSummer 2026 Hiatus 01 illustration courtesy of Alexandra CruzThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Thank you for joining us for the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. And yes, you guessed it. We're not swimming in the dark waters of the Cape Fear River at the moment. It's our summer hiatus time, the break we take between seasons. So we're hanging out under the sunny skies on the white sand of an ocean beach. We're sipping frozen beverages and keeping the horror going. So you could say we're wasting away.

again in Marga Fritaville. Oh, no, that's not a good one. We're wasting away again in Scaraville. Margarita thrill? Margarita chill? Chilling? Ah, son of a sailor. Anyway, you get the idea.

And we hope you're staying cool and also enjoying some time off this summer. This week and next, we'll be sharing stories with you. that originally appeared on our premium episodes for members of our sleepless universe. And this is the perfect time to remind you that the sleepless universe features full length, ad-free episodes, and lots of bonus content. Simply put, our members keep us going

and make all this possible. So why not consider becoming a member? So you get lots of stories to keep you sleepless and us able to do this. And the other reason all this is possible is because of our great sponsors. And the beach is the perfect place to talk about Quince. One thing I love about summer is how easy everything feels.

The days are a little more relaxed, and I find myself reaching for the same comfortable, go-anywhere pieces again and again. That's why I keep coming back to Quince. They focus on well-made essentials that naturally become those everyday staples you actually live in all season long. And of course I'm wearing my 100% European linen drawstring beach shorts.

Love the look of these shorts and how cool they are, both in style and comfort. Even when I'm hanging at the shore, Quince makes me feel and look good, and that's why I keep relying on Quince for great-looking clothing. Quince's 100% European linen pants and shirts are breathable, easy to throw on, and the summer upgrade your rotation needs, starting at just $34. Their teas are soft enough to live in all day, and the lightweight cotton sweaters are exactly what you want when summer nights cool down. Make your summer wardrobe easier. Go to quince.com slash no sleep for free shipping on your order and 365-day returns.

Now available in Canada too. That's Q-U-I-N-C-E dot com slash no sleep for free shipping and 365-day returns. Quince.com slash no sleep. So folks, grab a drink, make sure you've got your sunscreen on, and let's get sand between our toes and horror between our ears, as we dive into our sleepless tales. In our first tale, we venture into a dark area from which nothing good can come. That's right, a subreddit.

And in this particular subreddit, a group of people share. share a habit that seems innocent enough. But in this tale, shared with us by author Johnny Butori, one member shares of how the group devolved into behaviors that will make your skin crawl. Performing this gruesome tale is Jeff Clement. So stick to things like stickers and orange peels. Those things come off easy,

but things don't stay easy when you're in The Peelers Club. The thing people have trouble understanding, no, that they aren't willing to accept, is that everything, everything we did, was consensual. No one who was there who took part didn't want... But I'm getting ahead of myself. For me, it started innocuous enough with oranges.

I loved the tactility of... separating the pith from the pulp, using my teeth to break the envelope and let the white fall away, leaving the sweet, juicy flesh free and unmarred by that bitterness. Clementines were the starter pack once I graduated away from canned mandarin's and their agonizingly saccharine syrup. Easy to pull apart, segment, and eat, bit by bit, if I liked, and not have to worry about. wit about seeds. Navels were a step up, though sometimes you got the disappointments that were desiccated in the corners, like the parentheses of a pair of chapped lips, cracked and flaking white with the taste

like orange-scented paper. No, the master class were blood oranges, no question. They had a shorter season than the rest, and that scarcity made them precious. They were meant to be savored slowly, and I like to take my time dissecting them. You had to be careful, though. Not just the way the maroon juice stained the tips of your fingers, fading to a gently emphatic shade of magenta once it had time to dry. But the pith stuck something fierce.

As with anything worth waiting for, worthy of love, You had to take it slow, be patient, and use your tools wisely. You couldn't just pry it apart on cooth as if you were cracking open a fortune cookie. You needed to find the weak point and gently apply pressure until the outside shape fell away. And what you had was exquisite and tender beneath the cobweb membrane containing it. You need to coax it to the surface. let it happen and softly follow through. Oh, I was good at what I did.

Very good. Occasionally I would fuck with grapes. Peeled grapes are a classic and harder than they look. Pit fruit is hardcore and just a mess. Usually not worth it either unless you're into prune juice. One time I tried working a durian and I jacked myself right up and then my place stank like moldy sweat socks soaked in onion juice for weeks. Never again.

Can I say what came next? I mean, it was a lot of things. Do any of us really think about all the things we peel away without really considering it? I mean, really think about it? Those pre-made biscuits come to mind. I have fond memories of separating those flaky machine-pressed list. layers from the cylindrical tubing holding them prisoner, the ones that you pull at and twist until it all goes pop.

Then you lay them out and fold them just so for half-assed croissants or wrap them around cocktail weenies for pigs in a blanket. Those were the days, weren't they? You're going to think I'm strange, but, well, stranger than you already do, I'm sure. But I like to unravel the twist, cinching the Vienna, a sausage in place and eat the crispy layers one at a time. And maybe by then I would have time for what was there beneath if it hadn't all grown cold, but as often as not I would discard it or leave it on my plate to sneak out to our schnauzer, Petey, when my parents weren't looking.

I liked how those sticky hands, you remember those toys? Clung to windows and walls, stretching out in glutinous desperation before being pulled away by their own inevitability, by gravity, and returning to Earth, the dirt, more commonly, than backed my hand as I intended. Not that they ever lasted that long before decaying to a gross dust and fuzz and ick-covered remnant of a thing, it was no wonder we lost so many quarters to those objects of profane waste. childhood forced obsolescence. I continue to believe those of us that played with those sticky slappers avoided iPhones like the plague because we remembered getting hosed

and we weren't interested in reliving that sting again. Do you remember silly putty? Always fascinated me that it was a creation born out of failure, a complete unrelated accident, but a lucrative one. I was one of those kids that pressed that flesh-tone toy to newspapers and magazines and watched as it sluffed up in a way, carrying a Xerox memory of the ink not completely dried from the surface of the paper. Matt or glossy, I was amused by the way it modulated photographed faces.

You could see the shadow of them, a death mask, shroud of Turin, so on. You get the idea. And then you could shape and mold it to your will. There was a power in that, a strength. You could say I was drawn to that idea, that conceit. As a teenager, I did wonder if Miyamoto had been inspired by this now archaic toy when he and his team designed that famous opening screen for Super Mario 64 that let you the player shape and pull and tug and warp Mario's plastic polygonal face,

every which way with the guarantee that it would all bounce back into place, back the way it was meant to be. If only it were that easy. What else? What else? Well, I would later discover lichy, such a delight. Pulling free and unmarred white fruit and separating it from the gently textured shell. And then the bullet-shaped pit was a true joy. Delicate, fragrant, worth the trouble.

Oh, band-aids. Of course, band-aids. There are two sides, aren't they? The initial application of the self-adhering bandage as you pull the safety tabs away, and then the removal wanted to run its course, either enough to staunch a bleeding or ineffectually prevent a wound from breathing and leaving the hurt beneath to fester pale and gummy. What the hell were those tableau toys called? The two-dimensional magnetic ones that let you place Barbie or the Power Rangers or X-Men or Spider-Man

and his amazing friends in various situations and scenes. Play sets for kids too poor to get action figures and their matching vehicles, even though why in the world did Spidey need a goddamn Jeep? You could just sling everywhere. I suppose it was for when his amazing friends wanted to go hang out at the mall. Not nostalgic for me, but command strips all the way. Paint chips for some. But where it really gets good, the Pieste de resistance are stickers.

This came into its own later in life in college when I'd buy used games and books from E.B. and half price. There is nothing like successfully getting a good pull on the first. try. You get a good feel for it and familiarity with the quality of sticker, what glue or other adhesive is being employed and what tactics you'll need to make use of. As always, it's important to find where it's weakest, where it lifts up just a tad, isn't lying cock-eyed, assuming most people have asked their jobs and don't bother to lay the sticker on completely flat. Sometimes, and especially if the stickers are cheap, they'll tear. But often you can work with the tear,

gently scraping the edges up to pull the mark off in similar strips without damaging the product itself. Though I do admit to buying something I have no interest in engaging with whatsoever just for the opportunity to tackle a particularly complicated multi-stack. Right. Multi-stacks, reissues, and double Ds for deep discounts,

are what we call stickered second handers that get new stickers over the old ones. Sometimes you get the chance to get a clean slate by finding a weak corner on an old sticker that has just begun to weaken. Going after the newest stickers, folly. Just a complete waste of time. I mean, sure, it will build your confidence,

but that's not really what it's about. It's about a clean slate, an unmarred end goal product. And maybe, if you're lucky, you will have a small color gap or rectangle of pride and excellence to remember your glorious work by. Good R-O-P-E is something all of us as peelers strive to achieve on a regular basis. Here's the thing you have to remember, though. Don't get discouraged.

If the sticker tears badly or leaves a sticky patch of gray goop, you can usually get that out by gently scraping it with a thumbnail. Try to avoid doing it with too much vigor or using a caustic soap product as those can damage the cardstock, cardboard, plastic, or what have you, beneath. I've even found DIY success using another adhesive such as duct tape. Make sure it's the real stuff, not that fendi knockoff shit from Dollar Tree. But maybe I already knew that one. And remember, take your time.

This process is the fun part. Clearing, finishing is the gravy. But some other peelers disagree on what matters, ultimately. That's what the subreddit R slash peelers was for. for us. So we could get together and chat about strategies for works, brag about successes and just sharing the experience. It was pure.

Innocent. It was. Of course, the subreddit was deleted for obvious reasons. Some of the others have different ideas about what made for a good peel, or even what was considered peeling in the first. first place. You've probably already seen the records and chats, but I can pull them up here for you too, just to show you some PDF examples. Here's sunstroke. Her thing was sunburnt skin. Her sunburnt skin, but she wasn't picky and had something of a following. She was happy to tug

on anyone at the first sign of flakage. When she moved into scabs on the off-season, That was when the squick factor went way up. Then she started to fuck with ticks. And I just could not with that. When she posted that video of her pressing a lighter against that fat fucker intentionally to dig it in deeper, ugh. I noped out.

She said she needed to up her game to hard mode. Some people like watching Dr. Pimple Popper. I could never see the appeal. That was unintentional. Write that down. I don't want people thinking of a hack. But it got her famous. And I guess that's what she wanted.

People still talk about the Lyme disease challenge and hushed tones. I just try to forget that trend ever happened. Not that those poor families in Montana will ever be able to after what they lost. P-38 got a lot of shit for being country about his bag. Root vegetables. The way he could work a potato, he was a maestro. You would have never known the potato had looked any other way when he was done with it. Look at that. Like marble.

Had a lot of practice in boot camp. P was a military brat through and through. Some of the others couldn't get behind the use of tools, but sometimes you need that extra juz, you know? I remember one chat P and I had about a sack he had forgotten about in his pantry, and it nearly went to seed there in the damp dark. He got back from a cruise or something and found them piercing from the burlap every which way, very Cronenberg.

He told me I pitched the potatoes since they were growing, well, plain coy. I ventured, I. He said. They were growing a whole-ass limbic system. He had a good sense of humor. Then he moved on to the fruit, squash, melon, but pumpkins. Pumpkins were his new bread and butter. You could see the pores on those works of goddamn art when he worked them proper. Almost looked human.

Never told us what he was doing with them until it hit the news. Half a decade of medical school down the drain. Broke his mother's heart to find what was left of him when they came to book the poor bastard. Who knew someone could last that long without the top of your head? Figured he would have passed out from blood loss before too long. Word is, someone put in an anonymous tip, but you didn't hear that for me.

This one? Goobie gone? Shit. Use their namesake the way teens, teenage boys and boys who never grew up used duct tape on basically every damn thing. They were a sticker fiend. The sticker fiend. Always had new tips and tricks on how to deal with a stubborn situation. Busted R.O.P.E with double Ds like no one's business. They bought a used amp for $400 from some down-on-as-lockedrody that was layered in some 25 years or so of

band stickers, just for the privilege of going ape on the thing. And wouldn't you know it? It was pristine when they cleared that final Black Sabbath piece. Ghosts of concerts passed, and a faint odor of spilt beer was all that accompanied the collection of amorphous shapes, like carbon shadows after an atomic blast. They proudly displayed when the work was done. They kept a binder full of the recovered stickers. Each with a number Gooby knew would correspond to some place on that amp that would never be used for its intended purpose ever again. I'll never forget that last message Goob sent the group chat.

I pulled away my residue. There was a photo attached. I don't know what was in it because it was deleted for TOS a minute later. Couldn't bring myself to look at it. it. But Sunny called me and mentioned how smooth they looked, glistening a lurid, transparent green. No one else said anything else about what they saw, and I didn't ask questions. It wasn't that kind of place. Then the munches started happening, and that's where everyone gets the wrong idea. It wasn't a kink thing. Not really. Not for all of us.

Some of us were just facilitators for work. But we'll get there. We need to talk about Uriah underscore Heat. He is, was, an influencer, chasing after the fame of Mr. Beast before his skeletons came out of the closet, that fire festival of a reality show. He never did anything as bad as Sean Ruddy, but he wasn't far from it.

He was trying his damnedest to go viral as Andrew Meyer. Somehow, doing the tasing yourself doesn't have the same impact, especially when it's pretty obvious that you're a fetishist like Uriah. Yet he had a small but loyal following. There's no doubt about that. Poser or not, and R-slash-Peeler's mainstays, widely agreed that he was. He brought fresh eyes to the subred.

it for better or worse. He was desperate for attention and was willing to ape anyone to get it. You take the exploitation of jackass in the specific area of masochism of chilly Klaus Pilgard, and you have Uriah underscore heat. He first made a splash on our front page by promoting his Twitch channel, wherein he promised to up the peeling game. This was before P-38 can opener to himself. P. wanted nothing more than to challenge him to a boxing match, but well, then he did what he did.

And you can say a lot of shit about him. And we all did. But he put up by peeling and sounding his urethra with a whole Thai chili pepper, for which he was promptly banned. Not one to be deterred for being an asshole or for giving himself a yeast infection. Uriah pulled his fan base onto Twitter and made a butt plug of caramel and peeled scorpion peppers and went live as a layer of his colon sloughed off for all the world to see. Low standards.

That was an expensive stunt in so many ways. but then he disturbed a community rule with his Operation Snake Peel. He claimed to find a snake half dead with its head crushed in an effort to shed, only getting a few inches before calamity struck. No one believed him that he didn't kill it himself, but his video retracting the slick new body of the decapitated snake made headlines. The way it scintillated from the effort of his hands, pink-socking its dying body along the rocky outcropping to free the dry deprise. And then that last minute or so of it whipping around its bleeding stump neck striking at him blindly,

flailing against and leaving streaks of red along his cargo pants, and the reaction his body had to the dead pressure there. And what he did next, as he took out his capsafe. Jason blistered, erect pink worm from his pants. The news called it a modern-day Auroboros. We called it his bunco-cannibal holocaust. That's when the munches started. Those of us within a reasonable distance meeting up,

after he was banned from Reddit for life and he wiped his social media presence because someone doxed him, sent death threats, he was belligerent for those who wanted to see. And then someone kidnapped his cat, Franch. He moved two states away when that happened. And then someone peeled Franch and shoved it into his parents' mailbox

along with a DVD recording of the process, showing how to cut the fur just right to skin the animal with one good pull. French had been gassed before the process started. Then the cat woke up. Everyone was horrified. I still see the shaking, the yowling, the way it collapsed when I closed my eyes. Wasn't one of ours, but you never saw the person's face in the video.

And the basement, or wherever they were, was deep, empty, and echoy, making it tricky to hear what their voice sounded like. and they kept huffing balloons filled with Xenon. So between the giggle fits, there was no chance of tracking them down, sort of a bad scream knockoff. But they weren't one of ours. Uriah underscore Heat went underground after that. Again, we started the meetings because of him,

because of what he had done. We all kept with our aliases, chat rooms, and the subreddit went dark for a while. Somewhere in there, pee happened to himself. We commiserated at our own version of a funeral. Everyone picked a root vegetable and peeled it clean as we could, and then we burned them in a pyre one night, except for potatoes.

They were sacred. We talked about how we remembered him, talked about how none of our work held a candle, to his work. And, yes, we fucked. Tragedy has a way of bringing people together. It was an outlet, one P didn't have thanks to Uriah. Not the pineapples around the door stuff people in the media like to talk about,

but we enjoyed our time together. Anonymous, clean, blameless, innocent. baptizing our bodies in tears and sex. Born fresh. As much as it was about anything, it was about feeling. It was about experience. These were acts of love. It wasn't a cult.

It wasn't. Eventually, one of Uriah's loyalists must have infiltrated, because at one of our usual rotations of Denny's Waffle Houses and Huddl houses, there was a burner phone waiting for us with one contact, Uriah underscore Heat. He wanted to apologize, to make good, to do works again and be seen by a community he never truly belonged to but was desperate for its acceptance, to return to the mortal coil, as he put it.

We put him on mute as we deliberated. Some of us were unwilling to hear him out. But Sonny, her skin, now the patina of long, worked with leather that she scratched at every few minutes, would go in a rage of someone so much as uttered the words melanoma or oncology. She spoke up silently, raised a hand to silence the dissent and turned on the speakerphone. Prove it, she said. Between sobs, Eriah said, How?

Figure it out. So he did. He followed through. A week later, a file labeled penance. MP4 appeared on the subreddit front page from P38's defunct account. We did a simulcast, made an event of it,

and watched Uriah give a standard YouTuber bullshit apology video, noticing how he never let his hands come into shot other than the one time he unconsciously wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The fingers wrapped thick with bandages. The tips are dark brown bordering on black with tingees of yellow. He quickly let it fall away, snot dripping down his goatee. Then he was quiet for a long while, staring somewhere beyond the camera. Two full minutes passed before he looked up his eyes glittering at the camera.

Then a video played in a pop-up window of its own accord, titled Otto de Fay. And we saw, we all saw, the process of Uriah setting pristine dentist tools to pry up his fingernail one by one, the flesh pulling up sticky and raw as his hands shook more and more. It was truly an astonishing act of faith. Blood was everywhere, making the process seem to take longer each by each, but time has a funny way about it. Looking back, it was actually shorter in the last few pulls. He was getting better at the worst.

work. Then it returned to him staring out into nothingness. He pulled a large yellow bowl into frame. It was filled with grapes. He was peeling them with his hands somehow. I'm getting better, he said. I am. At it. At the work. This video, it's on a timer. I'll send where it needs to go when it's ready. When I'm done, land of the blind, right? He fought back sobs, stealing himself, and said, I'm sorry, French. Then he pulled out a spoon and scooped out his eyes. I remember the first thing that brought me to R-slash-peelers. There was this stupid meme about the lifespan of bees, of the mating stock. Male bees' bodies explode during intercourse.

They ejaculate with such force. It rips their bodies apart, creating a distinctive popping sound and killing them. So every male bee you ever see is a virgin, fucking losers. It was funny, but in a dumb way. Just where my sense of humor resided at that point in my life. Then in the comments, someone asked, does this count as R slash peeling?

It was Goob. From there, I never looked back. Uriah, he came to us. He wanted to become clean. He wanted to become new. He gave us the tools for his resurrection to atone for what he had done. He wasn't one of us,

but we facilitated his work. Uriah became one of us, something new, something better than he was with each and every slice of the knife, with every paltry pull of the skin, with every rip, with every tear, with every split, with every flare of pain, he wanted to be made anew. The flayed man made manifest. And he was glorious. He was. He really was.

For the time he walked on the coals of his barren feet in the casket cave of his mother's basement. For 73 sanctified seconds, he walked. You should have seen it, detective. His eyes were open, finally, figuratively. It was a sight to behold. If only he could have told us what he experienced in those final moments of exquisite pain. If only, imagine what he could have shown us from that revelation,

pulling back the curtain one last time. And you know, the best part, when his skull came away, we discovered black branching knots like seeds, like watermelon vines, sprouting malignant, brain cancer, terminal. He was already doomed. Don't you see? We saved him. We pulled away his residue.

He was clean when we were done. Screaming valediction. These tears? They are tears of joy. We are blessed. We are blessed. We are blessed. The horror.

keeps flowing after a word from the folks who make all this free content possible well that was rather unappealing but something that always appeals to us is having our episode sponsored by better help if there's one thing i know it's that our physical health and mental health go hand in hand i've been doing more to improve my body's health and i'm seeing real benefits in my mental health too so why is it that getting help for your mental health is seen as a weakness. This fact still confounds me about therapy. BetterHelp's 26 state of stigma report surveyed 2,000 Americans and revealed that 85% of Americans believe getting support is wise,

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Start therapy with BetterHelp. Sign up and get 10% off at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. That's betterh-E-L-P.com slash no sleep. And summer is a time to get outside and do things, and that often means getting meals at restaurants. And, oh boy, that ain't cheap these days, right? After checking how much I spent eating meals out last month, I was honestly shocked. That's why Home Chef has been a game changer.

Home Chef has even worked with renowned chefs like Gordon Ramsey to bring restaurant quality recipes straight to your kitchen. So not only am I saving money, but I'm also cooking meals that feel like I have a personal chef at home. Home Chef makes cooking simple, fresh food delivered, easy recipes to follow, and meals that actually take. great. Take the stress out of your week with convenient weekly deliveries that keep your fridge stocked and eliminate meal planning and grocery runs. No long shopping lists, no complicated prep, and best of all, easy cleanup. It's perfect for busy schedules, whether you need a 30-minute meal, an oven-ready tray, or even a quick microwave lunch. Home Chef has you covered. And people really love it. Home Chef is rated number one by users of other meal kits for quality, convenience,

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Must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Now let's plunge back into the deep waters of horror. In our final tale, we meet Owen. And I'll bet you his problem will quickly become apparent. And that's not much of a gamble. You see, Owen is addicted to any game of chance. Cards, roulette, the higher the stakes, the better. But in this tale, shared with us by.

author Daniel J. Green. Owen discovers a new service that just might be able to scratch his gambling itch once and for all. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Atticus Jackson, Wafia White, Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, Graham Rowett, and Jesse Cornett. So if you play your cards right, you won't get on a hot streak if you call Hades Telegambling Service. There's was a time when the outlandish stories Owen told actually brought smiles to people's faces. For instance, there was the one he told Cousin Louis at Thanksgiving, the one where he won a Porsche 9-11 in a poker tournament in Vegas, and then beat Rod Stewart in a drag race with it the same night. Or there was the time a bird shit on his window on the way to work.

His uncle Ronald had found that one so funny, he gave him a... nosebleed at Christmas dinner. Owen had thought the shit splatter looked exactly like the number 16, so he drove straight to the casino, marched up to the roulette wheel, and placed a hundred bucks on Red 16. It hit. First try, of course, and Owen called in sick that day to celebrate. But eventually, the stories, the bullshitting, all just became sad.

Eventually, everyone realized that Owen had a problem. Last Easter, cousin Lewis started smiling with just his mouth as he listened, and not his eyes, too. And even Uncle Ronald changed the subject, just as Owen thought he was getting to a good part. The truth was that the Porsche Owen won, that fateful night in Vegas, had only been a lease, and the damage he did drag racing teenagers caused him to owe thousands in damages to the dealership. And regarding the bird shit incident, the reality was that instead of pocketing the money he won

at the roulette table that morning, Owen stayed at the casino, chasing the win until every last cent was gone. But if Owen really thought about it, his family's change in attitude wasn't just a, about the lies and the gambling. If Owen were honest with himself, he knew that everything had changed

around the time he suggested to his wife that they opened their marriage. The conversation had been a secret at first and then an open secret. Family would simply avoid the topic at first, then simply avoid him. Part of the problem was that Owen didn't really think too deeply

about anything. If something was uncomfortable, he ignored it, but if something sparked his desire, offered him novelty, or so much as glinted like a dropped nickel on the side of the road, Owen became obsessed.

For that reason, he thought very little about the divorce papers sitting in the brass mailbox by his porch, and he thought very much about the way that one bird, Rista's fingers slid along the calluses of his hand when giving him his change last Thursday. Her name was Asia, spelled like his favorite Steely Dan album, and from the moment he scanned her sumptuous body from across the counter, he knew he would do anything for her.

She had long, cat-eye liner, ink-black curtain bangs, and smelled like bubble guise. Even now, as he strode through the casino with a wad of cash in his hand, Owen obsessed over Asia. He wished she were there with him to see him like this in his element, in his prime. But more than that, Owen wished he knew what it felt like to be wanted by someone so miserably breathtaking as. Asia. The $100 bills Owen brandished as he took a stool at the roulette table weren't his, though. Not really. Until the divorce was final, he shared them with his wife. It made it easier to lose so much money, though, knowing it wasn't all his. It was especially easy to lose when he thought about that one thing she had said to him when she discovered his online dating profile.

She had texted him a screenshot, saying that with his receding hairline, it would probably be easier for him to match with two fours than an eight. When Owen thought about that text, he felt luxurious pleasure at feeding bills into the electronic roulette wheel, as if they were files into a shredder. Owen flushed now at the memory. Owen placed $1,200 on black and listened to the ball whirr around the track. To the force.

The bitch is only a force, self. The ball whistled from its chamber, skittered, popped, and clanged against the spokes of the wheel, before landing on red nine. Good. He slammed his hands against the table, then stood and downed his Dixie Cup of Bud Light. There's $1,200 fewer dollars for you and your fucking... He didn't know how to finish the sentence.

You and those fucking... Sir, is there going to be a problem again tonight? Janice was always there. Six foot nothing, 150 pounds. Janice was built like in... oak wardrobe, and Owen thought often about fucking her. No, Janice, no problem denied. Good.

Owen smiled, avoided her eyes, and backed away from the table. Owen fed his credit card into the mouth of the ATM and accidentally pressed the French language option. His hands were wet with sweat as he smeared. his finger across the oily plastic screen. He had long ago memorized the series of inputs needed to get what he wanted, though, so the foreign language was little barrier to him. Soon another wad of hundreds appeared in the cash chute, and he seized upon them, prying and tugging before the machine was ready.

Now he felt like playing blackjack. Owen took a stool at a $10 minimum table, and from his first bet, he knew his luck had changed. Suddenly, Owen was a man on fire. He was splitting tens and winning, splitting eights and winning, doubling down on nine and winning. Servers brought him free drinks. His fellow players cheered him on, and at one point, Owen even tipped the dealer. His chips grew and grew until he thought he couldn't lose.

And then he lost. In the pregnant silence that always followed, he counted his remaining chips. $20. He sighed, placed the minimum bet, and clenched his jaw until he could feel his enamel, gritty as beach sand, on his tongue. He had prepared two folds. For his next hand, he was dealt a six and a five, for a total of eleven, and suddenly time slowed down.

He could hear his heartbeat. He was omniscient. The thrum of the casino dampened as if he were plunged underwater. He was thinking three, four steps ahead of everyone, not least of all, the dealer. Owen glanced to the dealer's eyes, waited for him to look away, then snuck his last $10 chip onto the table. Nobody got rich playing by the rules he knew.

This was the beginning of his comeback. But then, the dealer raised a hand, and another larger man in a lavender silk shirt and black apron came over. It was the pit boss. He wore an impressive buzz cut, and Giorgio Armani pulsed off his throat. The two men spoke for a moment, just quietly enough that Owen couldn't hear, before the hiss of a two-way radio receiver announced the arrival of two firm hands on his shoulders. Owen recognized Janice immediately by her scent. He had fantasized about a moment just like this countless times.

Her strong, supple hands on his shoulders, her sweet, sweaty musk and hot breath pouring over his neck. Get this grifter out of my sight. Janice complied, hauling Owen out of his seat and dragging him across the casino in a full Nelson. She was stronger than she looked, he thought, and she looked pretty strong. With Owen still locked in her arms, she opened the fire exit with a front snap kick. Then in one smooth motion, she released him from the hold, and shoved him into the alley.

That was past posting, and you fucking know it, Owen. And if you ever call me baby again, I'll fucking kill you. I can call you whatever you want. But she wasn't listening. A second later, the door slammed shut. Walking home, Owen replayed in his mind every choice that had led him to this moment. He couldn't help it. Memories got crueler over time, and he got more nostalgic as he aged.

It was a tragic combination. He was desperate for something to take his mind off everything, when, through dampening eyes, he spotted an old payphone in the center of a gravel parking lot and smiled. Owen loved payphones. As a kid, he and his first. friends used to spend hours making prank calls to toll-free numbers, they would make up ridiculous pseudonyms and call customer service lines to make completely unreasonable complaints and requests. It was the sort of thing that passed for entertainment in the 90s.

Giddy with excitement, Owen dialed one of the toll-free numbers that he had memorized. It was the customer service line for the American hotel chain Addison. Inns and Suites. He doubted the number was still active. It was actually shocked when someone picked up. You for calling Addison Inns and Suites, how can I help you this evening? Yeah, hi, I'd like to book a room, please. I'd be happy to book you in, sir.

But for your future convenience, I'll let you know that you can find all of our available rooms on our new Addison Inns and Suites' mobile app. It's available for download on both Android and iOS devices. Oh, well, I actually lost my phone. That's why I'm using a payphone. There was a moment of silence, then crackling static. Payphone. No worries, and what's your first name?

John. Thank you, John, and your last name, please? Sina. Have a good night, sir. Owen laughed. Oh, how he laughed. It hurt his stomach to laugh so much. It made him want to cry a little bit too, but he didn't.

He thought about going home, leaving on a high note, but then remembered the brass mailbox in the ever-growing king-sized bed in the master bedroom. So he stayed. This time, he dialed a new number, one he had never tried before. 1-55-6661313. It only rang once before a pale hiss cut through the static, and another female voice spoke, a voice so smooth and intangible

that it could have been the narrator of his unconscious. You have reached the Hades Telegambling Service. Pressing players press one now. New players press two. Upon hearing the word gambling, a flutter rose in Owen's chest, and he instinctively reached for his wallet. He pressed two.

We're pleased to welcome you to the Hades Telegambling Service. To begin, please tell us how many tokens you would like to purchase. He waited, confused. How was he supposed to pay? for these tokens. There had to be more information. Was he supposed to feed coins into the slot? Was he to recite his visa number

and three-digit security code like when trying to claw back one of his wife's Amazon orders? You're still there? The voice startled him back to the present. To begin, please tell us how many tokens you would like to purchase. Fuck it.

I would like to buy 100 tokens? You would like to buy 100 tokens. To confirm, press 6. Yes, 100 tokens, please. He punctuated his spoken confirmation with a long, firm press of the 6. Thank you for using Hades telegambling service. We look forward to seeing you again very soon.

The call ended. The hiss extinguished. Blood beat in his ears. Hello. When do I get my tokens? When there was no response, he replaced the receiver. The hell was that? Part of him was disappointed,

but another part knew the whole thing was probably just one piece of some half-baked ARG, or some dilettante communications majors honors thesis, He stepped away from the payphone, a ball of tension growing in his stomach. He noticed the sun was rising and checked the time on his phone. 5.37 a.m. How the hell did that happen? How long was I at the casino?

The question made his stomach turn, and he winced in pain. Was he hungry? He couldn't remember the last. last time he ate, but the thought of food made him sick. His gut thumped again, and this time his knees buckled. Something wasn't right. He wasn't sure if his body wanted him to vomit or find a toilet. He thought about home again, and cold dreads scaled his spine. However, despite the mailbox, despite the mess of memories, despite her lingering scent of lilac and vanilla. At least there was a private bathroom there.

Owen drew a bath as the sun began to shine through the bathroom window. As he sunk into the water, tried to ignore the gnawing of pain in his stomach. He had hoped a warm bath would move things along down there, but the more he tried to make it go through that end, the more he realized it wanted to come up the other and urgently. The queasy feeling grew in intensity until all at once, the smooth muscles in his throat began contracting. He scrambled out of the bath,

his arms and legs slipping against the slick porcelain, like those of a panicked cat at the groomer. Tears formed in his eyes as he arched naked over the toilet, his red skin glistening and steaming with a mixture of bathwater and sweat. He reched pure, green bile into the toilet, but he wasn't finished. Somewhere deep in his gut, there was another thump like a truck shifting into gear, and he collapsed backward. onto the bathroom floor. There he experienced what could only be described as a preternatural force. His eyes bulged, goosebumps raised along his forearms.

Then, finally, all at once, he expectorated a purple, vainy mass, the size of a mandarin orange. The thing flopped onto the floor beside. him as he gagged and sputtered through a mouthful of bitter, viscous goo. Exhausted, shocked, he lay on the cold tiles next to his excrescence, panting. Once he had caught his breath, he dragged himself to the lip of the bathtub and washed the filth from his mouth and chin. Then, with a quivering hand, he reached out and poked the... the product of his painful labor. Though warm, it didn't seem to be alive.

He picked it up. It was heavy like a botchy ball, but squishy like rubber. He tested the outer skin with his thumbnail, and it gave like the peel of a fresh apple. He pressed harder now, and the skin split all at once like a water balloon. In less than a second, a hundred silver coins clattered across the bathroom tiles. His heart thumped in his throat.

He tasted blood on his tongue. Squinting through the tears still pooled in his eyes, he plucked one of the coins from the floor and examined it. Then another, they were all the same. Each coin had been minted with the lettering HTS, one token. Owen should have screamed or maybe even cried, but he was laughing again. He laughed and laughed until his stomach cramped with fresh pain. He cupped a handful of the slimy tokens, lifted them, and let them sift between his fingers.

Everything made sense now. How could he be anything but elated? At this moment in his life, the universe had given him the most precious gift he could have asked for. Forget the casino. Forget his wife. Forget Janice. Was he not the richest man in the world?

That night, Owen returned. turned to the pay phone in the gravel parking lot. But this time, his sweatpants pockets swayed with the weight of his new strange currency. He lifted the receiver and dialed the number, bypassing the initial interactive voice response by pressing one. Now he was an existing player. ...to place a new bet. Dial two to modify an existing bet. Dial three to view all currently available bets.

Owen thought for a moment, then dialed three. A modulating chorus of static word somewhere beyond the receiver. Nothing happened. Dial one to place a new bet. Dial two to modify an existing bet. Dial three to view all currently available bets. The fuck? He jammed his.

thumb into the three again, so the tone was like a train horn blasting in his ear. You all bets! Owen punctuated each word with a firm blow of the receiver against the side of the payphone. Each strike made the old metal box sing like a tambourine. He put the receiver back to his ear to see what effect this had had. One to place a new bet. Dial two to modify an existing bet. Dial three to view all currently available bets. Nolan could swear there was a distinct mocking tone to her voice now.

Chest heaving with rage, he was ready to rip the machine from its foundation. He stopped, however, when he noted a phone book tucked into the miniature shelf built into the payphone. He hadn't seen that this morning. In fact, he didn't know they even printed phone books anymore. Dropping the receiver, he snatched the book and flipped it open. His eyes grew wide as he scanned its contents. This was no phone book. It was an odds reference of sorts.

Like a phone book, however, the pages were colored. only this book had many more colors. At the front were the green pages, sports betting. Owen read, hands shaking with excitement. Chiefs versus Rams, angels versus blue jays, Nuggets versus Mavericks, Flames versus Blackhawks, Paul versus Liver King. He flipped further to the blue pages.

Politics. German state elections, Australian municipal elections, South African referenda. He skipped past a large purple middle section that seemed primarily concerned with weather predictions and geological phenomena. Snowfall in St. Petersburg, Russia, temperature highs in Scopia, North Macedonia, hours of sunlight on the island nation of Madagascar. Super boring. As he scanned the pages, though, he noted that the odds got higher and higher as he neared the end of the book.

For example, if he could somehow predict the number of native jaguars in the country of Columbia by the end of the year, he could win far more than if he simply predict. the outcome of an Atlanta Braves game. Owen squeezed his legs together to keep himself from urinating. He couldn't remember the last time he was so excited. Having quickly recognized the pattern, Owen flipped straight to the back of the book.

The Black Pages. These pages were significantly heavier than the others and tended to stick together. Each time he tried to separate them, his fingers came away slick with greasy ink. The letters, he noted, were not printed on the pages. Instead, the text itself was the absence of ink. If he rubbed the words, he could blot out an entire section just by smearing the tarry substance over the page. He stopped on a page near the back.

of the book and read some of the available bets. Number of fatal car crashes in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, average age of victims of gun violence in Moldova, number of deaths due to surgical complications in Laos. He flipped even further and a disgusted smile pulled at the corners of his lips. He read about death tolls from natural disasters, the precise times of terrorist attacks, and their numbers of victims. He found it all very intriguing, but for once he was feeling cautious. He returned to the sports section and thumbed the pages until he found Gridiron Football. He had never been a big fan of football, but he knew it.

enough about the NFL to know the Chiefs game would be a gimmy. Patrick Mahomes was the goat, and hadn't he won like five Super Bowls? Owen picked up the receiver and dialed one to place a new bet. At the tone, please place your bet loudly and clearly. August 28th, the Kansas City Chiefs will beat the Los Angeles Rams. 100 tokens. There was a pause before she spoke again. A winning bet pays 120 days, and a losing bet pays nothing.

If this is correct, please insert your tokens now. Owen paused. Had she said days? He shrugged it off and began feeding tokens through the slot. Your bet has been confirmed. Thank you, Owen. We hope to see you again very soon. The line went dead, but he paused before replacing the receiver.

When had he told her his name? There was really no point in thinking about it too much. Besides, he had a bigger issue to deal with. He checked his phone. 1017 p.m. August 24th. That was almost four whole days before the game. The waiting would be insufferable. On his walk home, he wondered how the phone booth would pay him out when he won.

Would it start spitting tokens like an old slot machine, or would it print a ticket like the new digital roulette wheels? He loved that he didn't know. The night of the game, Owen painted his face red and chanted with the crowd on his 72-inch 4-K television. He'd never been to Kansas City, let alone a real football game. But he liked to pretend he was at home in his decade's old tradition of beating the drum and howling. He booed as the Rams took the field and almost teared up when the fireworks. slid up the sky during the national anthem.

When it came to winning, there was no bandwagon Owen wouldn't jump on. For him, gambling was the salt that made life palatable. He was just settling into his spot on the couch with a fresh beer and a bag of salt and vinegar chips when they displayed the chief's starting offense. His stomach dropped No, that couldn't be right Hot, itchy sweat Percolated to his scalp

As he read the player's names in disbelief Carson Wince As quarterback? He clawed for the remote Raised the volume on the TV As if it might help him understand Who the fuck is car He was Mince?

And where's Mahal... He was cut off as the announcer introduced himself and the color commentator. For this exciting preseason matchup between two heavyweight teams and the Chiefs and the Rams. The camera cut to the sideline and zoomed in on Patrick Mahomes. He was wearing a chief's sweater and cap, no helmet or pads in sight. Rams head coach Sean McVeigh's not messing Rams. He's playing his storders. Owen shook his head, wide-eyed in disbelief.

He is one way to put it, but we know this is all part of that winning mindset we've been hearing so much about through the off-season. Because for McVeigh on these Rams, a wins, a win. We heard it today before the game from offensive coordinator Mike LaFleur. They're approaching every week this season like it's the playoffs. Oh, God damn it! Pre-season? Who the fuck watches the pre-season? Regardless, with players of this caliber on the field,

you'd have to be mad to miss this pre-season contest. Owen was back in the gravel parking lot before he ever learned that the Kansas City Chief's practice squad had lost in a 30-to-nothing blowout to the Rams. His solemn brow furled cracks into the cheap red. face paint he hadn't cared to wash off, as he manically hammered numbers into the payphone's dial pad. He already knew he had lost the bet. He didn't need to check. What he needed now, more than anything, is to place another. You're pleased to welcome you to the Hades Telegambling

Service. To begin, please tell us how many tokens you would like to purchase. Two thousand tokens. He was rabid with desire. Every passing second was misery. He knew there were other games that he could bet on that night. He just needed more tokens. Nothing on earth mattered until he got more tokens. Every fiber of his body screamed.

for him to place another bet. Thank you. The operator thanked him, but Owen wasn't finished. He punched in another series of numbers, his fingers flying as if piloted by an unseen force, until he reached the option for new bets. He was already anxiously thumbing the NHL pages of the odds reference book when the operator spoke.

At the tone, please place your bet loudly and clearly. 500 tokens. San Jose Sharks beat the Washington Capitals tonight. There was a moment of agonizing telephone static. Insufficient funds. Please order tokens using the Hades Telegambling Services' main menu. No! Owen's mind spun.

No. I just... displaced my order. I did exactly what you told me to do. Why does every fucking woman lie to me like this? Where the fuck am I toke? As if to answer his question, Owen's stomach lurched and he collapsed to his knees. He dropped the receiver as an unbelievable pain, like a jagged tin can lid passing through his intestines, folded him into the fetal position. He yowled like a cat in heat and dug his nails into the flesh of his abdomen, all while the receiver swinging from the payphone like a pendulum knocked against his head. He spat a mouthful of blood as the wave of pain passed.

Then, hauling himself to his feet by the frame of the payphone, he snatched the swinging receiver and put it to his ear. insufficient thumbs. Please order tokens using the Hades telegambling service's main menu. Suddenly, it all made sense.

He thought back to his first night with the phone booth, remembered the queasy thumping pain that sent him to the bathroom, the prolonged labor that nearly crippled him. He looked down at his stomach,

though the pain had subsided he could still feel something roiling there just below the skin, gurgling and grinding, like a cement mixer. He replaced the receiver gently now, as if afraid to wake whatever monster he just stated in his guts. He checked the time. 5.56 p.m. If he could just get through the next few of the next few hours. hours, it would all be worth it. Then he could place another bet. The walk home took the better

part of an hour. Every few minutes he had to stop, writhe in agony, and hack bloody bile onto the pavement. At one point he collapsed in front of a 7-Eleven and a woman merely sneered and walked around him as if he were no more than a pile of dog shit on the sidewalk. Home at last, he dragged himself to the bathroom and filled the tub with scalding hot water. It turned his skin lobster red as he slid below the steaming surface, but the heat was the only thing that somewhat eased the tectonic pain beneath his skin. The pain came in wave. each time causing him to scream and claw at his belly,

drawing threads of blood into the water as his fingernails broke the skin. He wished he could just birth the god-forsaken mass into the shimmering water beneath his spread legs. But deep down, he knew how this process worked. He knew it wouldn't come out that way. At hour three, the water was cold and pink with blood, his lips and tongue dry from dehydration. With each terrible contraction, he thought about the straight razor he kept in the medicine cabinet. He could give himself a C-section, he thought. Then he could just reach in and pull the damned thing out.

Doctors did it all the time. Splitting his belly open seemed like ecstasy at that moment. The relief would be sublime. He could even call an ambulance before he started, have them on their way to ensure he wouldn't bleed to death. He might even have enough time to hide his tokens before. Another wave of pain, the strongest yet, a galaxy of colors and flavors and flavors.

textures opened up somewhere behind his eyes. It was bleach, then fresh rubber, a mouth full of seawater, Petricor. The pain was everywhere, everything. Pain was the bond holding together each molecule of his body. He had gone blind and deaf, but he could see and hear everything perfectly. It took three minutes to expel the tokens this time. He couldn't breathe while he pumped it through his throat, the smooth muscles working like a python swallowing a deer in reverse. His fingertips and scalp went cold and tingly as the sheer size of the thing pressed against the arteries in his throat and restricted blood flow to his brain.

The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the rubbery texture of the mass pressing past his teeth as it hyper-extended his jaw. Owen came too on the bathroom floor, still blind and panting, ears ringing like a fire alarm. He reached out a searching hand,

for his newest miracle and found it pressed against his ribs. Instinctually, he lifted it from the cold tiles and cradled it against his chest. Five minutes passed, his vision returned, and then he saw it. Tears of pride streamed down his cheeks and mixed with the sweat and blood pooling in his solar plexus. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Using the straight razor from the medicine cabinet, he sliced the thick vascular skin of the sack until it split like a cyst.

The tokens spilled and covered the bathroom tiles. Laughing again, Owen dropped to his stomach and wallowed in them like a hog. His body electric against the blood-warm metal. Who needs a family when you have this? Over the following week, Owen split his time between the payphone and his living-room television. Each bet he made flooded his veins with euphoria. He stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped bathing.

There was only one reality that mattered anymore, and it was found in the gravel parking lot at the payphone. At the same time, however, each bet he made found a novel way to fail him. If he bet on an NHL team, their star center would tear his ACL in the first period. If he tried dog racing, his greyhound would get canine pneumonia. Then a freak tropical storm in Myanmar ruined his chances at predicting the average daily humidity for Napiery. Each loss took something from him, ate at him bit by bit. He realized this fact when he checked his teeth in the mirror one morning and saw he had lost an incisor. Then, stepping on the scale, he noted he had also lost 20 pounds.

He should have been shocked, horrified, but instead, Owen just smiled. If a loss could weaken him like this, he reasoned, then just think what a win could do. He knew that all these changes meant nothing in the end, so long as he had the payphone, so long as he still had tokens jingling in his... He reached a hand into the right front pocket of his jeans. Nothing. He tried the other side, but felt only lint. His heart began to pound into his throat.

Ice water flushed in his veins, darting to the bedroom, he checked the side table, the pockets of jackets in the closet, then ran back to the bathroom to scour the floor. Nothing. They were gone. How the fuck were all the tokens gone already? He needed to calm down. He was hyperventilating.

He could taste blood with each rasping breath. He went to the kitchen, took his pink Floyd fanny pack down from the spice cabinet, and started to roll a joint. A little weed would calm him down. It always did. With his trembling hands, it took him three tries to get it right. By the time he was finished, his sweaty, shaking fingers were caked in the green herb. He stepped out onto the front porch to light it up. But from the first drag, he knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

He coughed with a feeling like fiberglass in his throat. He coughed as if it were the first time he had ever smoked. He coughed until he was left struggling to breathe. His vision faltered as he collapsed to his knees. The joint dropped from his lips. He began burning a hole in his jeans as he lost consciousness. He took up in an ambulance. A neighbor must have called, he thought.

The mask over his mouth and nose pumped cold oxygen deep into his chest, but he felt like he was drowning. At the hospital, orderly's wheeled Owen to the X-ray lab. The doctor having told them, that they needed to determine where all the blood was coming from. Owen had protested, said it was coming from his fucking mouth, but the doctor just smiled and assured him that his wife's medical insurance would cover all the costs.

The results showed a collapsed right lung, scarring comparable to that of an 80-year-old COPD patient and more tumors than Owen cared to count. They could take a biopsy to check for malignancy, the doctor explained, but that would only confirm what was 99% likely to be the case. Owen would have to make an appointment with an oncologist. There was a three-month waiting list, but they would get him on it now. Owen nodded at the right moments and grunted with understanding when it seemed fit,

but his mind was on the payphone. What the doctors didn't realize was the dramatic irony of the whole situation. He alone was the master of his fate. He alone held the marionette handles. His losses got him here. A win would get him out. He just needed one big win, double or nothing. He'd arrive for his follow-up appointment.

in two weeks' time completely cured, and the doctors would look at their paperwork scratching their heads. He would be a miracle. He would interview on daytime TV. He would sell supplements, crash diet courses, and holistic medicine books. It was quite funny, actually, how they were talking to him now as if he weren't the Messiah. He just needed more tokens. Having been discharged from the hospital, Owen took the bus to the pay phone in the gravel parking lot, ignoring the doctor's orders to go straight home and rest. With a gaunt yellow finger, Owen dialed the number and spoke through a throat of glass and phlegm. Thousand tokens.

Everything trembled as he placed his order. His bones creaked against one another like hinges thirsty for oil. He was already imagining the gargantuan, sebaceous mass. He would have to cough up later that night. The crippling stomach aches. The hellish labor. He was perfectly aware it may even kill him. Insufficient funds.

Your available balance is 26 days. To withdraw all remaining funds, press six. He looked at the receiver in disbelief. Twenty-six days. Twenty-six tokens? That was all he had left? There had to be a mistake. But then he saw the state of his trembling hand,

how it cradled the receiver like an atrophied claw. The nail of his index finger had peeled off somewhere between the bus stop and the payphone. The skin covering his purple bulging veins gleamed with the waxy yellow of corn husks in October. He only then realized that he had been using his free hand to keep his jeans from sliding off his skeletal waist. He knew he only had one option. Twenty-six days. He tried to think about all he could accomplish in 26 days. The people he could meet, the loose ends he could tie up,

but saw nothing. Looking to the future seemed as futile as trying to look out of the back of his head. What had he accomplished? in the previous 26 days. It was hard to remember, but he knew he had only succeeded at losing more money, losing more time,

burning more bridges. Who knew where he was at this very moment? Did anybody even care? Now that he thought about it, 26 days was probably more time than he knew what to do with. He was about to press six when he heard a familiar jingling noise and stopped. He reached into his front pockets, searched his coat, but found nothing.

Then, as he once more hoisted his sagging jeans, he heard it again, the sweet, melodic timber of unspent tokens. There were tokens in his past. But where? Owen replaced the receiver and unzipped his jeans. He slid them from his chicken bone legs and began shaking them upside down. A passing mother glanced in Owen's direction before shielding her son's eyes and hurrying along. Then, at last, two silver tokens dropped out from some unseen crevice. Owen threw his pants aside, dropped to his bare knees, and seized the two tokens.

Still in his underwear, Owen redialed the number and slid the odds reference from its shelf. Opening it, he flipped to the very back, the heavily inked pages blackening his sallow fingers. His pupils dilated as he scanned the gruesome possibilities. He trembled with arousal as he considered double-digit death counts. He tasted blood as he made his decision, uttered words dark as shadows, and fed the two tokens through the slot. The operator thanked him as always for playing with Hades telegambling service, and Owen replaced the receiver. He smiled. his shoulders relaxed.

He already knew he had won. This time next week, he would be on the cover of GQ. On his way to Main Broadway station, Owen sat at the back of the train wearing an N95 mask. He buried his eyes in a Mandarin newspaper that he had picked up at Chinatown station

and tried to face away from the surveillance camera. When the train stopped, he folded the paper, laid it on his seat, and limped through the automatic sliding doors onto the platform. In a few minutes, the rush hour trains on the commuter lines would start pouring meat into the heart of downtown. Owen checked for the cold handle in his pocket and smiled. What would he choose as a pseudonym, he wondered. All the greats had one, and Owen just wasn't it. He glanced at the digital departure board. Only one minute now.

He could hear the squeal of metal wheels on metal tracks. Thirty seconds now. He could see the blood tubes careening toward the station. It was Showtime. Owen posted himself at the foot of the escalators, the choke point of the station, and gripped the cold handle in his pocket. As the train doors split open, he unfolded the blade of the straight razor, the one he kept in the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink. And waited, was he not the richest man in the world? Our stories sink beneath the waves.

We claw our way back onto dry land. Join us again next time when we plunge into the chilling depths where water hides its darkest secrets. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical scores are composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornett, and Claudius Moore. Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McAnally,

Ollie A. White, and Kristen Samito. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror, stories from us, just visit sleepless. The nosleeppodcast.com to learn about the sleepless universe. Add free extended episodes each week and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking the plunge into our

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