a plan now,” continued Ben. “I’d like to sponsor one amateur football club, New Eltham Blazers FC. My nephew plays for them. They are in Kent League now, and I’d like to help them get promoted to a higher league and go as far as possible in English FA Cup. That is my nephew’s dream – to play versus Premiership team. Where else can he do it with his club if not in FA Cup?”
“Unbelievable! 80 grand in two weeks?!”
“It all started by mistake,” replied Ben, starting a new cigar. “I wanted to place a bet with £10 stake, but since I was rushing, I typed ‘100’ instead of ‘10’ and hit ‘Place bet’ button. Odd for Costa Rica to win was already 26 since it was already 60th minute of the match, the score was 0—1, they were one goal behind, but I thought they had some chances to win. 26 was an attractive odd to bet on, considering the character of the game. I liked them, really. Just an underdog team, but they played with passion! I enjoyed the match. It’s like a strike of intuition, you know what I mean? Oh God, I got so nervous first, but after the equalizer, I calmed down a lot.”
“It’s like winning a lottery! Very lucky of you, Ben! Don’t bet again, keep some money! Take Laura to Florida or Hawaii…” advised Bruce.
“Well, I knew one guy who made his living on bets,” said Chris. “We studied together at business school and I used to meet him at Finance lectures. Really smart guy, analytical mind. I remember he won 5—6 grand once. We played football together for our business school team, a few times. I lost any connections with him after that semester, and I heard he ended up in a mental hospital being totally broke. What was his name – John, James? I mean that is not so unlikely to make living on bets and gambling.”
All evening they shared the wonderful stories of lucky bets they or their friends once made. Finally, they ended up talking about girls, and Chris felt like it’s time to go home.
“Okay, guys, tomorrow is Monday. It’s time to go to bed, kids.”
“Oh come on, grow up, man! It’s 10pm only! All fun is just beginning! Look at those chicas, man! I bet, in an hour there will be a dozen of them!” argued Neil. “Come on, we have money now!” added he, smiling.
“Neil, my dear friend, you can stay here as long as you wish, but I’m definitely going home!” replied Chris.
“Yeah, dear Chris is going home to clean teeth, jerk off, and sleep!” laughed Neil.
“I will drive you home, guys,” said Bruce. “Don’t worry, I am not too drunk.”
They got in the car and drove the night streets of Wandsworth. For them, streets looked great tonight. Gorgeous young girl in a miniskirt was standing alone at the bus stop.
“O-o-o-o-o-oh!” shouted Neil when he saw her. “I love her legs! Look at these legs!”
“Wow! Fuck, yeah! Fuck me, baby! Please, fuck me, please! Yee-haw!” Now everybody, except Bruce, was staring at the poor girl.
“What? Where?” asked Bruce, as he seemed to be concentrating all his attention on his driving.
“We have to come back! I wanna see it again! Turn left, Bruce! Turn left! U-turn!” shouted Neil.
Bruce readily U-turned. He drove back to the bus stop. Indeed, the girl was gorgeous.
“Oh, yes, baby, do it for me. I’m so horny tonight!” said Neil in the tone of fake excitement and dropped his pants, pretending as if he was going to jerk off in a backseat, making Chris who was sitting next to him, burst into laughter.
Ben turned back to see what’s going on in a backseat. “Oh, come on, stop it,” he smiled.
“Shit, it’s just a pussy belt! What a hot chica!” said Bruce, while driving to the bus stop.
Then he U-turned again coming back to his normal route. Neil prepared his mobile phone to shoot the picture of the girl and opened the car window.
“Look at me, sweetheart!” shouted he.
The girl looked at them embarrassedly and turned her back.
“Come on, Neil, go and get her number!” said Ben.
“Me? No way!”
“Oh, come on, Neil, this ‘Slovenian supermodel’ is dying to see you, man!” said Chris. “Bruce, stop the car!”
Chris pretended to push Neil out of the car, but he desperately wanted to stay in. This caused another burst of laughter because now Neil looked like a chicken.
“Okay, let’s go. I’m afraid we never get home if we continue,” said Bruce.
“I don’t mind to continue this night with the girl, man!” laughed Chris.
“Okay, maybe next time, guys. If I make some more money, I’ll take you to massage saloon with ‘happy ending’. I know one place in Ealing. But be careful, don’t say anything if Laura is around,” said Ben.
“Oh yeah! Little Benny’s grown up!” laughed Neil and said with a lady’s voice: “Hello, this is Happy Ending Paradise. Can I talk to Mister Ben regarding his order? Our models cannot wait to see him again!”
Ben laughed and turned to Neil, pretending like he is going to punch him.
“Okay, okay, I’m just kidding!” shouted Neil, protecting himself.
Bruce increased the volume of the radio. “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful / beautiful, it’s true” was the song.
“I saw your face in a crowded place.” Guys started to sing too. “And I don’t know what to do/ “Cause I’ll never be with you.”
Three years earlier. London riots, Monday, August 8, 2011
“Hi, man! How was your job interview?” asked Mike. John was sitting in a kitchen and having his five o’clock tea.
“Another waste of time, and money,” replied John sadly. “Three hours of my precious life and effort are spent for nothing.”
“Was it that bad, mate?”
“Well, thing is, they don’t hire people at all. All they want is you to invest money in stock trading, and then you can either trade by yourself or appoint them to manage your account and trade on your behalf. Plus, there are no guarantees your money will be safe since it’s a high-risk business, and there is no fixed salary except commissions. A few years ago I worked as a FOREX trader so I know this shit. That’s not what I am looking for.”
Mike and John were roommates who shared a two-bed room flat in Tooting, a small town in South West London. Both were students – Mike was pursuing a Bachelors degree in Social Studies, and John was attending a business school for a Masters degree in Business Administration or “MBA” for short. They were good friends; both loved football and had many common topics to converse on. Mike was a 20-year old British citizen with Jamaican roots, and John, 28-year old, was from Russia. John’s real name was “Ivan” but he preferred when people called him “John” as he wanted to look like British.
“Hey, John, what the ‘MBA’ stands for? Managing the banks and accounts?” Mike asked him once.
“Nope, but you’re close. I’d say it stands for ‘Master of Being an Asshole’, ” laughed John.
“How is that?” laughed Mike too.
“Well,