06/01/2025
😂😂
“Se Fue Todo, Compadre: One Man’s Fall from Riches to Ridículo at the Lucky Eagle”
By JGL
EAGLE PASS, TX – Mira, it started innocent. Just you, $100 cash, and a dream bigger than the line at Peter Piper on a Sunday. You walked into the Kickapoo Lucky Eagle Casino with the confidence of a guy who’s watched three TikToks on manifesting abundance and now thinks he’s a financial shaman.
You weren’t dressed for war, but you looked like it: gold chain, H-E-B cologne, and your lucky La Pulga boots—slightly scuffed but blessed by three quinceañeras and a bachelorette party in Laredo.
You found your machine—El Bueno. Bright lights, a wolf howling, eagles flying, and some weird Aztec font that screamed “Vas a ganar, primo.”
First spin—¡PUM!—$40. Second spin—¡PA’ SU MECHA!—another $80. You’re hot, compadre. HOT. You stand up, slap the screen, yell “¡VÁMONOS!” so loud even security flinched. You call your cousin, tell him to put the brisket on—this is gonna be a celebration.
The money keeps piling. $800. $1,500. You’re already planning a trip to Vegas, or at least the tianguis in San Antonio. You whisper to the machine, “Eres mi viejita,” and give it a gentle pat like it’s your grandma’s Nissan Sentra.
Your comadre walks by and says, “Mijo, cash out. Go home. Buy tires or pay CPS or algo.”
But no, bro. You’re on a mission divina. You didn’t come here for small wins. You came here to rewrite your tax bracket.
Then…
The machine turns. Like your Tía Lupe when she runs out of Michelob Ultras.
Spin. Lose. Spin. Lose. “Error.” “Try again.” Now it’s mocking you. The wolves on screen start looking sarcastic. One of them winks like, “Ya valiste.”
You go to the ATM—three times. Each time swearing it’s the last. The machine asks, “Do you accept this fee?” and you press “Yes” with tears in your eyes like a toxic relationship. You don’t even look at your bank balance. You just whisper, “Diosito, hazme el paro.”
Suddenly it’s 5:06 a.m. You’re standing in the sad little café area, sipping a casino coffee with five creams and two sugars—liquid diabetes in a paper cup. You’re shaking, not from caffeine, but from spiritual bankruptcy.
You stare into the distance like a man who saw his future and it’s working overtime at AutoZone.
You tell yourself, “It wasn’t really my money. It was for bills. I wasn’t supposed to even use it. This is a lección. God wanted this for me.” Then you say, “Next time I’ll just bring $40… and my mom.”
Then comes la caminata del shame—a 12-mile drive back into Eagle Pass with the AC blasting and your soul freezing. You curse. You cry. You talk to yourself like a telenovela villain:
“¿Por qué? ¿POR QUÉ, MÁQUINA MALDITA?”
Your cousin texts: “How much you win?”
You reply with silence and a crying emoji.
Your comadre texts: “Told you, menso.”
You block her.
You get home as the sun comes up. You sit in your car, door open, birds chirping, and you whisper,
“I’m never going back.”
But deep down, you know.
That machine…
She’s still waiting.
Moral of the Story ;;;
ACDC stands for
Ala, Chingada, Dejaste hasta los Chones!!!!
