The Last Person You Want to Meet on New Year's Eve

This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. March gives us a reason to pause and acknowledge the women in our lives and everything they carry at work, in relationships, in families, and in roles that often go unseen. Women are constantly holding things together for everyone else. That emotional labor adds up. This month, it's worth recognizing the women who show up day after day, mothers, sisters, partners, friends, and reminding them that they matter too. Therapy can be a space to step out of expectations, reflect on what you're carrying, and focus on your own well-being. It's not about fixing something that's broken. It's about creating balance, learning boundaries, and having support while you navigate life. BetterHelp connects you with licensed therapists and does the matching work upfront so you can focus on what you want to work on. With the ability to switch therapists if needed, support is flexible and built around you. Emotional well-being matters. Find support and feel lighter in therapy. Sign up and get 10% off at BetterHelp.com slash DNS. That's better H-E-L-P dot com slash DNS. Peace, it's time to end with a gap. Another morning, another reminder there's a gap to be careful of. But maybe it's time to bridge the one between your nine to five and your dream of living life on your own terms. At HSBC, we know ambition looks different to everyone. Whether it's retiring early or leaving more for your family, we can help. Because when it comes to unlocking your money's potential, we know wealth. Search HSBC wealth today, HSBC UK, opening up a world of opportunity, HSBC UK current account holders only. The cherry umber glows brightly as I slowly turn this cigarette between my fingers, watching the brand name come and go. I stop turning and take a drag. My eyes cast down at the table, studying the condensation pool around my beer mug that slowly spreads wider and wider. The old man sitting next to me in the booth coughs, then sighs. Under the corner of my eye, I watch him lift the shot glass, his hand shaking so much that he almost spills it. Pros! He downs the shot. I don't even ask him. I just reach for the bottle and pour him another. He doesn't thank me. He doesn't even say a word. Just wraps his fingers around the shot glass again and waits. I have no idea what he waits for. But he does. He goes down the shot in one second, or take half an hour before he lifts it to his shriveled lips with that shriveled hand of his. I don't know. A group of young men over in the bar's corner, cheer loudly, as they watch some game with some team playing some sport. I'd probably know what's going on if I wanted to pay attention. There are only so many sporting events on New Year's Eve. It's a loot. You have to take the shot. I nod in my chin at the shot glass, still gripped between the old man's fingers, still sitting on the table. He grunts, then farts. Cute! I sip my beer. The pooling condensation no longer constrained by the glass's form, spreads even faster until I splash the glass back down into it, sending tendrils shooting this way in that. The cute waitress swings by our table with the tray of empty glasses and beer bottles in hand. St. Por? Yes, please. She eyes the bottle of whiskey in front of the old man, then raises an eyebrow at me. Might as well. I glance at the watch on my wrist. Still got a couple of hours until midnight. She eyes the watch. Most people do. It's an antique and stands out. When she looks at me, leans in and quietly says, you're sure he should have another? That'd be the third bottle since you got here. He couldn't make it? No, he's not. I gulp the last of my beer and set the empty mug on her tray. But that's the point, right? The cute waitress frowns, then shrugs. Just so long as he's your problem in that mine, she walks off. Be right back with the beer and bottle. Thanks. Just so long as he's your problem. Yeah, she has no idea. Who else's problem could he be? No one's. That's who. The drunk and flatulent senior citizen beside me has been, and always will be my problem. Some say until the end of time. But I don't know about that. If I've learned one thing from this existence, it's that nothing lasts forever. Or that's what I tell myself at least. The younger men cheer again, and someone shouts for them to pipe down. The regulars are getting rowdy as the night progresses. The young men, definitely not regulars by the way they are dressed and act. Ignore the rest of the bar like it doesn't matter. For now, at least. I can already smell the potential for conflict rising in the bar's stale and smoky air. I take another drag off my cigarette and put it out. Here you go. The cute waitress delivers my sixth beer and the old man's third bottle of whiskey. Your boys have fun. She glances over at the out of place young men. Not too much fun though. I got enough on my hands. She walks off heading their way. And I watch her steal herself for the interaction with the cheering table. The old man downs a shot. Right back at your belt. I raise my glass and sip off the foam for my beer. Right back at you. The young men don't give the cute waitress too much trouble. They tease her some. For sure, look her up and down from her long legs and tight jeans to her perky tits in a too small tee. But mostly bother themselves with ordering their next round and getting back to watching the game. The cute waitress is visibly happy to be away from them and heading to the bar to put the order in with the bartender, who has been busy chatting up a tall blonde all night and getting nowhere fast. The regulars have calmed down and are back to their conversations and worries and misery. The old man sitting next to me farts again. Jesus Christ old man, what have you been eating? I say the words, even though I already know the answer. But when he says it out loud, I can't help but flinch. Time. The old man manages to pour himself another shot. Yeah, sure. There are two shots worth of whiskey spilled around the shot glass, but it's the effort that counts. It's always the effort that counts. That's what I tell myself. The young men explode into shouts and booze and curses. One of them throws an empty beer bottle at the TV screen, which gets the bartender's iron immediately. The young men roll their eyes and wave them off. Their attention fully on the TV screen that now has beer dripping down it. At least the bottle didn't crack the screen. The idiots would have really lost their shit if that had happened. If it was their fault, come by! The old man downs another shot. I've always lost track of how many ways he can say cheers. It's like he's absorbed the phrase in every language known to man. Possibly even languages not known to man. Eventually, I suspect he'll start glowing and say it using light waves. Weirder shit has happened. The old man farts again, but unfortunately for me, it doesn't. The old man stopped there. Oh, come on! I clamp my hand over my nose. Really? The old man shrugs and reaches for his shot glass, but it's empty. Let's go get you cleaned up before you have another. I scoot out of the booth. The smell is horrific. Come on old man, get up! As I grab a large diaper bag from the other side of the booth, the old man slowly slides across the side, leaving a wet smear in his wake. At least the booth's material looks like plastic and not real leather, like a place like this would have real leather booths anyway. I avoid all eyes turned our way as I walk the old man toward the restrooms. Unfortunately, we have to pass by the rowdy youngsters. Holy crap! What does that smell? The young man instantly start rousing each other about who farted when one of them locks onto me and the old man. Considering the stain spreading from his bottom and down his jean's legs, it's not hard to put the pieces together, even for these drunken fools. Dude, hey dude! Did your grandpa shit himself? What the hell man? People are trying to enjoy themselves here. Yeah, yeah. You do that. Enjoy yourselves. I keep steering the old man closer to the restrooms. Sorry about the smell. The old man stops in his tracks and I know from his body language that I won't be able to move him until this is done. This isn't going to go well. Daniel Marsh, you will die in the next year. A horrible car crash. Your head will be severed from your body and land in the gutter. Your family will know only shame because of your drinking and carelessness. Your family will know only grief as they mourn the loss of a child. A child, you will have killed. The old man turns and stares at the group of young men, one of whom is moving forward. Fist's bald. Put the drink down now and all can be salvaged, Daniel Marsh. The angry, fist bald young man reaches us, spitting mad. How the hell does crap know my name? Huh? Who the hell are you old man? He's not well. I look down at the stain on the old man's jeans and hope a little sympathy lives inside the young man's soul. I need to clean him up. Sorry for any offense? Yeah, you'll clean him up. But you are also going to tell me how he knew my name. The young man is snarling, trying to reach past me, trying to grab the old man. Hey, old man, tell me. That's as far as he gets. I grab his arm and twist it so hard that I spin him around, kicking him in the back of his knees. I send him to the ground. His arm up so high on his back that he's already crying and whimpering for me to stop. I lean down and whisper in the young man's ear. Try to touch him again and I will rip your arm off and shove it up your ass. Are we understood? The young man's wines get a little louder and I take that as a yes. Then I look up and stare at his buddies, challenging them to come for me. As much as I absolutely abhor violence, it's been a year and my patience has worn then. Please, please, please stop. I let go of his arm and shove him away. A couple of his pals rush forward and catch him before he falls on his face. They help him to his feet and over to a bar stool. Anyone else care to try to pick on an elderly man? They don't respond and just stare. Good? Now, excuse us. Without over, I get the old man back on track and I lead him to the restroom. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving quince lately. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design without the luxury markup. I picked up one of their linen shirts and immediately noticed the quality. Light, comfortable and not flimsy like cheaper linen. The shoes were the same deal. Clean look, super comfortable and they feel like something that should cost a lot more. They work directly with top factories, cut out the middlemen and focus on premium materials that actually last. No flashy branding, just well made apparel that gets the job done. Right now, go to quince.com slash DNS for free shipping and 365 day returns. That's a full year to build your wardrobe and love it. And you will. Now available in Canada too. Don't keep settling for clothes that don't last. Go to cuince.com slash DNS for free shipping and 365 day returns. It's quince.com slash DNS. I'd already scooped the facilities when we first got here. It's a habit I've learned over the many, many, many years I've been doing this job. Especially on New Year's Eve when things can get messy. Luckily, this men's room has two full stalls, one of which is for handicapped access, giving me plenty of room to get the old man cleaned up. I spread out my plastic mat on the restroom floor, pull out the wipes and diapers, and gently guide the old man onto the mat. Stay still, will ya? I'm not sure he hears me. Spitting predictions like that takes its toll. And in his weakened state, I'm lucky he's still conscious. Although unconscious wouldn't be horrible. Maybe he'll pass out when we get back to the booth. For now, I need him semi awake and cooperative. With experienced precision, I get him cleaned up, dressing him in a clean pair of khakis and fresh boxers. No need for a new shirt. Luckily, he didn't get crap on that. I throw the soiled clothes in the trash, shoving them down deep, hoping the stink stays put in the can. Once we're back out on the bar, I steer clear of the young men, even though not a one of them looks our way. They got the message. And it looks like I'm about to get a message of my own from the way the cute waitress has her hands on her hips and is standing right next to our booth. I'll clean it all up if you can get me a rag and a bucket of bleach water. My words cut her off as she points at the smear in the booth. Her mouth opening and ready to lay into me. Her mouth closes, opens, closes, opens. He shouldn't be here. This is elder abuse. I should call the cops on you. I don't care if you're his grandson or what. This ain't right. Take him home for God's sake. I'm not his grandson. I'm the caretaker. You're the caretaker? Since when is it a good idea to bring an old man with bowel issues to a bar so he can drink himself to death? That doesn't sound like caretaking to me. She jabs a finger at the whiskey bottle. I've watched men a quarter of his age die from that much drink. We need to get him home and start doing your damn job. I am doing my job. We can't go home. It's New Year's Eve. Tomorrow will be different. But tonight we have to be out amongst the people. It's how it works. How what works? And what accent is that? An old accent. The cute waitress has good ears. Most people don't pick up on my accent. No matter the country we're in. Listen. Please don't kick us out. I glance at the bar's door. Not tonight. This is where he wanted to be. So this is where we need to be. I can't explain. But kicking us out will be disastrous. He shit his pants and the booth. I know, I know. I'll clean it up. And you nearly broke a customer's arm. Well, true. But you should thank me for that one. They were only going to get worse as the night went on. I kind of put the brakes on that at least. She watches me, studies me. Then she watches the old man, studies him. He's leaning heavily on me. And if I were to step away, he'd probably collapse into a pile of wrinkled flesh and old bones. Fine. Whatever. But I want you to settle up your tab now. I'll start a new one. But I'm not getting stiff on three bottles of whiskey in six beers if I change my mind and have to boot your asses. I get it. That's totally fair. I pull out my wallet and fish out $300 bills. Then hand them to her. For the tab in anything else we order, I pull another hundred out. And for your trouble. Well, and for a rag and a bucket of bleach water. Jesus, put that away. The cute waitress steps toward me, shoving my wallet down close to my leg. This ain't that nice and area of town you hear? Yeah, sure. I'm not worried. The last person who tried to mug me ended up mostly bits and pieces in the gutter. But I nod and smile at the cute waitress. Thanks for the advice. I'll be careful. The cute waitress shakes her head. Then takes a deep breath as she looks at the wad of cash in her hand. She tucks the bills into her short apron and purses her lips at me. I'll be back with the rag and bucket. Try to keep them from making another mess, will you? That's always the goal. She walks off and I steer the old man into the seat on the other side of the booth. The clean side. The waitress doesn't say a word to me when she returns. It hands me a small bucket, reeking of chlorine and an old semi-clean rag. I nod thanks and she hurries off to tend to the rest of the customers. Huyum! The old man downs a shot as I clean up his mess. Done. I toss this soiled rag into the soiled bleach water and lock the bucket up to the bar. The bar tender points toward the restrooms. Don't be it in there, toss the rag. We don't want that back. I can't leave him alone. I nod at the old man who was managed to refill his shot glass again. I can't hear what he says as he lifts it and gulps the whiskey down. He'll be fine. I'll keep an eye on him. He's lying and we both know it. But if I make any more trouble, they'll kick us out. And according to the old man, this is the place we have to be when the clock strikes midnight. He's never wrong. And being the caretaker, it's my job to watch over him. Not second-guess him. I'll be right back. I hurry off to the restrooms, toss the rag in the trash, dump the water in a toilet, wash my hands with water barely above freezing, then race back out to the bar. A man is sitting across from the old man in the booth. He sees me stomping toward him and gives me a wide smile. Your grandpa hears a little out of it. Not my grandpa. I looked the guy up and down and instantly know his game. Dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a baseball cap turned around backwards. The guy passes for any normal bar patron. But I see how his sleeves are pulled all the way up to his wrists. And how he has a light sheen of sweat on his upper lip. There's a desperation in his eyes that I quickly recognize. Not dimension of incoming withdrawal. I wouldn't sit there if I were you. I scoot in next to the old man on the cleaner side of the booth. I give the obvious junkie my hardest smile. And this is a private occasion if you don't mind. Private? The junkie looks about the bar. There are like 20 people in here. Any private man? I said private. Not alone. My hard smile gets harder. The corners of his mouth twitch up into a grin as he tries to match me. He fails. And his mouth collapses into a frown. He glances about. Then leans across the table. This man. I saw you got some dough on you. If you're looking to party, I know who to call. Get you anything you want. Black, dark, Mexican brown, even that China white. No fentanyl or promise. My connect is clean, man. Like a goddamn whistle. The junkie leans back like he's just told us the greatest news ever and expects to be congratulated. But good clean fun, ain't cheap, if you know what I mean. I do know what you mean, but we'll pass. I look at the bar and both the cute waitress and bartender are watching this scene closely. It's my turn to lean across the table. I lock eyes with the junkie. We don't want any trouble. We are here to drink until the clock strikes midnight. Then we're gone. I pull out my wallet and take a hundred dollar bill from it. I slide the bill across the table to the junkie. Take this and go away. The junkie stares down at the hundred, then looks back up and snares at me. Make it too and you got a deal. I take the hundred back. But before I can pick it up off the table, the junkie's hand slaps down on mine. Hold on now. I was just playing with you. The one bill will do just fine, man. Thanks. Oscar Pal. You will not make it to midnight. Your fate is to die alone in an alley next to a corpse. No amount of money will save you. No amount will save the corpse. Your time is up. Oscar Pal. The old man stopped speaking and raises his shot glass. I didn't even see him fill it. To you, Oscar Pal, and your short existence. The old man downs the shot and slams the glass on the table, making a few heads turn. What the shit was that? How did he know my name? I ignore his question. Our hands are still clamped over the bill. One hundred. Take it or leave it. Who the hell are you people? What did he mean I died a night? You can't just see that to someone, man. I did advise you to leave the hundred. I don't think taking it will turn out well for you. I cocked my head at the old man. He's never wrong. He knows when everyone's time is up. Screw you, man! The junkie lifts his hand. I lift mine. He snatches the hundred off the table and scoots out of the booth like his ass is on fire. Which it's not. There's too much of a wet spot from the bleach water for his ass to catch flame. I watch the junkie shuffle quickly to the door and out of the bar as fast as his dope sick legs can carry him. You gotta stop doing that. The old man grunts and refills his glass, but doesn't take the shot. Not yet. The cute waitress walks up to the table. That was close. He stitched latches on until he sucked someone drive everything they've got. Oscar Powell is a dead man walking. The old man lifts the shot glass. Come be! He downs the shot. The cute waitress takes a step back. Oscar Powell? Is that Stitch's name? I never knew that. Me neither. I look at my wrist. My antique watch says it's 30 minutes until midnight. Thank God. Although after midnight, things aren't exactly going to get easier. Just different. Another beer? The cute waitress asks this while eyeing the old man carefully. Yes, please. And do you have anything to eat? Her eyebrows raise. Popcorn machine is in the corner. Help yourself. I look over and see an old theater popcorn popper sitting idle and cold. Before I can protest, she laughs. I'm messing with you. That hasn't worked in years. Since 2019, it died at 6 o'clock on a Sunday. What the hell? The cute waitress shakes her head. Your grandpa is freaking me out, man. He's not my grandpa. Brat, right. You're just this caretaker. I'm the caretaker. I snore to sad laugh. I haven't been just anything in a long, long time. Okay. The caretaker. We have bags of chips and beef jerky at the bar. You want some? You want jerky as your last meal, old man? He shrugs. I've had worse. No shit. We both have. Yeah. Two bags of jerky and some chips would be great. I smile at the cute waitress, just as the bar's door opens and a gaggle of drunk, middle-aged women stumble in. There have to be over a dozen of them, all dressed in sparkly blouses and two tight pants. And might as well bring a picture of beer. Looks like you're gonna be busy. Ah, are you kidding me? The cute waitress grabs my wrist and looks at my watch. So close. I thought the idiot boys were going to be in my only hassle. She's hurrying off to the bar before I can confirm I'm getting that picture. I check out the whiskey bottle, which is half empty. But I decide that I'm not going there. Beer, I can handle. Whiskey will be a little too much considering what the rest of the night has in store for me. Hey, ain't you cute? The woman in a silver shimmery blouse and black shimmery pants stumbles up to the table. She has a headband on with a broken spring pointing out at the top. Whatever had been on the spring has been lost to the night's festivities. The woman leans hard against our table and smiles at my wrist. Nice watch! My husband has a Rolex. She leans over, letting her blouse hang loose so I get a good view of her cleavage. Not that I'm married. Tonight at least. What's your name, handsome? His name is caretaker. And he does not have time for you. The old man lifts his shot glass. Bruce! He downs it and slams the glass on the table. Well, grandpa knows how to party. What about you, handsome? You want to maybe step into the bathroom and have some fun? She pulls a small vial out of her cleavage. I'm surprised I didn't notice it. She shakes the vial in my face. A little bump up the nose. Her other hand is suddenly under the table and on my thigh. And some bumping grind after. What do you say? I gently remove her hand from my thigh. Thank you. But I'll have to pass. I need to watch over my friend. She smirks and nods. Yeah. Well, maybe your friend will fall asleep soon. And you and I can have some adult time together. Sure. Maybe. There's no chance in hell any of that will happen. But I hate to be rude. Elizabeth Katsaurus. You should go home. Go now. And your husband, Anthony Katsaurus, will survive another year. Stay here. And he will die with his penis in the babysitter. What did he just say? The woman's voice is low and full of emotion. Stay. And when you arrive home tonight, your husband will be dead. The babysitter, Melissa Charles, will die in June when you see her crossing the street and finally snap. You will run her down with your Mercedes-Benz, leaving your children to the foster system while you rot and prison the rest of your miserable life. Hey, asshole. You don't talk about my kids. She shoves the small vile back between her breasts. Screw you, freaks. By Anthony would never cheat. She storms off, shouting at her friends. They all glare at the old man and me. But I ignore them and turn to my ward. At least she didn't ask how you knew all their names. Thanks for getting rid of her. The old man shrugs. His eyes shift to the angry gaggle of drunk women. A small, quiet wine catches in his throat. F will die in the next two years. Cervical cancer, breast cancer, heart attacks, homicide. You're really a joy to be around on new years. What the hell did he say to them? The cute waitress delivers my pitcher of beer and a fresh glass while tossing a couple of bags of chips and jerky on the table. I'm not hungry anymore. And the old man doesn't even glance at the food. You poke the Karen Hornets nest with whatever you said. Sorry. I can't control what comes out of his mouth. You could control what goes in though. The old man does two shots in a row. No salutes though, which means we're getting close. I can't control anything he does. I'm the caretaker, not his warden. My job is to get him from one stage to the next. That is all. If the next stage is impugng everywhere while he pisses and craps himself, can you take him outside first? Don't worry. By the time he gets to the puking and pissing and crapping himself part, which will probably happen all at once, he won't be as much of a handful. Keep guys are weird. I'm glad you're paid up. She's off and circling the bar, picking up empties and taking orders. I pour my beer, then look at my watch. Ten until midnight. I fetch the diaper bag at my feet and set it on the table. What do you think? I dig through the bag. You want dinosaurs or puppy dogs? The old man shrugs. Don't matter. It does matter because you cried for three hours straight last year until I put you in puppy dogs. And there's your answer. I swear, if you throw a fit when I put you in the puppy dog one, I'll leave you here. He laughs. Now you won't care, takeer. You will never leave me. You never know. There's a first time for everything. He focuses on me. And I see his eyes clear for a moment. Care, takeer. You and I will never part. And you know that. I cannot see your demise anymore than I can see my own. Which means it does not happen. We are together forever. He smarks. At least until the end of time. You think that will ever come? His eyes lose focus. And he goes back to staring at the whiskey bottle. Everything arrives at some point. He pours another shot. That is the trouble with an entropic existence. Oh crap. He's using big words now. I look at my watch. I'm not surprised to see that there were only five minutes until midnight. I piece it his. I pull out his pajamas plus a fresh diaper. I set them on the cleanest part of the table. Oh, what nurse? The old man downs his shot. My soul for a wet nurse. Yeah, well, those went out of fashion a few centuries ago. I say and double check the contents of the diaper bag to make sure I have everything. And we don't have souls. Don't we? If not, then why does it hurt so much? He has a point. But I'm not going to get into it with him. Not tonight, not right now. The gaggle of drunk women makes their way over to the table of young men. Whatever game it was is over now. On the TV screen is a scene from Times Square. We lived there for one year, not in Times Square itself, but in New York City. That was a mess of a year to say the least. Cougars found their prey. The cute waitress says this out of the corner of her mouth as she passes our table. And she's not wrong. Hands with expensive jewelry are all over the shoulders and backs and chests of the young men. And they don't seem to mind. This a Jackson will have an orgasm while on top of the Thaddeus Cornell and die from a massive coronary at exactly 3.46 in the morning. I study the group. Which one is Elissa Jackson? Does it matter? I suppose not. I sit my beer. Not a bad way to go though. It will be her happiest moment. Her husband hasn't given her an orgasm in 6 years. You have no idea how happy I am that I don't have that shit in my head. Lucky you. The old man downs one. Two, three more shots. For all Langzai in my dears. Then the countdown begins as everyone in the bar starts shouting. Ten. I finish my beer and pour another. Then I smile at the old man. Let's get you situated a little better, okay? Nine. Sit with your back to the wall, will you? He shuffles in the seat. And I reach down and grab his knees, helping him adjust so his back is against the wall and his legs are across the bench seat. Hey! I hold up the pajamas. Are you sure you want puppies? We'll find out. Seven. Passhole. Back at ya. Six. I set the pajamas on the table, making sure to keep them away from the dribbles of whiskey and beer condensation. Puppies are dinosaurs. If the pajamas are wet, I'll have hell on my hands. Five. Any last words before another year is upon us? Four. The old man grins as his lids droop and his eyes close. Less spicy food this time. Three. I laugh. Like I can control what you eat. You're a nightmare to feed. Two. He shrugs as his chin hits his chest. He's no longer breathing. One. Hey! The cute waitress spins me about and grabs my face. This is for the big tip. Happy new year! The cute waitress kisses me hard, then pulls away fast. But you don't expect anything else, alright? Even if I get off it too, and the whale of a newborn baby splits through the cheering and laughing and kissing and hugging. Everyone looks about. Stunned. The middle-aged group. Moms all of them. All sober up fast. Their glitter-shaded eyes hunting for the noise as instincts kick in. The young men just look disappointed. As the cute waitress looks past me and into the booth, I turn and grab the small footy pajamas with the puppy dogs on them. I also grab the diaper, then I lean into the booth and untangle the squirming infant from the old man's clothes. Hey you! I grin big as I hold him up. Welcome to your new year! A little bastard pees all over me as the entire bar stares. Every damn year! I smile at the cute, yet stunned and speechless waitress as the squirming infant whales. Can I get another rag please? Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed this story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one. Betwaker Sino, stake 20 pounds and get 150 free spins for new customers. 18 plus TizenC's apply, bet the responsible way gambleaware.org.