Predictive Analytics

... professional football tournaments. The concept: Predictive analytics models: for team offensive/defensive... a fully functional AI football analytics backbone — from tournament-wide fixture tracking...

... professional football tournaments. The concept: Predictive analytics models: for team offensive/defensive... a fully functional AI football analytics backbone — from tournament-wide fixture tracking...

It's like someone read Foundation and decided that Predictive Psychology should be a very real thing. Thought crime? No, soon we'll be predicting crime that might never happen... we'll judge you off that instead. Good ol analytics

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... are deeply integrated with data analytics, AI automation, community governance, and..., and social media posts - Predictive analytics for token performance marketing -... and token sustainability. ## **Data Analytics & On-Chain Marketing Intelligence** Data-driven... of modern crypto marketing. On-chain analytics provide deeper insights into user...

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I was born in the late 70's, and I have lived long enough to watch this country reinvent itself again and again. I have seen recessions, recoveries, bubbles, crashes, layoffs, booms, and every version of political promise. I have watched wages freeze while the cost of staying alive climbed like a rope someone kept pulling higher out of reach. Today, in 2026, I am watching something different. Something deeper. Something that cannot be explained away with headlines or talking points. The numbers coming out of Moody’s Analytics are not predictions. They are confirmation of what millions of Americans already feel in their bones every time they open their fridge or check their bank balance or walk into a grocery store. https://youtu.be/MBjEyzjhQSs?si=\_bny2WqLuWaQCbXl Moody’s built something called the Vicious Cycle Index because the usual unemployment numbers were no longer telling the truth. According to that index, the United States is sitting at almost 50% odds of recession over the next year. It isn't because people are not working hard or because Americans suddenly forgot how to hustle. The real fault is that the labor market itself is hollowing out. The labor force participation rate is stuck around 62.5%. In the late nineties it was closer to 67%. That difference represents millions of people who are not working and not looking for work. That is not a strong economy. That is a workforce bleeding out. And the jobs that are being created are concentrated in a few sectors that cannot carry the entire country. Throw out Healthcare who is doing almost half the lifting, and you are left with growth rates that are non-existent. Meanwhile, the distance between the people at the top and the people doing the work has stretched into something grotesque. When I was born, the average CEO made about 20 times what the average worker made. Today that ratio is closer to 340 to 1. In some companies it climbs past 1,000 to 1. Since 1978, CEO compensation has risen more than 1,460%. Worker pay has risen 18% in that same span. That is not a gap. That is a siphon. That is value being pulled upward while the people who create that value are told to be grateful for whatever scraps remain. If you want to understand the real state of the American economy, you do not need a chart. You need a grocery cart. Food at home prices have risen about 25% since 2020. Eggs are up almost 50% Bread is up almost 30%. Chicken is up more than 30%. Fresh vegetables are up more than 20% Baby formula has climbed more than 30%. Real wages have risen less than 1% in that same period. This is why people are skipping meals. This is why parents are eating less so their children can eat more. This is why families are spending more money and walking out of the store with fewer bags. This is not normal inflation. This is a cost of living crisis that is reshaping daily life in ways that economists do not feel and politicians do not acknowledge. Household debt has reached 17.5 trillion dollars, the highest level in American history. Credit card balances have passed 1.1 trillion dollars, with interest rates averaging 22-28% People are not using credit cards for vacations or luxuries. They are using them for groceries and gas and rent and utilities. Debt has become the unofficial safety net for the American household, and that net is fraying. The average American is not living beyond their means. They are living beneath an economy that no longer matches the cost of survival. The day to day reality is brutal. Most Americans live paycheck to paycheck. Almost 40% cannot cover a 400 dollar emergency without borrowing. One in 8 households is food insecure. One in 6 adults are skipping meals. Renters are drowning. Utility shutoffs are rising. And through all of this, the people making the decisions that shape the economy remain insulated by salaries and bonuses and stock awards and golden parachutes. They are protected from the consequences of the world they helped create. They do not feel the pressure at the pump. They do not feel the fear in the grocery aisle. They do not feel the weight of choosing between medication and electricity. They do not feel the humiliation of working full time and still not being able to afford the basics. If you feel like you are drowning, it is not because you are failing. It is because the math is rigged against you. The job market is hollow. The pay structure is broken. The cost of survival has outpaced wages. The people at the top are shielded from the fallout. We do not fix this by pretending everything is fine. We fix it by telling the truth, loudly and without apology, and refusing to normalize an economy where the people doing the work cannot afford the groceries. The American worker is carrying this country on their back. That back is breaking. If leadership will not say it, then the rest of us will. If anyone out there is still listening, hear this clearly. People are not asking for luxury. They are asking for stability. They are asking for fairness. They are asking for a chance to breathe. They are asking for an economy that does not punish them for existing. And I, for one, would like real answers. submitted by /u/DeviantSchema to r/economy [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/SkyHooksNGrannyShots to r/minnesotavikings [link] [comments]

So my life pretty much derailed back in spring 2022. This is when the downward spiral, so to speak, really began for me. Trust me, this is necessary context for the rest of this. I was at buffalo wild wings, watching some UFC fights with some friends and decided to cook up a harmless little parlay before the main card. I’d never gambled on anything before and only had this vague understanding of how it worked. But I had just passed some exams and was about five or six drinks deep and the world just seemed so open and rife with possibilities, so I thought why the hell not. I ended up turning $15 into over $200 that night. But based on the way I was acting, you would’ve thought I’d won $200 mil. The high was just that good. More visceral than I would’ve thought. I never reached that high ever again. Even after hitting ludicrous bets that paid out fifty to sixty times more, nothing really came close to replicating it. Which was really the crux of my issues. My dumb ass just kept trying to chase it. As much as I’m sure you’d all love to hear it, I’m not gonna go into a detailed timeline of my misery. Just know that it was bad. Probably worse than you’re imagining right now. Bridges burned, legal trouble, having to avoid calls from very persistent debt collectors. The works. The only reason I’ve been able to somewhat keep my head above water for so long was due to my job. It was one of those positions that paid you a lot to sit around in an office and update a spreadsheet every now and then. Maybe an hour of real work a day. I was lucky to land it, even luckier to be able to hang onto it for as long as I did. So when the consultants were hired and the “fat” started being trimmed, I really had no right to be as shocked as I was when I saw that notification from my manager waiting for me on teams. I did end up with a pretty decent severance. And can you guess what I did with it? Well, I actually tripled it the following week. Betting on motherfucking golf of all things. Of course I should’ve stopped right there and updated my LinkedIn, polished off my suit, registered for some networking events. But no, that wasn’t going to work for me. In my head, no work meant more time to learn how to become a more proficient gambler. Every night was spent diving into statistics, deep analytics, line movements, even sports psychology of all things. What’s it called when you think you know a lot, but you really don’t know shit? The Freddy Krueger effect? Something like that? Things were going alright for a while. Not great but I was winning just enough that I was able to stomach it all. But then one night I was completely coked out and decided to place a very large and stupid bet on a certain boxing match. It flopped hard. Then in my desperation to recoup something, I cooked up another longshot parlay on some fights the following weekend. And I’m sure you can guess what happened. When I was laid off four months ago, I had a total of $45k in liquid savings and only $35k in debts. Across all my accounts now, I’m down to $27.50. As for the debts, I don’t even know. I don’t want to look. My cards are all maxed, my credit is shot, I can’t talk to my family anymore, my friends are no longer my friends and every day there are people who look like they enjoy breaking fingers standing outside of my apartment building. Sometimes they manage to make it in and knock furiously at my door, and I just have to pretend like I’m not there. By the time I finally came to my senses and began job searching again, I’d already dug a cavern for myself that was going to take some Herculean effort to scale out of. I did manage to get some interviews but never made it to any second rounds. Maybe I was coming off as too strung out, I don’t know. Side tangent—don’t you fucking it hate when they ask about gaps in your employment? It’s like fuck off, man. Anyways, I haven’t gotten an interview in a while and things don’t seem to be looking up there. A few days ago, the collectors actually tried physically breaking down my door. Got real close as well until one of my neighbors—this old military type came out and threatened to shoot their kneecaps off if they didn’t skedaddle. I got lucky there. I can’t bank on getting lucky again. Which leads me to last night. I was drunk off some bottom shelf vodka and decided to try a more shameful and unorthodox method of procuring funds. That method being using AI generated sob stories to e-beg on reddit. Yeah, look, I was desperate, wasn’t thinking straight. I know. Of course, I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to get out of it. Certainly not enough to put even a tiny dent in the total debt, but maybe just enough to get the collectors off my back. For a while. And what more could I lose from trying? I still had the wherewithal to at least edit out most of the ChatGPT speak in the posts before copying and pasting them to as many relevant subreddits as possible. Predictably, I got called out almost immediately, getting blocked from one community after another. But just when I was ready to give it up, somebody shot me a message. I’ll paste it below. Hey there, my name is Scott. I saw your post in ___. That really sucks man. Really, it does. I’ve been there and I think I can help. Now I can’t just give you money straight up because I don’t have much myself, but I can offer you a quick and reasonably trouble-free way to get some. Nothing weird or illegal or sexual, so don’t worry about that. I have a friend who’s head of a property group that owns a mall. You said you live in ___ right? The mall’s located in ___ so it shouldn’t be too far of a drive. In any case, you’ll be compensated for fuel. So here’s the crux of the proposal. You see, the mall’s not doing too well. These days I think most malls aren’t, but the location for this one is just so awful that it’s doing worse than the rest of them. But for whatever reason, this guy isn’t quite ready to let go of it. It’s not that he even really cares about it being profitable. He just doesn’t want it to get shut down and repurposed for something else. For whatever reason. You know how weird rich people can be. Have you ever heard about mystery shoppers? It’s not as eerie as it sounds. They’re just people who are hired to walk around malls and shopping centers, pretending to be customers. That’s basically what he’s recruiting for. To make it look like the place still has some juice left in it so that he can delay the inevitable for as long as he can. Again for what, I don’t know. You’ll be given a certain window of time in which you’re meant to walk around, doing your best to pretend like you actually have a reason for being there. Which would involve some shopping, looking around, having a meal in the food court. Etc. Once you enter the building, you’ll go up to the Starbucks on the second floor. Go up to the barista and tell her that you’re part of the “program” and she’ll give you $100 cash. You can then go ahead and spend that $100 on whatever you’d like over the course of the time you’re in there. Make sure you spend all of it. Don’t try and keep it. They’ll know. Once your time is up, you can simply leave. But don’t try and leave early. Once again, they’ll know. In order to receive compensation, you’ll need to be in there for your entire allotted duration. You can stay longer if you’d like. But not a second less. I mean that literally. Not even a second. Compensation is as follows: $250 for each hour spent there, to be e-transferred immediately upon your departure. If my friend likes your performance, there will be opportunity for you to come back. Let me know if this sounds like something you’d be interested in and then I’ll send over some more details. Cheers. Okay, so clearly a joke, right? I’m being trolled. But then I tried to think about what the punchline possibly could’ve been and couldn’t up with anything. So I pivoted to the idea that maybe it was a scam. Or something even more nefarious than that. The setup tracked well enough. Lure people out to somewhere remote under the pretense that they’re about to make some good money. But not such good money that it seems like a glaring trap. $250 an hour for walking around a mall is just skirting that edge. In my opinion. But what the fuck are they planning to do once I get there? Mug me? They know I’m broke as shit and don’t have anything, so that can’t be it. So what else do I have that’s valuable? My organs? Maybe they’ll kidnap me and torture me to death on the dark web? I think the reason I’m typing this all out is because I’m hoping when I read it back, something’ll click. That I’ll be able to come to my senses and realize just how bad an idea it is. Because right now, against all logic, I’m genuinely considering it. Because those fuckers are pounding on my door again. ***** This time, they knocked for like twenty minutes straight. It got intense enough that I really thought they were going give another go at breaking it down. But they didn’t. Lucky me. I’ve thought about spending less time here, so that if they ever do storm in, I won’t have to make a break for the fire exit. But I don’t know where I’d go. Maybe the library or the gym. Though if it ever comes to a point where I’m having to do all that, it’s basically already over for me. That’s no way to live. Trying to weigh everything now. Do I have anything to lose besides my life? Could things get worse than they are right now? One of the people I owe money to is this guy named Renzo. I met Renzo at a bar while I was watching Canelo vs Crawford card. What was that, like nine months ago? Jesus. So anyways I met this guy there and I was blitzed out of my head and told him very confidently to bet the house on Crawford. He seemed to like the cut of my jib so he went ahead and did so. Not quite the house, but a pretty fat stack. I made him some good money that night. Made some good money myself. Then we just drank and drank until things got hazy and the only other thing I really remember before waking up in his apartment the next morning (not what you think) was my face being pressed down into cold concrete. My clothes were still on, phone and wallet still in my pockets and I was just slumped over on a couch with one side of my face stinging so bad it felt like something was pulsating beneath it. Looking at myself using the camera on my phone, I could see that half of my face was red and swollen, scratches overlapping each other like a bloody lattice. Then Renzo comes into the living room saying he couldn’t believe what I did last night and how much of a dog I was. I didn’t know what he was referring to and I still don’t. I never asked. So that’s how I met the guy. I’d later find out that he traffics a lot of cocaine over the border and does a lot of it himself. And that there’s a small jar sitting next to his television containing several shriveled, dried-up human ears that he claims used to belong to the members of some outlaw gang in the old west. I’m sure a reasonable person would’ve considered these things very carefully and concluded that they might be better off keeping their distance. But not me. In fact, I did the worst thing anybody could’ve possibly done. I ended up borrowing some money from him. Only around $3k. Maybe not a lot to some of you, but when you’re dealing with this guy, it’s still $3k too much. To be fair though, he was the one that had first offered it up, told me to throw it on whatever I thought might get me some coin. And if I won, we could share the profits. I guess he was under the impression that I was some sort of master sports bettor and that I knew what the fuck I was doing. I should’ve asked him what would happen if I lost before I’d accepted it. And I did lose it. All of it. Couldn’t pay him back even a cent. I didn’t hide it from him, just told him the facts straight and clear. To which he’d smiled, told me it was alright. That I had a week to pay him back. That week turned into a month. Then two months. Then I just started flat out avoiding him. Wasn’t picking up his calls, being very careful to scan my surroundings for any sign of him whenever I was out. Eventually I guess he snapped and sent his goons after me and now here we are. The reason I bring Renzo up is because he’s the most pressing issue in my life right now. The guy’s clearly not going away and if I don’t placate him soon, something very bad is going to happen and I’m not going to be able to run from it. I just gave him a call, apologized for ducking him and then asked him plainly how much money I’d need to give him at this point to square everything up, for him to call off his goons and leave me be. He told me $10k. And if I didn’t give it to him by Tuesday next week, he’d come up to my apartment himself and blast the door off its hinges. And that I could try leaving the city or getting the police involved but that it wouldn’t matter because eventually he would get me. And once he did, he’d skin me alive before tossing me into a vat of boiling oil. I told him okay, to meet me at a bar next Tuesday at noon and that I’d have the money. Then I hung up. Now I’m really panicking. I mean, I doubt the guy has access to a vat of boiling oil large enough to toss a body into, but I kind of believe him about the skinning alive part. $10k divided by $250 is 40 hours. I have about 170 hours before I have to meet him. I just messaged Scott back, telling him I was very much interested in the mall thing. Let’s see what he says. ***** It didn’t take long for Scott to get back to me. He said he was glad to hear it, then asked when I could start. I told him immediately. Then I asked him how many hours he could get me before Tuesday. He told me he could maybe swing thirty-five. I told him I really needed forty and was there any way we could make that happen. He said no, thirty-five was a hard limit, but that he could probably vouch for me and get my rate up to $265 an hour. Then I tried pushing for $285, claiming that’d be the minimum I’d need in order to stave off eviction. Basically trying to guilt him into it. It was a long back and forth, but eventually we were able to come to a mutual agreement. He then sent me an address and told me to be there from exactly two to nine tomorrow. I told him I appreciated it and sent him the details he’d asked for. Which was just my name, age, phone #, email. And that’s it. No address, work history, social security number, literally anything else. They didn’t even ask for a picture of my ID. Which was convenient, but also sketchy as fuck. I mean, I could’ve been a literal bot and how would he know? So many red flags that you could supply a parade with them. But it’s not like I really have the luxury of backing out at this point. Maybe I could try leaving town. But I don’t think I’d get too far. I don’t think it’d end well. I told him I’d be there. A few hours later, he sent me another message, via email this time. Hey __ it’s Scott. Please remember this before you go. It’s really important that you do your best to act like a real customer. From the moment you step inside to the moment you leave. If anybody comes up to you and asks you what you’re doing, tell them you’re shopping or going to see a movie or grabbing lunch or just killing some time. Have a response ready and deliver it clearly and confidently. Absolutely no acting like a deer in headlights. Just be calm. Be natural. Don’t think about it too much. And while you’re in there, don’t ask any questions of your own. You see or hear something weird, just ignore it. But if you ever feel like you’re in genuine danger, don’t hesitate to leave. You’ll be paid in full for the day. Should any incidents transpire, please let me know. Tell me exactly what happened and I’ll relay it to my friend. He likes to keep tabs on that sort of stuff. Also, one more thing I should’ve mentioned at the start. Try to keep what you see in there to yourself. Try not to talk about it too much. But if you do, because I know you probably will, just make sure to leave out the specifics. I know it sounds contradictory, but my friend would rather keep everything contained here. Good luck man. Rooting for you. So yeah. Not sure what to make of that, but I’m trying not to think about it. I thought about sending Scott another message, asking what kind of “danger” I could possibly expect. But fuck it. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you or something. It’s late now and I’m watching Breaking Bad for the fourth time, and I have about eight hours before I need to be at the mall. I really should get some sleep, make sure I’m mentally sharp for tomorrow. But my heart’s beating pretty fast and I get the sense that rest won’t come easy right now. I looked up the address, and it does seem to be a real, active place with real reviews. Nothing glaringly “off” about it other than the location. It’s about a twenty-five minute drive from my apartment and it’s pretty out of the way, not very accessible. I think I have just enough left in my account to fill up my tank with just enough gas to get me there and back. Then that’s it. So if this does turn out to be some stupid joke, then I’m really screwed tight. I’m done for. But I’ll be screwed tight if I show up or not. And even if it is a trap and I show up and immediately get shot in the head or get kidnapped and tortured, well, at least that means I won’t have to deal with a lot of annoying shit in the future. Framing it that way, it really is a win-win-win and I’m starting to feel better about it all. ***** I’m sitting in my car right now and I’m feeling oddly mellow, more than I have in a long time. Could be a defense mechanism, my psyche trying to brace me for the unknown. Could also be the vodka Red Bull concoction I’ve just finished chugging. Whatever it is, I’ll take it. The parking lot here is larger than I’d expected and about a fifth of the way full. Which is surprising to me, given the location. It might be a stretch to call it the middle of nowhere but just based on a cursory glance, you could make a case for it. No other buildings around. No other sign of life at all. Just a desolate stretch of highway on one side and a dense forest on the other. It’s about ten minutes out of the city, smack dab between some grey industrial area and a long stretch of farmland. I cannot fathom what the target demographic was here. It’s about ten before two. A lot of thoughts running through my head but I’m doing a good job of stamping most of them out. In another five minutes, I’ll head in. ***** It’s just after eight now and I’m sitting in the food court, sipping on the remnants of a milkshake. Not so mellow anymore. It’s been strange here. Real fucking bizarre. I’m still trying to process it. When I’d first entered (which I made sure to do at exactly two), I’d followed Scott’s instructions and immediately headed up to the second floor. Looking around the place, it seemed typical enough. There was the usual fare: H&M, Foot locker, Bath & body works, Sephora, candy shops, stores selling cute but useless toys and knickknacks. Not quite bustling with activity anywhere, but also not empty enough for it to feel eerie. Though it feels really weird knowing that everybody you pass by is likely there for the same fucked up reason you are. So I’ve been trying to avoid making any eye contact. I spent a lot of time searching around for the Starbucks and eventually found it tucked away in some corner, all the way at the end of a long string of dead and vacant storefronts. Almost like they’d made some concerted effort to hide it. Or maybe it was just a coincidence? Don’t want to get too conspiratorial yet. I walked inside and the only person in there other than the barista was this dude sitting at a table with a half-eaten sandwich in front of him. He didn’t look up or really register my presence at all. Just kept staring blankly ahead at… something? I didn’t know what. Couldn’t figure it out. Maybe the painting of abstract shapes on the wall? I went up to the barista, who had short blonde hair and looked to be in her twenties. I offered up a smile, which wasn’t reciprocated. Not that I really cared. What did catch me off guard was the look on her face. Like I was the scourge of the Earth or something. Like I’d just murdered ten puppies in front of her and then laughed about it. I was so puzzled by this that my train of thought completely derailed for a second and I forgot what I was supposed to say. After stumbling through several half-baked sentences, it finally came back to me and I spat it out. “I’m uh, part of the program.” She sighed and actually rolled her eyes before asking me what I wanted to order. I just stared at her, no clue what to say, probably looking bewildered. I told her again that I was part of the program. She shook her head, sighed again. “You’re supposed to buy something first,” she told me, keeping her voice really low while staring daggers at me. “They didn’t tell you?” I shook my head and told her no, they didn’t. “You’re supposed to buy something and hand me some cash and then I give you the change. Get it?” I remember starting to get light-headed here, thinking was this real? Was I dreaming? “So order something and then give me some cash” she went on. “Doesn’t matter how much. Just give me something.” I told her I’d have a black coffee and began digging through my wallet, surprised and relieved to find a crumpled $1 bill in there. I took it out, handed it to her. She snatched it quickly out of my hand and dumped it in the register then gave me back a small stack of crisp $10 bills. I counted them quickly. Ten total. I turned around, getting ready to leave but then she called me back, asking did I forget about something? I stopped, turned around and she went about making the coffee, her movements slow, almost labored. I noticed that she was walking with a limp. It took her a few minutes to finish up and then she held out the cup, giving me one last glare as I grabbed it from her. I’d never been more glad to be leaving a Starbucks. Like I said, really bizarre stuff. But as I’d come to find out, this was only the tip of the iceberg. I took a sip of the coffee, and it tasted burnt to hell, just completely God awful. So I tossed it, made my way over to one of those mall directory things. Still had a lot of time to kill, so I began perusing the options. Eventually, I settled on heading over to the Chili’s, having a margarita or two or three. Yes, I have problems. I went back down to the first floor, keeping my vision squared ahead, trying not to draw any attention to myself. At one point, I walked past a woman that looked to be in her early sixties/late seventies and I had to wonder, was she here for the money as well? Or did she just happen upon this place on her own volition? I almost wanted to ask her directly but thought better of it. Arriving at the Chili’s, I headed straight for the bar and was surprised to find most of the seats there occupied. Most lively place I’d seen in the mall by far. Though there wasn’t a soul at any of the tables. It was a mixed group. Men, women, some old, some young. All seeming pretty drunk and glaring at me malevolently, as if I were intruding on something sacred. Well, I thought. This was just the way it was going to be. I tried not to take it personally. I took a seat at the end of the bar, trying and failing to catch the bartender’s attention. It was a youngish guy, maybe early thirties. Big beard and pencil thin arms covered in tattoos. I think it took about five full minutes before he finally, reluctantly, looked my way. He started to walk towards me, moving real slow, as if trying to draw out the steps. “Yeah?” is all he said to me, his tone oozing with cold contempt. I told him that I’d have a margarita. Along with a Budweiser. For a while he continued to stare at me, his expression implying that I’d crossed some sort of line by asking to be served alcohol at a bar at a fucking Chili’s. Then he took a deep breath through his nose and turned away, walked over to the liquor shelf. I watched him as he dumped some tequila into a glass, threw a lime wedge in it, topped it off with a messy splash of sprite, spilling most of it onto the counter. Then he walked back over, set it down roughly in front of me, walked away again. He didn’t bother with the Budweiser, and I didn’t bother pressing him for it. More trouble than it was worth, I reckoned. I sat there and sipped my drink slowly, watching CNN on the television but not really paying attention to it. It was hard to focus on anything at all when you could just feel that every single pair of eyes in the room was stuck onto you like glue. That you were the center of attention for reasons that were probably not so good. I finished the drink and felt like I needed one more to get a tolerable buzz going. Tried to get the bartender’s attention again but this time, he just straight up ignored me. Just kept facing ahead while leaning against the back shelf, taking swigs out of a Smirnoff bottle before putting it back. Lightly swaying on his feet. The guy was plastered. At a point, it starts to become a blow to your ego. And this was about that point. I began shouting at him. Something like “c’mon man, can a guy not get a fucking drink?” Maybe, probably, with a bit of an edge in my voice. But he still wouldn’t look at me. I looked down at the rest of the bar and suddenly nobody else was looking at me either. It’s like the entire room had suddenly and collectively agreed to pretend like I no longer existed. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” I shouted. “Nothing against you buddy,” somebody, I couldn’t see who, shouted back. “There’s just too many people in here right now.” I asked out loud what the hell that was supposed to mean. “It’s five o clock on a Tuesday,” the bartender spoke up, his tone implying that he was explaining something painfully obvious. “Think about it, yeah? How busy can a *Chili’*s get? On a Tuesday? At five o clock? Just think about it. If we don’t sell this, then nobody gets paid. So quit your whining and come back when it’s emptier.” Any further questions of mine fell on deaf ears. I was invisible again. I slapped one of the $10’s onto the counter and stood up, left the place. For the next few hours, I sort of just wandered around, my head in a bit of a daze. Still not fully convinced this wasn’t a dream. I went over to the food court, ate some KFC. The guy working the counter there didn’t say a word to me, communicating via nothing but head nods. Then when I bit into the chicken, I realized that some of it was still raw. I just ate around it. After that, I went over to the Under Armor store, spent some time looking over some knock-off jackets (the labels read Undre Armore?) that nevertheless seemed comparable in quality to the real thing. I picked one of them up, along with a t-shirt. Surprisingly, the lady who worked there was actually pretty nice, actually put some effort into being an employee (or maybe she was a real employee?) After that, I was down to just $20 and went over to the movie theater, which was completely empty save for a woman who was asleep behind the box office and some guy sweeping the floors. The screen that was supposed to be displaying what was playing was glitched, completely bugging out. So I went up to the guy, asked him what was on. He just shrugged, said that it could be anything. Then I asked how I was supposed to buy a ticket and he said all I needed to do was go up to the box office and put a $10 on the counter then I could go into any of the theaters. But to try and not wake Lindsey up since she gets real cranky when that happens and he doesn’t want to deal with it. I parted ways with another bill then went into the closest theater, catching about two thirds of that last Avatar movie, the one with the fire in it. There was only one other person in the theater, sitting near the front. They were there when I’d walked in and they didn’t move after the film had finished. I left the theater and went into a washroom. Took a piss, splashed my face with cold water while looking at myself in the mirror, taking deep breaths. Now the anxiety was starting to break through. The fear as well. After I’d finished drying myself, the stall closest to the wall opened up. I looked over, seeing the door hanging ajar but with nobody emerging from behind it. Through the gap at the bottom, I could see a pair of dirty white sneakers. I guess whoever they belonged to was just standing there. Which was a really freaky thing to think about and I left the washroom shortly after, looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody tried following me out. And nobody did. There were a few more odd “occurrences” after this. I walked past an electronics store and this short, older dude came out from behind the counter with this big smile on his face and tried gesturing for me to come inside. “Cell phone, cell phone,” he kept saying. “Fix cell phone.” I told him my cell phone didn’t need fixing and his expression dropped like a stone in a lake. I watched him as he walked back into the store and rolled down the security gates and disappeared behind them. Then the lights went off inside. There was also this lady walking around with a metal tray, claiming to be offering samples of “cinnamon rolls”. The cinnamon rolls in question being dollops of thick, grey, bubbling sludge. Safe to say, I passed on it. At some point, I had what I believe was a panic attack. Never had one before, but I think this was it. Tightness in the chest, an overwhelming sense of dread. I found a bench somewhere and took a seat. Pulled up some breathing exercises on YouTube and tried to replicate them. To my surprise, they worked pretty well. I went back to the food court, spent my last $10 on a large peanut butter milkshake from Baskin Robbins with a bunch of chocolate bullshit blended into it. And that’s where I am now. Just sitting here, waiting for nine to hit so I can get the fuck out of whatever the fuck this place is. But I’m feeling better now, I think. Maybe it’s just the dopamine from all the sugar but I’m feeling alright. Enough that I think I’ll be able to get through this. Oh, shit, there’s a guy walking towards me now. He just sat down beside me. ***** The good news is, I’m back in my apartment now, mostly unscathed. The not so good news is that as much I need the money, I’m not sure if I can go back to that place. So about the guy in the food court. He was young, maybe early twenties. Tall and skinny, brown hair cut into a short fade. Looked like a bog-standard college kid. He sat next to me, started making small talk, asking how my day had been, was the milkshake good, etc. I tried ignoring him at first, but he seemed nice and normal and coherent enough that I started to feel bad about it. So we got to talking a bit. He told me his name was Daniel and that he used to be a copywriter but got laid off around 6 months ago and hasn’t been able to find anything since. So what’s what he was doing here. “What about you?” he’d then asked. “Why are you here?” Right at that moment, I felt comfortable enough to tell him the truth. I told him about the gambling, the debts, the collectors. It felt nice and cathartic airing out my dirty laundry to a complete stranger so I just kept on going. I didn’t stop talking until my eyes drifted down and landed on the shoes he was wearing—these really worn, scuffed white sneakers. Okay, I thought. Could be a coincidence. And even if it was same guy from the bathroom, then so what? But then I remembered Scott’s message, specifically his “instructions” about what was I supposed to do if somebody tried talking to me and the realization washed over me like a cold wave. I suddenly stood up, told him I had to get going. He started protesting, telling me that I should stick around because he had something he wanted to show me. I told him I was tired and I really needed to go home. He started grinning, showing off blocky, chiclet teeth. Really stretching his lips as wide as they could go and then a bit wider than that. Looking really uncanny. He asked me again what I was doing here. Shopping, I told him. Just shopping. He pointed out that I didn’t have any bags, so what could I have been shopping for? I started scanning the floor around me before remembering that I’d left the Under Armor bag in the washroom. He started laughing in this jovial manner, though there was something clearly ominous beneath it. “You’re not here to shop, are you?” he asked. “Then what? Why are you here?” I snuck a glance at my phone and saw eight fifty. I repeated that I really had to leave and then I turned around, started heading for the exit. To my dismay, I could hear his steps keeping pace behind me. Once I got to the doors, I checked the time again. Eight fifty-five. I turned and “Daniel” or whoever the fuck he was, was still there, standing about a half dozen feet away. “Don’t you have to go home?” he questioned, holding onto that grin. “Door’s right there. Why don’t you leave?” By now, I was checking my phone every few seconds, no longer making an attempt to hide it. He laughed again, said that if I wasn’t going home, I may as well come and see what he wants to show me. Now the panic had returned, and I really had to force myself to stay put for just a few more minutes. Minutes that seemed to be stretching into infinity. But I told myself that I was ready to sprint the second he tried making a move. I started wondering who I was more scared of. Renzo or this fucker right in front of me. It came up inconclusive. As the seconds ticked down, he continued goading me to come with him, each request insinuating more of a threat than the last. The grin slowly fading, twisting into something more outwardly malicious. The moment that the clock hit nine, I tried to bolt. Though I didn’t get far. The bastard grabbed onto my collar, started dragging me back. I tried yanking myself away, but the fucking freak had this inexplicable iron grip. It was nothing but luck that I’d been wearing one of my old, cheap shirts, the fabric of which was already starting to tear. I jerked myself forward a few more times until it shredded off my back. Once free, I lunged ahead and pushed the door open, vaulting myself outside and tripping over my own feet, elbows planting hard onto the concrete. A searing pain jolted up my arms, and I think I heard something crack. But I wasn’t too worried about it in the moment, more concerned about making sure Daniel wasn’t about to drag me back inside. I scrambled to my feet and spun around to face the doors, bracing myself for, well, I don’t know what. Maybe for him to be charging towards me like a bull. Which he wasn’t. He remained inside, his face now pressed up against the glass, features pancaked into this odd, grotesque visage. Staring at me with wide, bulging eyes, relentlessly dragging his tongue across the glass in a circular pattern. Like he’d suddenly forgotten how to act like a human or maybe he just didn’t care anymore, no longer felt the need to keep up the front. I just stood there and stared back, convinced that the second I tried to move, he would do the same. I’m not sure how long this little stalemate of ours went on for, but I remember my heart racing the entire time, beating faster and faster, approaching a point where I thought it might just explode. But eventually, he did leave. Detached his face from the glass and spun around and just walked off. I doubled over, puked up some bile and took several deep breaths before walking over to my car, cold and shirtless, watching the sun dip into the horizon. I wasn’t expecting to find that my tires had all been slashed. All four of them. My stomach dropped. Then it dropped even further once I looked around and saw that my car was now literally the only one in the entire lot. I tried calling for an Uber but the network out there was so shit that the app wouldn’t load. I could’ve gone back into the mall and used the Wi-Fi. But fuck that. I just leaned on the hood of my car, mulling over my options. Feeling a bit numb. My apartment was about eighteen miles away. Theoretically walkable. But the bigger problem was, I really didn’t know the way. here was a good chance that if I tried walking, I’d end up in the next town over. Especially in the dark. Which was something I thankfully didn’t have to risk. A few minutes later, the front door swung open and out came a woman, maybe in her thirties, dressed in jeans and a windbreaker. She didn’t seem all too dangerous, but my expectations were up in the air at that point so I backed away regardless. She walked halfway across the lot before stopping, looking over at me. It seemed like she was about to say something but then hesitated, looking away for a second before looking back. Then she called out, asking if I needed a ride. I told her I’d love one, but could she first prove to me that she wasn’t with the maniac that I’d just escaped from. She said she wasn’t with him, but that she didn’t know how she was supposed to prove that to me. And that she wasn’t going to wait around. So, if I wanted a ride, I should make that decision soon. I shivered. It was starting to get cold out. She never questioned why I was shirtless. I then asked her where her car was. She told me to follow her, but not before flashing the Glock attached to her hip. She said she didn’t think I was a threat but that she absolutely would not hesitate to shoot if I tried anything. I assured her that I wasn’t going to try anything. She’d parked about a half mile away from the mall, on a dirt patch in the forest, well hidden from the road. I asked her why she’d parked all the way out there and not in the lot. She told me the first time she’d left her car in the lot after 8 PM, her tires had gotten slashed. I then asked her how long she’s been “working” at the mall. She said she didn’t really want to talk about it. That she’d prefer it if we just sat in silence for the duration of the trip. So we did. Once we were back in the city, she dropped me off at a train station. I didn’t have any cash for a ticket, but it was pretty close to my apartment—only about a ten-minute walk away. I thanked her and hopped out. Before she took off, I asked her what her name was. She just shook her head, said it’d be pointless for me to know. When I got home, I drained the rest of the vodka in my fridge and passed out on my couch. When I woke up this morning, I checked my phone and saw a notification from my bank. I’d been e-transferred $3,000. I also had another email from Scott. Hey man, I heard you might’ve a rough first day, so I sent you a bit extra on top of the promised amount. Your hours are the same for today. 2 to 9 PM. And also man, just remember what I said before. You’re a customer in there. So act like it. It’s about half past ten AM right now and I’m just lying on the couch, sipping some Clamato juice. Not really wanting to move. Especially not to go back to that place. I spent some time trying to calculate how far $3,000 could get me if I skipped town and concluded probably not very far. Then I tried conjuring up some other ways I might be able to cover the last $7,000 before asking myself who I was kidding. I really don’t want to go back there. But I know I’ll probably have to. submitted by /u/Mr_Outlaw_ to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/eskimoexplosion to r/AFCNorthMemeWar [link] [comments]

While the media may focus on the MVP award and other prestigious honors, reddit has the distinct honor of awarding the LVP trophy. The LEAST Valuable Player. It's a tradition that dates back to 2017, with Monta Ellis winning the trophy in what would be his last year in the league. Other winners include: Jamal Crawford in 2018, Solomon Hill in 2019, Isaiah Thomas in 2020, Aron Baynes in 2021, Facu Campazzo in 2022, Will Barton in 2023, Jordan Poole in 2024, and Terry Rozier last season. Notably, many of those players won the LVP and never saw meaningful minutes again. Who will join our illustrious list? Before we get to that, let's remember the criteria and caveats: --- Obviously, the worst players in the league are the ones who sit at the end of the bench and don't get any playing time. However, this award focuses on players who log a decent amount of minutes and consequently affected their team's play the most. Simply put: the more you play, the more damage you can do. --- And that actual "damage" is important. If you're on a tanking team, no one cares about your poor play; it may even be a positive. We also tend to ignore young players (under 22) who are still developing and can't be expected to be solid players yet. --- Similarly, we don't want to judge players within the context of their salary any more than the actual MVP does. We also don't weigh in injuries. If you want to factor in salary and injuries into your LVP ballots, there are no shortage of big name candidates to choose from this season. However, at the LVP offices, we focus on players' on-court performance instead. --- We also wanted to note that this yearly column can come across as a little mean spirited, which is not our intention. Even the worst player in the NBA is in the top 99% percentile at their sport and making more money than most of us could dream about. And to be fair, even the worst player in the league probably costs his team only a couple of games. Hardly anyone has a VORP ("value over replacement player") worse than -2, so they shouldn't be the scapegoat for an entire organization. In many cases, they're simply played too much or played in the wrong role. But when the stakes are this high, it's fair to criticize players or their teams for that negative impact. NOT QUITE BAD ENOUGH (in alphabetical order) PF Kyle Kuzma, Milwaukee: 26.2 minutes per game, - 2.3 box plus/minus At the Academy Awards, the top movies tend to dominate throughout the ceremony: best production design, best cinematography, best editing, etc. In the LVP races, the most "mid" teams tend to do the same. A small group of teams flood the ballot with candidates. In those terms, the Milwaukee Bucks and Chicago Bulls may have been the One Battle After Another and Sinners of the season, jostling for positioning and the top trophy. Among them, Milwaukee supplied us with the most candidates: from Cam Thomas to Andre Jackson Jr. to Myles Turner (who won Bill Simmons and Zach Lowe's version of LVP on their podcast). In fact, 18 of the 21 players who suited up for the Bucks graded as negative in box plus/minus. (Box plus/minus is an analytical estimate of a player's impact per 100 possessions, taken from basketball-reference.com) So who is the worst of the worst? Based on volume of minutes, Kyle Kuzma has a case to make. Kuzma finished in the top 5 in last year's LVP voting for the same reason that he'll be mentioned this year. He's somewhat effective as a scoring PF, but when he has to play more SF and away from the basket, his mediocre shooting (34.7% from 3) and his struggles defending in space become more pronounced. He's played 9 seasons in the NBA, and he's graded as a negative defender in BPM in every single one of them (with -1.3 this year). Predictably, Kuzma played better and scored more later in the season when Giannis Antetokounmpo was out (upping his TS% from 57% to 63% after the break), but the season was lost by that point anyway. And that lost season was particularly damaging for this franchise, as it may have represented their last gasp with the Greek Freak. SF Isaac Okoro, Chicago: 26.9 minutes per game, - 3.8 box plus/minus In real life, we tend to have a good idea of the serious MVP candidates in the preseason. Some are saying that LVP may be trending the same way. In our first ever LVP preseason watch list, we flagged 6 potential contenders, and 3 of those will be included on the ballot today. Those included Kyle Kuzma, and the Bulls wing Isaac Okoro. Like Kuzma, Okoro has a sizeable role with his team (starting 62/63 games in his case). And like Kuzma, he may have some structural flaws in his game. Okoro isn't a good shooter (33.0% from 3 this season), but that's not a death sentence on its own. There are a few guards and wings that don't reliably hit open threes. However, those starters (like Dyson Daniels, Amen Thompson) need to be ELITE on the other side of the ball. Okoro gets cast in the role of a "stopper" in that way, but he's not at that level. He has a strong frame and effort level, but he's not overly long (6'5" with a 6'8" wingspan). That limits his ability to disrupt a game (illustrated by modest averages of 0.7 steals and 0.5 blocks) and his overall ceiling as a defender (illustrated by his -0.8 DBPM this season). To be clear, I don't think Kyle Kuzma or Isaac Okoro are bad players, but they've been miscast given their skill level. NOT QUITE ENOUGH MINUTES (in alphabetical order) PG Lonzo Ball, Cleveland: 20.5 minutes per game, - 1.2 box plus/minus When new coach Kenny Atkinson arrived in Cleveland last season, he sparked a jolt up to 64-18 and a # 1 seed. A major part of that success was the surprise breakout of Ty Jerome off the bench. To replace Jerome (who left via free agency), the Cavs brought in another big guard in Lonzo Ball. Many were excited about the move. I'm presuming: those people didn't watch Ball play in Chicago the year before. Injuries have sapped whatever aggressiveness he had as a scorer, leaving him impotent on offense. If you're not a threat to score (or to even try to score), it's hard to be an impact passer. Ball's struggles continued this season. Despite his size at 6'5", he was deathly allergic to crossing inside the three-point line. He only attempted 0.8 twos and only 0.6 free throws per game despite a healthy 20.8 minutes a night. That only made him easier to defend from 3, where he shot a career-low 27.2%. All in all, that totaled a 43% true shooting number that's hard to believe in the modern NBA. Ball's push for LVP hit a snag though: he stopped playing. In fact, he hasn't logged a single minute after the All-Star break. He got stuck at 35 games played, which limited his impact and may have cost him this trophy. SG Jordan Hawkins, New Orleans: 13.6 minutes per game, - 6.2 box plus/minus Coming out of UConn, Jordan Hawkins looked the part of a future sniper. As a sophomore, he averaged 16.2 points per game on 38.8% from three and 88.7% from the line, helping the Huskies win the national championship in the process. There may have been limitations in other aspects of his game, but boy, could this kid shoot. He projected as a good 4th/5th starter and spacer. Instead, Hawkins gave credence to all those old-school scouts who harp on size and athleticism. He simply hasn't been able to generate enough clean looks in the NBA to take advantage of his talents. He can't get to the line -- he can't score inside -- and he's only been average from 3. That's resulted in a 48.0% true-shooting percentage this year, which ranks near the bottom among veterans. His defense is also poor (-3.0 box plus/minus on that end). Hawkins would be a stronger contender for LVP if he played more. As is, he's only averaged 13.6 minutes per game across 51 games. Even with those limited minutes, he ranks in the bottom 12 among all 582 players in total win shares this year (at negative 0.4). To be fair, Hawkins' best month came at the end of the season -- so he's not someone I'd totally give up on in the future. But for this year, it wasn't pretty. at long last, OUR OFFICIAL LEAST VALUABLE PLAYER BALLOT (3) PF Nikola Jovic, Miami: 17.2 minutes per game, - 3.5 box plus/minus In many cases, you can see LVP candidates coming a mile away. But of all the names listed here, Nikola Jovic may be the most surprising party crasher. The young forward was coming off a solid season where he averaged 10.7 points and shot 37.1% from deep. Entering Year 4 (and fresh off an extension), the needle appeared to be pointed up for him, especially given the organization's reputation for player development. Unfortunately, Erik Spoelstra's secret weapon may have accidentally been set to de-volution (ala the original Super Mario Bros movie) instead. Nagging injuries may have played a role as they tend to do, but Jovic's confidence looked shakier -- and the Heat's confidence in him looked shakier in turn. By the time the dust settled, he had shooting splits of 37-27-68, combining for a true shooting percentage of 48.0% that represented a stark decline from 59.5% the prior year. For a slower-footed player who was never going to be an elite defender, that's a real problem. You can argue that Jovic should be excused based on his youth (still only 22) or his limited minutes (not much more than Lonzo Ball). However, he grades highly in terms of negative "impact" on the season. The Bucks and Bulls finished about 10 games off the playoff pace; no decent rotational player was going to save their season. Miami's a different story. The team finished 43-39, landing at the 10th seed. If the Heat could have won a few more games, they could have contended for a seed as high as 5th (with Toronto at 46-36). Instead, they ended up in the play-in for the 4th consecutive year. And for the first time, that stung them. (2) SG Gary Trent Jr., Milwaukee: 21.2 minutes per game, - 5.4 box plus/minus It's disappointing to see Gary Trent Jr. on this list as well. It wasn't too long ago that Trent showed promise as a 3+D guard with Portland (in the covid bubble days). He took it up a level from there in Toronto, averaging 18.3 PPG in his age-23 season. He may have never been a stud defender but he had some activity, with averages of 1.7 and 1.6 steals per game in 2021-22 and '22-23, respectively. But now, still only age 27, Trent Jr. hasn't been able to sustain that. The "3" is still sort of there (36.0% from deep this season), but any sign of the "D" left the building. There's no "B" or "C" or much of anything else either. Despite healthy minutes (21.2 per game, 21/65 starts), Trent Jr. averaged 0.5 steals, 0.0 blocks, and 1.0 rebounds a game. When you're playing over 20 minutes a game, that's hard to do. If you were sitting courtside as a fan, there's a decent chance a ball caroms your way. If you're on the court, you should get 2-3 rebounds by accident alone. It's almost as if Trent Jr. was playing dodgeball out there. Sure enough, the advanced stats for Trent Jr. are ugly (-5.4 BPM, -1.2 VORP, negative win shares) as they are for most of the Bucks this season. The team may have been undermanned from a roster perspective, but you can't excuse poor effort. Instead of fighting valiantly like Spartans in 300, Doc Rivers had his cast playing dead instead. (1) PF Patrick Williams, Chicago: 20.5 minutes per game, - 4.5 box plus/minus May you all find someone who believes in you the way (former) Bulls GM Arturas Karnisovas believes in Patrick Williams. In his very first draft with the team, Karsinovas selected Williams with the # 4 pick despite the fact that Williams had started exactly 0/29 games in college. After a few years, Karsinovas gave Williams a healthy extension despite the fact that Williams hadn't shown much in the NBA either. He saw something in the kid that no one else did. And unfortunately, that's a major reason why Karsinovas is on his way out of the front office and on his way to get LASIK surgery. That vision never became a reality. In fact, Williams somehow got worse than ever in Year 6. He only shot 37.2% from the field (a career low) and only grabbed 3.0 rebounds per game (a career low). And remember, this isn't a little guard here -- this is a forward praised for his athleticism. The deeper you dive into the numbers, the more jarring it gets. Williams only shot 28.1% from the field... on attempts from 3-10 feet out. He only shot 50.6%... on attempts from 0-3 feet out. That means that Shaquille O'Neal had a better chance of making a free throw (career 52.7%) than Patrick Williams did of making a shot an arm's length away from the basket this season. To Billy Donovan's credit, the team finally realized the problem and played Patrick Williams less than usual. They shifted him to the bench and a rotational role. Still, there's a healthy amount of minutes here (20.5 per game for 72 games) and an unhealthy amount of suckiness that's the perfect recipe for an LVP. Congrats to P-Will and the entire Bulls franchise on the (dis)honor. submitted by /u/ZandrickEllison to r/nba [link] [comments]

I know it's a silly question, but I really want to distinguish between reality and jargon. When people say “predictive analytics,” is it usually: classic forecasting (time series), classification (will something happen?), or anomaly detection (something’s off)? What bucket has been most useful for you in operations and why? submitted by /u/TechCurious84 to r/analytics [link] [comments]