My uncle Gene had two rules: never bet on a horse named after a month, and always laugh at a funeral.
He died on a Tuesday. Heart gave out while he was pruning roses. Typical Gene—couldn't even sit down for his own death. The funeral was on a Friday, and I flew in from Chicago wearing the only suit I own. It's too short in the sleeves. I looked like a waiter who'd given up.
My name's Marcus. I'm thirty-four. Gene was my mother's brother, which made him the fun uncle. The one who taught me to fish, to curse in Italian, and to never take life seriously because "serious people die boring." He'd been a truck driver, a part-time DJ, and for six months in the eighties, a professional arm wrestler. I'm not joking.
The funeral was small. Fifteen people in a gray room that smelled like old flowers and weaker coffee. My mom cried into a handkerchief. My cousin Beth gave a speech that went on too long. I sat in the back row, staring at Gene's photo—him at sixty, grinning, holding a fishing rod like a sword.
Afterward, we went to his house. The will reading was quick. Gene had almost nothing. A paid-off truck. A collection of vinyl records. And a note stuck to his fridge that said, "Marcus gets the rest. Don't spend it all on something sensible."
The rest was four hundred and thirty-two dollars.
I almost laughed. Then I almost cried. Then I did both, standing in his kitchen, surrounded by magnets shaped like pineapples and a calendar from 2019.
I didn't know what to do with the money. Gene wouldn't want bills paid with it. He'd want something stupid. Something memorable. So I went back to my hotel room—a cheap place near the highway with a flickering TV and a bathroom fan that sounded like a helicopter—and I sat on the bed.
I opened my laptop. No plan. Just restless.
I'd heard Gene talk about online casinos once. Years ago, at a Thanksgiving dinner. He'd won a hundred bucks playing some slot with pirate ships and refused to shut up about it for the entire meal. "Best Tuesday of my life," he'd said, butter dripping down his chin. "Better than my first marriage."
I typed "vavada casino free spins (https://vavada1.dizisoftweb.com/)" into the search bar. Not because I expected anything. Because it felt like something Gene would do. Sit in a cheap hotel room with a handful of money and see what happened.
The site loaded fast. Bright, clean, not sketchy-looking. I almost closed the tab twice. But the little voice in my head—the one that sounds suspiciously like Gene—said, Oh, come on. Live a little.
I didn't deposit any of Gene's money. Not yet. I just poked around. And that's when I saw the welcome offer. New players. No deposit needed. Just a batch of vavada casino free spins waiting for me like a handshake.
"Fine," I said to the empty room. "For Gene."
I registered. Took two minutes. The spins landed in my account immediately—twenty of them, if I remember right. I picked a slot at random. Something called "Fire and Gold." Red reels. Lots of dragons. Not my usual thing, but neither was standing in a funeral parlor wearing a too-short suit.
The first ten spins were garbage. Nothing. Nada. I watched the balance hover near zero and felt a weird sense of relief. Okay, that's that. Tried it. Moving on.
Then spin eleven hit.
Three scatters. The screen went dark, then exploded into a bonus round I didn't understand. Free spins with multipliers. Dragons breathing fire onto the reels. Numbers started climbing. Small at first. Then not small.
One dollar. Three dollars. Seven.
I sat up straighter. The helicopter fan kept whirring in the bathroom. I didn't care.
Spin twelve added more free spins. Spin thirteen added a multiplier. I was no longer in control. The game was just... handing me things. I watched my balance tick up like a gas pump. Twelve dollars. Eighteen. Twenty-four.
By spin eighteen, I was grinning. Alone in a hotel room. At my uncle's funeral weekend. Grinning like an idiot.
The bonus round finally ended. Final payout: sixty-seven dollars.
I sat back. Stared at the screen. Then I did something that surprised me. I didn't withdraw. I didn't close the tab. I just looked at the sixty-seven dollars and thought, Gene would want me to keep going.
So I did.
I switched to a different slot—this one with a jungle theme, all green and gold. Used the winnings to play small bets. Ten cents a spin. Twenty. I wasn't chasing a win. I was just... playing. Like a video game. Like the stupid, pointless, wonderful distraction I needed after a week of grief and gray skies and my mom's sad eyes.
The second win came out of nowhere.
I hit a bonus round I'd never seen before. Wheel of fortune style. The wheel spun, clicked, landed on a segment that said "Mega Win." I didn't believe it. Then the numbers started moving.
One hundred and thirty-two dollars.
I actually said "what" out loud.
The wheel spun again. Another segment. Another multiplier. Another "what." By the time it finished, I had two hundred and eight dollars. Combined with the first win? Two hundred seventy-five. From a handful of vavada casino free spins that cost me exactly nothing.
I cashed out. Every cent.
Here's what I did with it: I took my mom to dinner at the steakhouse Gene used to love. The one with the red leather booths and the waiters who call you "hon." We ordered the biggest ribeye on the menu. We drank cheap merlot. And we told stories about Gene until the restaurant closed and the staff started stacking chairs.
Then I took the rest of the money—about a hundred and sixty bucks left—and I bought a fishing rod. Not a fancy one. A simple one. The same model Gene taught me on when I was twelve.
I drove to the lake the next weekend. Sat on the dock. Didn't catch a single fish.
Didn't matter.
I sat there for three hours, holding that rod, and I felt him there. Not as a ghost. As a feeling. The same feeling I had in that hotel room when the reels spun and the numbers climbed and I laughed alone at nothing.
Gene always said luck is just preparation meeting stupidity. I don't know about that. But I know that a few free spins on a random Thursday night turned a funeral weekend into something I'll actually remember. Not the grief. Not the gray room.
The spin where I forgot to be sad.
I still have that fishing rod. I still have the screenshot of the win on my phone. And every time I look at it, I hear Gene's voice: "Told you. Never bet on a horse named after a month. But a free spin? Always take the free spin."
Rest easy, Uncle Gene. The steak was on you.