I turned twelve with the same ceremony as always: a cake with more sugar than flour, hugs that lasted too long, and a mother declaring I was "becoming a little man" while wiping my face with spit in public. Glorious. Worthy of a drug lord at his birthday party.
But the important thing wasn't the celebration—it was what it meant: my first year betting actively, consistently, and with a network of intermediaries who had no clue they were working for a kid with a squirrel voice and the brain of a CEO.
Because at twelve, I wasn't just a bright kid anymore. I was a kid with a purpose.
And that purpose was clear: gain enough leverage to finish high school by fifteen, enter college as a phenomenon, and start medical school like someone signing up for YouTube Premium: fast, without looking back, and with the confidence of having everything under control.
Ambitious? Yes. Realistic? Totally. Because if you're reincarnated and come with life spoilers, the least you can do is not stumble into adulthood looking surprised.
...
That year also marked another milestone: my dad taught me how to hunt.
In the original story, George O'Malley always had a complicated relationship with his father, who never understood or shared his interests. But things were different now. I was the older brother. And while my dad was still rough, direct, and more comfortable around guns than books, there was one thing he offered without question: his time.
"Every man should know how to hunt," he said, handing me a shotgun with more rust than precision.
I didn't want to kill animals. But I saw the opportunity.
Hunting wasn't just a way to bond with my dad. It was a lesson in strategy, observation, patience. And, I discovered, furs could be sold.
What started as a symbolic act of "becoming a man" turned into a modest but useful source of income.
"Raccoon fur's good this year," said an old man at the town fair.
I nodded like an expert, thinking:
"Perfect. Furs today, stocks tomorrow."
...
The betting network also grew.
I no longer bet just with Don Edgar. I began using "small businesses" as covers: helping clean a neighbor's yard while he unknowingly lent me his name for a bet. I'd give him a cut of the winnings, and everyone was happy.
My reputation grew. But not as a cheater.
No.
I was "the lucky kid."
"That George guessed the score again!" they'd say at the café. "That kid's got an angel watching over him." "It's not normal. Like a tiny Nostradamus, but with a sweet face."
That's when I earned the nickname they'd use for months: "The Lucky Little One."
I smiled, of course. Inside, I was already tracing the path toward Tyson's final fight in the '90s.
I knew the downfall would come. The defeat. The shock no one would see coming.
And that day, I'd bet it all.
...
Now, about the computer.
Buying a Commodore 64 in 1987 wasn't like buying a smartphone today. It was rare. It was expensive. It was suspicious.
When I walked in with the box, my mom nearly had a heart attack.
"Where did you get this, George Eugene O'Malley!?"
I had to improvise:
"The school... well, there was a contest. They gave me a scholarship for tech talent. It wasn't publicly announced because it's a pilot program. Innovation. To promote—"
"Promote what?"
"...logical thinking in kids with potential."
She didn't understand any of it. But it sounded educational. And since I showed up with a fake letter (made by me, of course) with the school district's logo, she bought it.
My dad just said:
"As long as it's not for writing poems, do whatever you want."
Poems? No. Prediction algorithms? Yes.
...
At school, they didn't know where to put me anymore.
My grades were perfect. My questions were unsettling. Once, I interrupted a history class with:
"Excuse me, don't you think Reagan's policies caused more long-term economic inequality?"
Silence.
I was twelve.
So, as a solution, they gave me "self-study" hours. Basically, they let me go to the library and not bother anyone.
Perfect.
I used that time to draw timelines, practice coding, memorize names of future CEOs, and figure out how to develop a small sports betting software "for educational purposes," of course.
...
My relationship with my brothers was a mix of mentor, hero, and occasional villain.
Jerry was already trying to copy everything I did. He followed me with a notebook and asked questions about the universe.
Ronny still thought I talked to angels.
"George knows when it'll rain because the trees talk to him," he once told a neighbor.
"Do trees talk to you?"
"Of course," I replied seriously. "But only if you water them."
They never asked again.
...
That year, I ended with over $3,200 stored in multiple hiding spots. I had contacts, reputation, technology.
But I wanted more.
So I started exploring the illegal... carefully. Through innocent conversations, discreet eavesdropping, and an old man who worked at a liquor store that also had unregistered slot machines.
"Sometimes you win, sometimes you don't," he told me. "How do you know when the machine's gonna pay?"
He winked. I wrote everything down.
Eventually, I got one of the neighborhood teens to place small bets in shadier places. I paid him in comic books and a cut of the money, and he loved it. I called him "my representative with no legal rights."
Every illegal step was handled like day one in the mafia: no names, no prints, no emotion.
I didn't plan to stay in the gray forever, but in the short term, I needed to multiply my funds. Because I knew that in the next five years, every dollar would be a key chess piece to get ahead.
...
By the end of the year, I was already reading about investment laws, going over old medical journals, and memorizing names of future Nobel Prize winners.
But most of all, I laughed.
Because deep down, I was still a kid. One who hunted raccoons, lied with style, and who was preparing to change his destiny—and everyone else's around him.