My Downfall: Gambling, Lies, and a Failed Car Flipping Scheme

My name is Austin McCullers, as most of you already know. When I was living in Phoenix—specifically Goodyear—I got into the vending machine business. At first, it seemed like a good way to be an entrepreneur, to make an honest living, especially given my history with addiction—both drugs and gambling.

For a while, things were okay. Maybe six to eight months. But the money wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Gambling doesn’t just take your money—it rewires your brain, keeps you believing that the next bet, the next risk, the next desperate move will be the one to change everything. I fell into that trap over and over again.

I got greedy. I started looking for business partners—people with money, people new to the vending business, people too naïve to see what I was really doing. I was broke. My credit was garbage. I needed their money to stay afloat. So I played the part of the mentor, the trusted friend. I convinced them to invest in vending locations, promising we’d split the profits 50/50. But the moment I got my hands on that money, it was gone.

I gambled it all away. Every last cent. And when my “business partners” started asking for updates, sales numbers, proof that I was doing what I promised—I panicked. I needed a cover story. That’s when I told them I was flipping used cars. I made up some elaborate lie about a mentor who was teaching me the ropes, how I was struggling to navigate the auctions, how I had gotten screwed over on a few deals. It kept them off my back—for a while.

But then, I got reckless. I thought, “Maybe I actually can flip cars.” Maybe I could dig myself out of the hole, make enough to pay everyone back, and fix what I’d broken. So, I took what little money I had left—plus a loan from a guy I shouldn’t have borrowed from—and bought a car at auction. A Kia, cheap, rough around the edges, but I convinced myself I could make a profit.

I was wrong.

The car was a disaster. The engine barely ran, the transmission was shot, and every mechanic I took it to laughed in my face. I tried selling it off as-is, but no one wanted it. So, I did what any desperate idiot would do—I dumped even more money into repairs, money I didn’t have. I kept gambling, thinking if I just hit big once, I could fix everything. Instead, I kept sinking deeper.

Then, the loan shark came knocking. He wasn’t interested in excuses. He wanted his money, and he wanted it now. I stalled as long as I could, dodged calls, ignored texts, but I knew it was only a matter of time before things got ugly.

Meanwhile, my vending “partners” were losing patience. They started comparing notes, realizing I had been feeding them all the same lies. Some of them threatened legal action. Others just wanted to see me suffer. And honestly? I couldn’t blame them.

So, I ran.

I packed up what little I had left and got the hell out of Phoenix. Now I’m back in Tampa, with multiple warrants, a ruined reputation, and no real options. I don’t know what comes next. The vending scam worked before, and I don’t see another way to make money. Maybe I’ll try it again. Maybe I’ll get into flipping cars for real this time. Or maybe I’ll just keep running.

Because at this point, I don’t know if I can change. And I don’t know if I even deserve to.