We are looking at the process of using theatre to persuade others that the constructed numbers reflect the “real” situation of the firm. For example, once each year from 1998 through 2001, an elaborate theatre stage was constructed on Enron’s sixth floor to simulate a real trading floor:

According to former Enron employees, on the sixth floor of the company’s downtown headquarters was a set, designed to trick analysts into believing business was booming… former employee Carol Elkin said that it was all an act, and that no trades were actually made there. The people on the phones were talking to each other.

Enron’s theatre was expensive, $500 to set up each desk, more for phones in this stage-crafted spectacle, and more for the 36-inch flat panel screens and teleconference conference rooms. On this imitation Hollywood stage, the entire set was wired by computer technicians who fed fake statistics to the big screens. On the big day, several hundred employees, including secretaries, played their rehearsed character roles, pretending to be “energy services” traders doing megadeals. Jeffrey Skilling and Kenneth Lay played their starring role in the Enron dramatis personae to a target audience of invited Wall Street analysts, who cannot tell real from fake.

Crazy beans.

“What?” I asked – probably more than once. My brain was still struggling under the fog that comes with having been violently ripped from my fifth hour of sleep.

Apparently my mom had received a phone call from a blocked/unlisted number and a man on the line claimed that he had been hacked by someone with my name. He gave her a phone number with a Las Vegas area code where the hack had supposedly been initiated. When you call that number you apparently get a copy of my voicemail message (although it’s not my actual number, phone, or voicemail account). The man also knew my mom’s home address and listed the names of my immediate family members.

So yeah, that’s super weird.

I fell out of bed and quickly moved to my computer desk. My first step was to log into my online bank account. Everything looked fine, thank goodness. I checked my own Facebook account. It was fine too. This website, Twitter, my various Google accounts… all fine. There were not any other logged calls or voicemails on my cellphone either.

Super weird.

Just to be safe I went through all of my personal accounts and invented new passwords. I also recorded a new voicemail message and changed my cellphone PIN. I feel like a new person, which is maybe a good thing in case someone out there is pretending to be my old person.

My mom was a little freaked out over the call, but she handled it like a boss. The guy was asking her for my phone number, address, and who knows what else, but she gave him nothing. He knew my name and my parents’ home address (and obviously phone number), so my current theory is that my family’s cell phone account has been compromised. That is the only account I know of that still connects my name to their address, and also explains how they would have access to the names of my family members (it’s a family plan, duh) and my voicemail message. I don’t know why they wouldn’t have my cell phone number though, particularly if they have a copy of my outgoing voicemail message. It’s all very strange.

Anyways, I’ll be keeping an eye on my various accounts – as usual – but I’m not worried about this anymore. Scammers of this sort tend to be very lazy (or so I’ve been told), and since it didn’t work the first time I don’t expect them to try me again. I am tempted to notify the police and give them the number of my phantom persona, if only on the principle of would-be-criminals facing justice. It seems like a lot of hassle though.

And speaking of hassle, inventing new passwords is a pain. It’s even worse when you are incredibly tired because of the crippling fear that I will immediately forget whatever my low-powered brain just made up. My mind is random enough, but today my passwords ended up being based on objects in the room at the time. Good luck to Future Jason when he tries to piece this particular puzzle back together. Bright0range.Towel is a good password, but glhf trying to remember that there was a basket of dirty laundry on my floor at the specific moment that I happened to be searching for a new password.

Even worse, don’t even get me started on the anxiety of inventing a new 4-digit PIN. There are only 10,000 choices, and with every number combination came either:

1: that’s meaningless and I’ll never remember it
2: that’s waaay too easy to guess. Criminals will obviously guess the combination of my highschool jersey number and the year I first went to summer camp.*

* True story: I thought about using the first four digits of pi, but then thought to myself, “No. That would be in the first five guess of anyone who knows me. Plus, I assume that’s a super common PIN.” **

** This made me just wonder how many nerds use the PIN 0112 or 1123 in homage to Fibbonacci. ***

*** I kind of want to use those PINs anyways.

5) Is there an opt in or opt out clause for data collection?
Users will be allowed to opt-out of Mass Effect 3 data collection from inside the game.

For those who are not familiar, the Mass Effect games are role playing action adventures where the story changes and unfolds based on the various choices the player makes along the way. The data collection being referred to here involves the player’s PC/console sending anonymous statistics back to EA (the publisher) and Bioware (the developer). I find it a little bizarre – although not un-expected – that there are people who complained about this enough that the newest game now has the option to turn it off. Apparently people are complaining so much so that in a list of only eight “commonly asked questions” this one makes the list.

Why?

Seriously… why?

These aren’t the tinfoil hat crowd of videogame conspiracy theorists, but rather most of them are generally thinking people who I assume to have a generally reasonable view of the world. If I give them the raw benefit of the doubt I hope that their argument is more existential than paranoid. I hope their concern is, “If we let you report statistics about how we play your game, it’s a slippery slope to letting companies collect more personal information about our non-gaming lives.” I hope their concern is, “You say you are only reporting anonymous gameplay statistics, but how can we be sure that’s true?” The concern of having your personal computer secretly logging and sending information about you to some corporate datastore is valid… but only to a point. I mean, if you are paranoid enough to not believe Bioware’s claims about the data they are collecting then why would you believe that changing the in-game option to “off” would actually turn anything off?

I find it regularly hilarious how delusional most people seem to be about their current level of privacy. I posted a link on Facebook a short while back (that I can’t find right now) about people complaining that software on their new iPhones kept a log of their text messages and phone usage, which could then be ostensibly reported back to their carriers. Of course I found this hilarious. Do people actually, honestly believe that their cell phone carriers don’t already have access to that information? Do you think that your cell phone company doesn’t have the ability to read every one of your text messages or listen in on every one of your phone calls? It’s like being shocked that your mailman has the ability to read all of your mail. He (probably) doesn’t read your mail, and neither does your cell phone company, but of course they could.

Spoiler alert! – you probably have a GPS system inside your cell phone that allows them to track you to within one meter.

Spoiler alert! – even without GPS your cell phone’s location can be triangulated using nearby cell towers to within about 50 meters.

Aside from criminals on the run, who honestly cares?

The technology that allows Big Brother to find you with your cell phone is the same technology that lets you find the nearest Starbucks (or in my case, allows me to find my phone when it gets lost). The technology that lets Verizon listen to your calls is the same one that lets YOU listen to your calls. The satellite uplink in your car that allows Ford (theoretically) to track where and how frequently you drive is the same system that allows them to send you an ambulance when you get in a car crash.

This is the world you live in. Deal with it.

Data collection exists everywhere all the time in everything you do, and this data aggregation will always have a fringe case where someone can reasonably ask “what if the terrorists/Big Brother/illuminati use that data for evil?!”

My response is usually, “yeah, i guess… whatever.”

• Google knows the history of what I have searched for.
• My bank knows how much money I have.
• My credit card company knows how often I go to Taco Bell.

I just don’t really care. I don’t consider that an invasion of my privacy. I realize that some people do. These are the people who run their internet connections through proxy DNS routers, keep their cash under their mattress, and wouldn’t ever dream of having a credit card in their real name. I wish those people nothing but happiness, but I am content to live in the normal world. The normal world allows for endless convenience and entertainment, but it also requires that you accept certain realities.

When I go to the grocery store I always use my store membership card. I would argue that it’s stupid not to, and I think most people would agree with me. Have you ever stopped to wonder why stores are willing to give such widespread discounts to people who sign up for and use those membership/savings cards? I could be wildly wrong – having never studied grocery store marketing – but I see two obvious answers that make sense.

1. Presumed customer loyalty.
2. Data aggregation.

Number one is obvious. If you bother to get a card you are theoretically much more likely to shop at that particular store again instead of using their competitor across the street. However, because the practice is now universal to all major stores – and access to these cards is free, fast, and easy – I expect this reason to be decreasingly worthwhile. If anything, NOT offering a savings card is more likely to cause people to NOT shop at your store, rather than the original intent of the opposite.

Number two strikes me as the real value to the store. Hopefully this isn’t news to any of you, but when you use your savings card the store logs the quantity and cost of every item that you purchase. Over time the stores will have the ability to build a very accurate model of everything that you buy, how much you spend, and when. The store can know how much you are willing to pay for something. The store can identify your preferred brands. The store can accurately measure whether a particular sale or promotion has an effect on your shopping habits.

If you think that data set isn’t worth the fifty cents you just saved on butter, well, I’ve got bad news for you: you’re delusional.

And still I say, “so what?” I recognize that my local Vons store has the ability to look up how much cat food I buy (a lot), but I also don’t care if they have that information. It isn’t an invasion of my privacy for them to know that my cats like their Fancy Feast grilled instead of sliced. It actually makes me happy, because I am directly helping ensure that Vons keeps selling the grilled cans.

I am happy to report usage statistics to Verizon because it shows them where they need to increase their coverage or add more bandwidth. I don’t mind reporting my driving habits to Ford because it helps them build safer, more reliable, and more efficient cars. I don’t mind my bank knowing when and where I am withdrawing money because it tells them where they need to put (or keep) ATMs.

And as for this manufactured Mass Effect 3 controversy, I don’t mind Bioware collecting data about the choices I make in their game. I know for demonstrable fact that they use that data to make better games. There is a ton of crazy shit you can learn from their Mass Effect 2 data. I can understand the fear about secret software running on your computer, but we all need to at least start the conversation from a different place. We can’t start from zero. We have to accept that data aggregation and tracking has become an intrinsic part of the common first world experience.

Privacy is a very real issue with very serious implications. Bioware and EA/Origin is almost laughably silly to be considered a serious part of that conversation.

With that said, I had a pretty good year of fantasy sports in 2011.

Back to back league champion, and a perfect, undefeated season too. I’ve played in this league for five seasons, and have two firsts and a second. Those other two years… well, we don’t need to talk about it.

In 2011 I played in a total of four leagues, two for baseball and two for football.

Baseball League #1 – 1st place in 14-team league. Paid $1135 (150 buy-in, split with lukas)
Baseball League #2 – 3rd place in 11-team league. Paid $224 (150 buy-in)
Football League #1 – 1st place in 10-team league. Paid $470 (100 buy-in)
Football League #2 – 3rd place in 12-team league. Paid $525 (150 buy-in)

Overall, that’s a pure profit of $1311.

Or, considering the time that I put into it, roughly fifty cents per hour.

The Queen of Spades.

The first player checked quickly.  The second player casually tapped the table as well, clearly eager to get to showdown without any more of a fight.  Instinctively I reached for my chips. Without looking at the stacks before me, I grabbed what felt to be about 80 dollars worth.  As I moved my hand forward to bet I suddenly felt a wave of guilt.  This was pointless.  No, not pointless… this was something worse.  This was mean-spirited.

Game rules wouldn’t allow me to change my mind and check at this point; I had to bet something. And so, in a wholly meaningless and failed effort to feel less dirty, I only bet 60 of the 80 dollars.  I put the remaining chips back into my stack.  It didn’t matter; both of the players immediately folded their hands.  Eighty dollars, sixty dollars, or twenty dollars, they were not going to call any river bets.

I then turned to the man sitting next to me, an older fellow that I had played with many times before, and said, “Hey.  You want to see something cool?”  And with that I flipped over my hand.

The final board read: Jack of Spades, King of Spades, 9 of Diamonds, 4 of Diamonds, and now the Queen of Spades.

I held the Ace of Spades and Ten of Spades.  I had made a royal flush.

What happened next happened very, very quickly, and thinking back on it now still comes in foggy.  The man next to me literally yelled “Oh My God!” and jumped up out of his seat.  The dealer said “Wow!” and shook her head in disbelief.  Most everyone else at the table yelled, clapped, gasped, or some combination.  Within a few seconds the players at other nearby tables had crowded around us to see what happened.  Somebody patted me on the back, while somebody else came over and shook my hand.  The poker room manager came over, congratulated me, and then told me “that’s not supposed to ever happen.  Something like one in ten million…”

See, it wasn’t merely that I had hit a royal flush.  I had hit THE royal flush.

That night the casino had been running a jackpot promotion in an effort to drive up interest in their poker room.  Casinos do these all the time, and like all such promotions they are structured to tease their customers, but never go too far.  There is one large grand prize that is nearly impossible to win, and then a lot of much smaller prizes that people win all the time.  It’s like playing the Monopoly pieces at McDonalds.  You “could win $1,000,000!!” they say, but nobody ever does.  Instead, you win a free hamburger.   Nobody is ever upset to not win the million dollars, because nobody ever expects to, but winning the hamburger makes you feel happy and that’s what McDonalds is going for.  Of course, nobody would bother choosing McDonalds over Burger King simply because of the chance at winning a free hamburger, but they probably would make that same choice for a freeroll on a million dollars.  The million is the carrot; the occasional hamburger is the reward for trying.  Casinos work the same way.  You will sit in front of the progressive slot machine because of the enormous ever-increasing jackpot number it displays above your head.  You don’t expect to win big, but given the choice between the machine with the big numbers over it, and the one in the corner with no numbers, the choice is obvious to most.

Poker room promotions typically change from month to month, but on this particular night the jackpots revolved around the always sexy, ever elusive royal flush.  If you made a royal in hearts, diamonds, or clubs the casino would pay you $1000.  If you made the royal flush in spades the casino would pay you $20,000.

The carrot was the $20,000 jackpot, but in a manipulative (and intelligent) move to further decrease their risk the casino said that the 20k only applied to spades.  What’s more, the player had to make the royal flush while holding two of the five cards in his hand, and one of them had to be the ace.  If you made a royal flush holding the jack and queen, it wasn’t worth anything.  If you only held the ace, and then the 10-J-Q-K came on the board, congratulations… you don’t win anything.  You had to hold one of four exact hand combinations (suited AK AQ AJ A10), and then you needed the board to come with a perfect three out of five.  Oh… and then even if you do make a royal flush holding two cards including the ace, there was a 3 out of 4 chance that it was only worth the $1,000.  You had to do it in spades to win big.

Even so, the casino was still able to run an ad campaign stating “Make a royal flush, win $20,000!!”

I make it sound a bit dishonest, but in Vegas these things are so common that nobody is ever fooled anyways.  I still go to McDonalds for the Monopoly pieces even though I assume (without evidence) that there is only ever one printed Park Place piece in the entire world.  Winning the million dollars is never going to happen, but why would I pass up a freeroll?

Well, when that queen of spades rolled off on the river my freeroll came in.  I had made a royal flush.  I had done it using both of my hole cards.  One of them was the ace.  And most importantly of all, the suit was spades.

For my dazzling display of pure luck I was rewarded with $20,000.  Everyone else at my table won $1,000 just for being there.  Although they knew about my 20k, not everyone at the table realized they won a thousand because of it.  When I told her about it, a lady two seats away leaned over the table and kissed me.

The room around me went completely apeshit for about five minutes.  For my part, I just stayed in my seat, watched these people lose their minds, and alternately smiled and said “thanks” as strangers congratulated me for my win.

It took me a while to write this post because I wanted to put some emotional distance between the win and the account.   More than that, I needed some time to find a way to accurately describe the win without sounding like an asshole.  It’s been about a month now, and I still haven’t found that way.

Sitting in my chair at the end of the poker table, people screaming all around me, I instantly became excessively self-aware.  Everyone was looking at me, all with their own motivations and judgments, and I felt bizarrely obligated to somehow reward their attention.  I felt like I was supposed to be overtly celebrating more than they were, even though I didn’t feel like yelling, clapping, or even smiling too much more than usual.  I shook peoples’ hands, but only because they offered me theirs and I didn’t want to be rude.  When the people at my table said congratulations, I said congratulations back, reminding them that they had won too.  It was all very weird.  Maybe it was shock, but I didn’t feel like celebrating at all.  I actually felt bad because I knew that everyone in the room was watching me, expecting a crazy reaction that I wasn’t going to give them.  I smiled a lot, but that was it.  I didn’t jump, I didn’t dance. I don’t think that I even got out of my chair for at least ten minutes.

Outwardly I mostly stayed my same composed self, but internally the adrenaline had taken full effect.  I picked up my cell phone with hopes of taking a picture of the cards, but my hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the entire thing.  I asked one of the other players to please take a picture with my camera, and he was kind enough to oblige.  He took three pictures, all of them blurry, but at that moment I couldn’t possibly have done better myself.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later it finally occurred to me that I should tell somebody what had just happened.  It’s strange, but I didn’t know who to tell or how to tell them.  With still shaking hands I awkwardly texted my brother.  “Just hit the jackpot.  Won $20,000.”

Simple and to the point.

I texted Lukas and Matt something similar, and then got up from the table to call my parents.  Over the next half hour I made half of a dozen calls, all of them with the same awkward intro: “Hey… so do you want to hear something cool?…”  I wanted to tell people what happened, but didn’t want to sound like I was bragging.  I was playing poker, they dealt me a royal flush, and oh by the way now I get twenty grand… just wanted to let you know.

I won’t pretend like my reaction to the jackpot was normal, but I also won’t pretend to know what a normal reaction looks like.  A few years ago a man sitting at my table hit a jackpot for $45,000.  He sat there in seemingly stunned silence for a short while, but about ten minutes later his wife came in to check on him and he finally spoke out loud.  She literally fainted when she heard the news.  It was pretty hilarious, actually.

I can’t imagine ever fainting in a poker room.  I never clap, cheer, yell, jump or curse either.  I don’t taunt people when I win and I don’t throw cards when I lose.  I occasionally roll my eyes or shake my head, but I make a strong effort to keep my emotions flat whenever I’m in a casino.  When I lose a big hand I force myself to say “Nice hand.”  When I win a big hand I force myself to say nothing at all.  Everyone hates a bad loser.  Everyone hates a bad winner even more.

I suppose that I’ve been actively suppressing my emotions for so long now that I apparently can’t turn it off, even when it’s both expected and encouraged.  Whether I win a $20 pot or a $20,000 jackpot, I don’t feel much more happiness.  It’s gross, and probably unhealthy, but it’s also the reason that I don’t play poker very much anymore.  I’ve probably written about it here before, and definitely talked about it IRL: the ups never feel as good as the downs feel bad.  Although I’ve thought about the concept a lot, before my royal flush I didn’t realize the extent of my complex.

Barry Greenstein, a famously successful poker player, wrote a book called Ace on the River.  Within the book is a section where Barry provides a personality self-quiz to help determine whether you have “what it takes” to be a professional poker player.  Not surprisingly, almost everyone fails the quiz.  The problem, as the author explains it, is that a poker player requires a very specific combination of personality attributes in order to succeed.  Finding that combination within the same person is exceedingly rare.  Lukas and I both took the quiz, and he failed it on multiple fronts.  As I remember it, I failed the quiz too, but only on one point.  At the time I thought that basically meant I passed.  It took me a long time to realize that the seemingly dumb little quiz was right.

Most people can’t handle gambling because they can’t detach themselves from the value of money.  I see this all the time, and it almost always makes me laugh.  People who lose $100 playing blackjack and then whine about how much they lost.  People who are afraid to double down a $5 bet when they are showing an 11 against the dealer’s 6.  People who buy into a $2-4 limit poker game for $20, get dealt pocket aces, and don’t raise.

I will never, ever, ever understand those people.

It’s not fair of me to judge people who are risk-adverse (or simply poor), but I can’t identify with a person who gambles with money that they can’t afford.  Worse, I can’t identify with a person who lets the real-world value of their chips affect the way they play a particular game.  If you can’t handle losing the $5, then don’t sit at the blackjack table.  If you do sit down, you better bet the $5 like it’s already lost.

Anyways, long story short: I don’t have that problem.  Concerns about real world money are important when buying chips in the beginning, and cashing them out at the end.  In between, the chips are nothing but clay pieces acting as a scoreboard.  If you ever play blackjack with me you’ll probably hear me saying things like “plus 2” or “minus 4 point 5.”  I’m not counting cards; I am just tracking my bets.  I sit down at a table with a particular multiple of my bet size, and then track wins and losses based on that.  If I am betting $10 per hand and am up $50 then I am “plus five.”  If I am playing $25 per hand and am ahead $125 I am also “plus five.”  The particular bet size is irrelevant.  Before I even show up to the casino I would have decided, as an example, that I am comfortable losing $500 and that I want to play $25/hand.  That gives me twenty bets to play with.  Not five hundred dollars.  Twenty bets.  Hours later when I’m driving home I will convert back to real world money and feel happy or sad about the dollars won or lost, but from parking lot to parking lot real money does not exist.  The abstraction of money and chips is easy to write about, but extremely difficult to practice.  It is the number one “flaw” in most wannabe gamblers, but I actually do very well with it.

The second major personality trait that most failed poker players lack is a true sense of empathy.  You have to be able to put yourself in your opponent’s position and understand enough about them to understand their motivations and actions.  As a skill it is non-obvious and impossible to either measure or explain, but it is something that is easy to notice when players can’t do it.  Without empathy you are forced to play reactively.  You can only respond to what your opponent actually does instead of exploiting the reasons for why he did it.  I feel like my sense of empathy is well above average, but I would argue that it is also the most wildly overestimated ability in poker.  Everyone thinks they are good at it, almost nobody is.  In an effort at humility I will admit that I used to be much better at using my empathy than I am right now.  It used to be fairly easy for me to just understand what somebody was going to do at a poker table before they did it.  Now that sense of total control is much rarer.  That isn’t what’s holding me back though.

The third important aspect of a poker player’s personality is sympathy.  To be a professional poker player, you have to be able to turn it off.  That is what I lack.   That is why I stopped playing.  Empathy means that you understand your opponent.  Sympathy means that you care about your opponent.  It is crucial to have one, but not the other.  I need to know you well enough to find your weaknesses, but not care about using those weaknesses to hurt you.  I have spent a lot of time trying, but I can’t seem to turn off my sympathy.

When I say that the highs don’t feel as good as the lows feel bad, it is sympathy that is to blame.  When I lose a lot, I feel the pain.  I acutely feel the loss of money, but just as bitter is the understanding of my personal failure.  I HATE losing.  Meanwhile, I like winning… but I don’t LOVE winning.  Poker is generally a zero-sum game, meaning that for somebody to win somebody else has to lose.  When I win a big pot, it necessarily means that somebody lost a big pot.  I feel good about my win, but the sympathetic part of me feels bad for the guy who lost.  So when I lose, I feel the full force of the misery.  But when I win my joy is offset by the pain of having hurt someone else.  I can’t truly celebrate my wins because I am too aware of the other player’s loss.

Hitting the jackpot didn’t have this problem of course.  Not only did none of the other players lose for my gain, but they all won small jackpots of their own.  The only loser was the faceless mega-corporation that owns the casino.  I obviously don’t feel bad for taking a corporation’s money.

So then why wasn’t I happy?  Why didn’t I scream or yell or jump out of my chair?

Eight days after hitting the royal flush I found myself back in the same poker room.  While waiting for a seat one of the floor managers came up to talk to me.  “Oh man, so what was it like when you hit that royal?!”

The man was smiling in eager anticipation of hearing about how fucking rad it clearly must have been to win.  What came to my mind when he asked me that, though?

Guilt.

The first thing I thought about was how I had tried to bet eighty dollars on the river.  The casino was about to give me $20,000 and I was still trying to coax just a little bit more cash out of these two genuinely nice other players.  What an asshole.

At that point the jackpot money didn’t mean anything to me yet.  I had conditioned myself too completely for any amount of money (apparently even 20k) to significantly affect my emotions.  Hours and days later it would matter, but sitting at the table it was nothing more than a number to me.  Twenty thousand may as well have been two hundred million; the number was purely a hypothetical.

Still, my empathy allowed me to understand what other people expected from me.  They expected celebration.  They expected shouts of “Drinks are on me!” and a display of raw joy appropriate to twenty grand.  I understood that they were also all judging me, deciding whether I was worthy of the jackpot in some ambiguous way.  Nobody wants to see the asshole win.  They were all watching, trying to decide whether I qualified.  A bit of paranoia definitely set in, but it wasn’t my dominant emotion.

My sense of sympathy would not allow me to get past my river bet.  After the initial eruption, but still in the middle of the mass hysteria, I actually leaned across the table and apologized to the other guys for betting on the river.  They didn’t care of course; they had just won $1,000.  I couldn’t seem to let it go though.  By making that bet I was actively trying to inflict pain on these guys for absolutely no reason.  What did that say about me as a person? In that moment I truly hated myself for what I had instinctively done… and that’s what I remembered most clearly about hitting the royal flush.

The floor manager was still smiling at me, still waiting for my answer.

I smiled back at him and lied to his face.  “Yeah… it was pretty great.”

(thinking about my recent purchases these recommendations are embarrassingly not wrong… *sigh*)

This was page one.

Page two was the announcement of the PC launch for Assassin’s Creed.

And this was page three… the last page, and two clicks in.

It’s not a big deal or anything, but your credit card and personal information may have been captured by an unknown group of hackers. But on the bright side, if your cards still work and your identity hasn’t been stolen, you can save big on Sniper: Ghost Warrior!