You’ve likely heard the riddle countless times, maybe even shared a chuckle over it: “Why Was 6 Afraid Of 7?” The knee-jerk answer, the one that’s been etched into the annals of playground humor and cheap joke books, is, “Because 7 ate 9!” It’s a simple, numerical cannibalism gag that elicits a groan or a giggle, depending on your audience and your mood.
If only the truth were as straightforward as a number munching another. If only the fear of 6 was rooted in such innocent mathematical mischief. But, as we all know, the world, especially the world of numbers, is rarely that simple. The real reason behind 6’s apprehension towards 7 is far more complex, and dare we say, a little darker than a simple numerical snack attack.
The chilling truth is that 6’s fear of 7 had absolutely nothing to do with the number 9, or any other digit for that matter. It was a matter of debts, high stakes, and a dangerous figure operating outside the comfortable realm of simple arithmetic. You see, in the shadowy corners of the number world, 7 wasn’t just a prime number; he was a bookie, and 6 had unfortunately found himself in way over his numerical head.
It all began with the ponies, a classic starting point for many tales of woe. On a breezy Saturday, 6, seeking a bit of lighthearted fun, ventured to the racetrack with his pal. A couple of gin and tonics later, and fueled by beginner’s luck, 6 found himself on an improbable winning streak. Four glorious hours, a questionable number of G&Ts, and a staggering $1,200 profit later, 6 left the track riding a wave of euphoria. He’d struck gold with the horses all day, and even after generously tipping the waitstaff and lending a hand to his buddy 5, who was down on his luck post-divorce, he still walked away with a substantial sum. It was undeniably 6’s day, and he drifted to sleep that night with a satisfied grin.
The following day, reality began to creep back in as 6 sat in his modest apartment, contemplating the unexpected windfall. Responsible thoughts flickered through his mind: charity, credit card debt, maybe even those stretchy jeans he’d been eyeing. Practical choices, all of them. But then, a different kind of temptation emerged. He reached for his phone and dialed his ex-girlfriend, 3. He inquired if she still had connections with a certain bookie known for handling larger bets. She confirmed, but with a note of caution, describing the bookie, 7, as “dangerous,” recounting a tale of 14 ending up hospitalized after attempting to skip town during the French Open. 6, dismissing her concerns, assured 3 it was just a small wager, nothing to worry about.
Defying his own apprehension, 6 made the call to 7 the very next day. He attempted polite conversation, but 7, impatient and all business, curtly instructed him to get to the point. 6, heart pounding, declared his intention to bet $1,000 on the Chicago Bulls to cover the spread. 7 simply grunted and hung up, the line dead.
That night, the Bulls played, and they lost, failing to cover the spread. Just like that, $1,000 vanished, without even the consolation prize of new stretchy jeans. Undeterred, fueled by a gambler’s flawed logic, 6 doubled down the next night, wagering another grand (money he definitely didn’t possess) on the Bulls. History repeated itself. And again the night after. Then, on the fourth night, desperation setting in, 6 made a reckless $3,000 bet, this time banking on the Bulls not covering the spread. They covered. The numerical hole 6 had dug for himself now amounted to a terrifying $6,000.
Panic seized 6. He frantically threw his most cherished possessions into a suitcase, a pathetic attempt to salvage something from the impending disaster. He still had his original winnings, the $1,000 from the track – enough, he reasoned, to buy a train ticket to San Francisco and vanish, start anew. 7 would be furious, undoubtedly, but 6 clung to the hope of never crossing paths with him again. He envisioned a new identity: shaved head, fake mustache, a wardrobe suddenly dominated by floral prints, just in case 7’s reach extended all the way to the Bay Area.
As he crept towards the door, the phone shrieked, 3’s name flashing on the screen. Her voice was urgent, laced with fear. 7 was coming to collect, she warned, and if 6 didn’t have the full amount, he’d better run. Seconds later, a thunderous knock echoed through 6’s apartment. Knowing escape was his only option, 6 scrambled out the back window, clinging to the fire escape. Disaster struck as his suitcase burst open mid-descent, scattering his prized possessions across the grimy alleyway. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back. Freedom, escape, was all that mattered. Reaching the ground, he bolted around the corner, only to collide directly with 7. And to make matters infinitely worse, 7 wasn’t alone. Flanking him were 1 and 2, notorious enforcers in the number underworld. 7 grabbed 6 by the shoulders, his gaze cold and unwavering, while 1 and 2 methodically took turns delivering blows with a phone book. 7 uttered not a single word. He didn’t need to.
No one in the number world ever saw or heard from 6 again.
So, do you really want to know why 6 was afraid of 7? It wasn’t about simple addition or subtraction, multiplication or division. It was about bad choices made under the intoxicating spell of a lucky streak, about unchecked greed and the crushing weight of debt. Maybe 7 does devour 9 in some numerical fairytale, but in the grim reality of 6’s world, the reasons for fear were far more grounded, and tragically, far more real. 6 was, in the end, just an ordinary number who got lost in the high-stakes game, and paid the ultimate price. Numbers gambling away their existence might seem ironic, but irony offers little comfort from a concrete fate.
