In a plot twist that sounds more like a bad heist movie than real life, a Florida man allegedly swiped $7,000 worth of scratch-off lottery tickets from a Circle K convenience store, only to slink back to the very same location less than two hours later in a brazen bid to redeem the winning ones. When that flop didn’t pan out, he escalated to robbing a nearby 7-Eleven with a replica gun, making off with a measly $120 and a pack of smokes, federal authorities say.

The suspect, 43-year-old Justin Farley of Tampa, turned what could have been a quick smash-and-grab into a multi-hour comedy of errors on the night of April 30, according to a probable cause affidavit filed in the U.S. District Court for the Middle District of Florida. Court records paint a picture of a man down on his luck, confessing to cops that he “needed money” bad enough to risk it all on lady luck—only for fortune to flip him the bird at every turn.

It started innocently enough around 8 p.m. at the Circle K on East Hillsborough Avenue in Tampa, a bustling strip-mall staple where locals grab their lotto dreams alongside Slurpees and cigs. Surveillance footage captured Farley, clad in jeans, a dark hat, and sneakers, strolling in like any other customer. But instead of buying, he allegedly vaulted the counter—or reached over it, depending on the angle—and snatched a dispenser full of Florida Lottery scratch-offs. The haul: about $7,000 in tickets from popular games like “Gold Rush” and “Cash Word Search,” per the affidavit.

Farley bolted in a gray Hyundai sedan, the engine roaring as he peeled out of the lot. No cash register dinged, no alarms blared—just a stunned clerk left staring at an empty rack. But here’s where the story veers into peak Florida absurdity: Just 40 minutes later, around 8:40 p.m., that same gray Hyundai rolled back up to the Circle K pump. Farley hopped out, tickets in hand (or pocket), and waltzed inside to try his hand at redemption.

“The clerk immediately recognized him as the thief and refused to cash any tickets,” the affidavit states flatly. Farley lingered for less than a minute, scratching at a few in vain, before slinking away empty-handed. Undeterred—or perhaps desperate—the Hyundai circled back at 10:11 p.m. This time, he spent a full 10 minutes inside, fumbling through the stack, begging the clerk to overlook the elephant in the room. Strike two: No dice. He stormed out, frustration boiling.

Ten minutes later, 10:21 p.m., third time’s the charm? Nope. Farley made one last pathetic pilgrimage to the counter, tickets clutched like a loser’s lottery talisman. The clerk, now wise to the game, shut him down cold. Farley exited, defeated, his “winnings” worth exactly zilch in the store he’d just robbed.

But the night was young, and Farley’s wallet was emptier than a busted scratch-off. Surveillance from a nearby 7-Eleven on North 50th Street caught the Hyundai pulling up around 10:30 p.m. This time, no charm offensive—Farley allegedly brandished a replica handgun, demanded cash from the register, and fled with $120 in small bills plus a pack of Newport cigarettes. The clerk hit the silent alarm, but Farley was gone before sirens wailed.

Tampa Police didn’t waste time connecting the dots. License plate readers along Farley’s escape route pinged the Hyundai, linking it straight to him as the registered owner. The Circle K clerk, after reviewing footage, ID’d Farley without hesitation: same build, same clothes, same desperate vibe. “It was him, no question,” the clerk told investigators, according to the affidavit.

The takedown came swift and methodical. On May 6—one week after the caper—cops tailed Farley from his East Tampa apartment, watching his every move like a low-budget stakeout flick. Over the next two weeks, detectives parked outside his rundown complex, noting how he stepped out in the exact same jeans, sneakers, and hat from the robbery night. “Carbon copy,” one report quipped. On May 20, they moved in: Farley was pinched without incident, the replica gun recovered from his ride.

Interrogation room confession? Straight out of central casting. Farley admitted to the Circle K heist, chalking it up to financial woes—”I needed money,” he allegedly shrugged. He copped to scratching the tickets in his car between visits, even hitting up that 7-Eleven in between to offload winners. But the clerk there? Same story: “Stolen tickets don’t pay out here, buddy.” As for the armed robbery, Farley owned that too, replica pistol and all.

Federal prosecutors jumped on the case, charging Farley with interstate transportation of stolen property (those lottery tickets crossed state lines in distribution) and Hobbs Act robbery for the 7-Eleven stick-up. The U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Middle District of Florida called it a “textbook example of poor planning meets bad karma.” Farley, out on bond pending trial, faces up to 20 years if convicted on the big counts. His public defender couldn’t be reached for comment, but sources say he’s pleading financial hardship—no irony lost there.

This isn’t Farley’s first brush with the law, records show. A quick dive into Hillsborough County dockets reveals priors for petty theft, drug possession, and a 2019 DUI that left him with a suspended license. Neighbors in his apartment complex, a faded ’80s build off Fletcher Avenue, described him as “quiet but sketchy”—the guy who borrows tools and never returns ’em. “He’d talk about gettin’ rich quick, lotto this, casino that,” one tenant told reporters, chain-smoking on the stoop. “Guess he took it too far.”

The Florida Lottery, no stranger to scams, has safeguards that doomed Farley’s scheme from jump. Every scratch-off packs a unique serial number, trackable from printer to payout. Retailers are trained to spot hot tickets—stolen ones get flagged in the system faster than a bad bet. “It’s like trying to cash a stolen credit card at the same bank,” a lottery spokesperson explained. “Doesn’t fly.” In 2024 alone, the agency busted over 50 fraud attempts, recovering $250,000 in bogus claims. Payouts over $600 require ID and validation, and anything fishy triggers a hold.

Locals aren’t shocked—this is Florida, after all, where “man bites dog” is just Tuesday. Tampa’s East Side, with its mix of strip malls and palm-lined potholes, sees its share of lotto fever. The Circle K in question? A hotspot for $1 dreamers, pulling in $500 a day in scratchers alone. “Folks come in prayin’ for a winner, not stealin’ ’em,” the owner griped to FOX 13, vowing tighter security. That 7-Eleven clerk? He’s quit, spooked by the fake gun, now pumping gas across town.

Broader picture: Lottery thefts are spiking in the Sunshine State, up 15% since post-pandemic scratch-off sales boomed to $10 billion yearly. Desperation’s the driver—evictions up, wages flat, and jackpots teasing from billboards. Experts blame economic pinch: Hillsborough County’s unemployment hovers at 3.8%, but in Farley’s zip, it’s double. “People see $1 million winners on the news, think ‘why not me?’” says criminologist Dr. Elena Vasquez of USF. “Then reality bites.”

Farley’s saga echoes other Sunshine State slip-ups. Remember the Lakeland woman last year who swiped 48 tickets over a Circle K counter, cashed nine for $470 at rivals down the road? Busted in hours. Or the Tennessee clerk who fished a $1 mil winner from the trash? Lottery sleuths shut that down cold. “Dumb criminals make our jobs easy,” chuckles Florida Gaming Control rep Mark Thompson. “But it underscores the risk: One bad scratch, and you’re scratched off the streets.”

As Farley cools his heels awaiting arraignment on November 15, Tampa PD’s reminding folks: Crime doesn’t pay, especially when it loops back to the scene. The Circle K’s back to business, dispensers restocked, clerks on high alert. That gray Hyundai? Impounded, a rusty monument to misplaced hope.

In the end, Farley’s not the unluckiest thief alive— just the most persistent. As one fed agent put it: “Stole ’em, scratched ’em, tried to cash ’em, robbed for gas money. Florida Man strikes again.” Moral? Play the lotto, sure—but leave the heisting to Hollywood.