God Bless the USA -Lee Greenwood

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 The Setup

It all started with Polymarket. Shayne’s big brainchild. A place where you could bet on anything—sports, politics, whether or not your favorite celebrity would get canceled. But during the 2024 election? Oh man, it became the hotspot for presidential betting. You had Trump’s odds skyrocketing like a SpaceX rocket, and Kamala Harris coming out of nowhere like a surprise comeback in the fourth quarter. People were losing their minds.

“You’re like the Nate Silver of crypto,” I told Shayne one night while we were watching the odds climb.

“Nate Silver wishes he had my data,” he shot back, grinning like he’d already won the lottery.

But then, weird stuff started happening. Trump was way ahead—like, “Vegas is shutting down the table” ahead. Then, out of the blue, Kamala’s odds started creeping up. Not a normal creep either. This was a full-on sprint. Someone was dropping serious money on her.

I’m not saying I’m a conspiracy theorist, but I’ve seen enough Netflix documentaries to know when something smells fishy. And this? It reeked. Shayne’s team started tossing around words like “wash trading” and “market manipulation,” which, to me, just sounded like fancy talk for “someone’s messing with the system.”

“Billy,” Shayne said one night, pacing the living room, “do you think someone’s trying to rig Polymarket?”

“I mean, yeah, probably,” I replied, mid-chew of a burrito. “It’s 2024, bro. Everyone’s rigging something.”

He didn’t laugh. That’s when I knew things were serious.

 Fast forward to 3:17 a.m. I’m crashing on Shayne’s couch after an all-nighter of watching the markets when BOOM—there’s banging on the door. I thought it was the delivery guy, but nope. FBI. Full suits, badges, the whole nine yards.

“Shayne Coplan!” one of them yelled. “Open the door! We have a warrant!”

I’ll admit, I panicked. “Dude, is this about that time you pirated the extended cut of Shrek 2?” I whispered.

“It’s not about Shrek!” Shayne hissed back, throwing on a hoodie.

The door opened, and they swarmed in like they were raiding a mob boss. One guy even knocked over the potted plant I gave Shayne for his birthday. Dick.

The agents didn’t waste time. They started grilling Shayne about everything. The odds, the trades, the wallets. One of them even said, “Let’s talk about Kamala Harris.” At that point, I had to stifle a laugh. Like, seriously? Kamala Harris?

“They think I’m rigging the market!” Shayne hissed at me when they weren’t looking.

“Well,” I whispered back, “are you?”

“No, Billy! But someone is.”

That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t about Polymarket being illegal. This was about power. Someone didn’t like that Polymarket had become the crystal ball of the election. Shayne wasn’t just running a betting platform—he was holding a mirror up to the entire political circus. And the powers that be? They didn’t like what they saw.

The FBI confiscated half the office equipment, leaving Shayne sitting in a folding chair like he was in time-out. The media ate it up. Headlines screamed, "Polymarket CEO Raided: Election Manipulation Alleged!" Shayne was furious.

“Billy,” he said, pacing the room, “they’re trying to make me the villain.”

“Well,” I replied, “you do wear a lot of black hoodies.”

It wasn’t just the raid, though. The betting markets went nuts. Trump’s odds tanked, Kamala’s skyrocketed, and everyone started throwing around theories like it was a murder mystery dinner. Some said it was political payback for Trump’s early dominance. Others thought it was about illegal U.S. bettors. Me? I figured someone rich and shady just wanted to make a point.

The election came and went, and Polymarket survived—barely. Shayne kept his head down, but I could tell he was still obsessed. Who had placed those massive bets? Was it manipulation, or just high-rollers playing the game? And the FBI? Were they really there to enforce the law, or was it all part of some bigger conspiracy?

Honestly, I don’t know. But here’s what I do know: the odds may never lie, but they sure as hell don’t tell the whole story. And if you’re gonna bet on something, maybe don’t make it the next president of the United States.

As for Shayne? He’s still out there, somewhere, watching the markets like a hawk. And me? I’m just happy I got my burrito that night. Because when it comes to political betting, the stakes are high—but so is the chance you’ll end up on a couch, explaining yourself to the FBI.