Gambling Our Future?

1000 push-ups a day in prison for the White Race taught me power dynamics.

Prologue: The Currency of Power and the Sandbag Hustle

Power’s a slippery bastard—not a throne or a gun, but whatever you can trade. That currency shifts like a con man’s story. In prison, it wasn’t cash that ran the yard—it was soups. Top Ramen, salty packs swapping for favors, drugs, a blind eye. I’ve seen men shanked over beef flavor, shotcallers stack shrimp like gold. Out here, it’s votes, headlines, likes—same game, different coins.

The trick’s the sandbag hustle: a slow-play scam—bait the mark with a sure thing, tilt odds while they’re hooked. Pool hall sleight-of-hand—lose a few, play chump, clean the table when bets fatten. Power’s in the frame: make ‘em think they’re winning, feed rope to hang ‘em, keep it rigged so the house cashes out. Control the hustle, control the game—soups or souls.

Showboating screws it, though. Flex too hard, strut like king, you tip your hand. Loudmouth shotcallers — all tats and swagger, flashing ramen empires, barking orders, talking shit — until they get regulated by their own race in the shower. Power’s quiet, not a peacock’s tail; braggarts lose long.

Prison doesn’t mess around when it comes to race—it carves the divides deep: Black, Brown, White, no negotiation, no opting out. The yard lays down the rules, and your skin becomes the bars you’re locked behind. Step over those lines, and you’re tasting metal—shanks or cuffs, take your pick.

I didn’t choose White; it chose me, shaped the way I had to move, twisted the play before I even got my hands on the pieces. That’s the unvarnished truth of it—power might flow through the hustle, might spark in the way you carry yourself, but the deck’s rigged long before you even pull up a chair.

I’ve lived it—counted soups, felt tilts, watched loud fall. Yard to world, power dynamics mask as fair fights, crack with noise. Sandbag’s running us, showboating’s the flaw—know who’s overplaying before we dive in.

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Are We Gambling?

In prison, time bends like a spoon in a junkie’s hand—slow, deliberate, warped. I had hours to kill, so I filled ‘em with push-ups. A lot of ‘em. At my peak, I was cranking 1,000 a day, sets of 100, sweat pooling on the concrete like offerings to the gods of monotony. I kept to myself—gray hair and a don’t-ask-me-shit vibe bought me that much. But solitude’s fragile in there. Someone always notices.

One day, a shotcaller—big, tatted from neck to knuckles—rolled up. I squared up, thinking it was about respect or some ghost debt. Nah. He was there for business. Gambling business. Next thing I know, I’m the centerpiece in a sandbag hustle straight out of a grimy pool hall. Me, the scrawny old bird, pitted against some yoked-up bro or jacked homie who looked like he bench-pressed the stack. Bigger they are…

How It Played on the Yard
They’d clock me first—old man, lean build, no ink, no gang. Easy mark. The kind of bet you make without thinking, like tossing change in a fountain. They’d talk low, smirking, sizing me up against some yoked-up youngster, a wall of ink and muscle rippling under the yard’s harsh sun. No contest. Free money. The line would form fast—voices buzzing, soups and stamps flashing. Everyone wanted a piece of the sure thing.

Then the game would start. Slow at first, just enough to keep it believable. A couple reps, a little strain, maybe a grunt for effect—selling the chump act hard. The kid beside me would push fast, reckless, chest puffed out, grinning like he’d already won. Me? I’d keep it steady, keep it clean—but not too clean. Had to let ‘em see weakness, let the confidence rise. The shotcaller’d circle, egging it on, tossing out jabs—“Graybeard’s done, look at him shake!”—while the bets piled higher, the pot swelling with every nod.

And right when it locked—when the stakes hit peak, soups stacked knee-deep—I’d flip the switch. Breathing steady, deep pulls from the gut. Form tight, elbows locked, no wobble. Rhythm sharp, like a metronome cutting through the yard’s chaos. Count climbing past what should’ve been possible—50, 75, 100, more. The youngster starts shaking, arms buckling, sweat dripping like he’s melting. They realize—too late—it ain’t about size. It’s lungs. It’s legs. It’s time. I keep moving, stacking reps, breaking limits while the yard goes dead quiet, concrete holding its breath.

The easy-money bettors, licking their chops a minute ago, start shifting, avoiding eye contact. Some laugh it off, nervous barks echoing off the walls; others get mad, fists clenching, but it don’t matter—the house already got its cut. This ain’t about a push-up contest. It’s control. Shot Callers play the long game, keeping races mixed—Black, Brown, White, forced to mingle for once—debts moving, power balanced just enough to keep the machine fed. They’d whisper later, “Old man’s got it,” but by then the soups were gone, redistributed, the hustle complete.

It’s an illusion, a con—the promise of a sure thing turned to regret. No matter how many times they watched it play out, they’d still bite. Greed don’t learn, pride don’t listen. The house counts on that, thrives on division, that sweet tilt keeping the shotcallers fat. I’d hear ‘em later, replaying it in the cellblock—“Should’ve known, that gray bastard’s a ringer”—but they never did. Next week, same game, new marks, fresh bets. The yard’s a carousel, and the sandbag keeps spinning.

And me? Just a piece in the trick, built into the system. Win or lose didn’t matter—I had to keep repping, keep selling the lie, keep the game alive. The hustle wasn’t mine; I was the bait, the prop, the sandbag swinging. Shotcallers didn’t care if I dropped or not, long as the pot grew. I’d finish, chest heaving, concrete slick under me, while they counted their take, already eyeing the next chump to reel in.

But showboating bit ‘em. That shotcaller—call him Snickers—loved the spotlight. Strutted, flexed his tats, flashed his soup stash like a kingpin. Worked till it didn’t. Got too loud, paraded his haul—next morning, a quieter crew jacked him blind. Power’s in the hustle, not the swagger; showboating turns leverage into a target. I saw it again with the most of the big dudes—all bravado, running a protection racket. Flexed at chow, loud as hell, till a rival crew took their soup and rep. Then some short, stocky tattoo guy—inked swastikas, raked soups quietly—bragged at rec, got his gear smashed, ate ramen off the floor. Showboating’s the crack—king for a day, chump for a lifetime.

The game was never about push-ups. It was control—power dynamics on concrete. Ain’t that what’s happening out here, in the free world, right now?

Flip to the political circus—same sandbag hustle, different yard. Anti-Trump crowd—haters or fatigued—herded into one pen. Pitch: bet against the orange menace—he’s chump, you’re shark. Game shifts—policies with 31% backing—open borders, green agendas gutting workers, culture war grenades—slip in. You’re locked on winning, miss the tilt.

Sandbagging, pure. Frame’s democracy, justice—you’re all-in on a bad hand. House fleeces, not bets. It’s the machine, thriving while we scrap. Showboaters—Trump’s bombast, left’s sanctimony—flash clout like a Shot Caller. Machine stays quiet, tilting while loudmouths burn.

We’re betting futures on prison-scam systems. Polls say under a third back big plays—open borders, men in girls sports, government status quo—yet they creep. How? Hustle distracts. Anti-Trump doubles down; MAGA bets blind. Pot grows, we’re hooked.

Prison taught me: house wins unless you quit—or showboaters overreach. T-Bone ran a dice game, all flash—crowed loud, lost his stash mid-roll to a silent crew. Out here, sandbag’s everywhere—TV, phone, algorithms, news cycle. Politicians flexing loud? Power dims.

Move? See sandbag and showboating for what they cost. Call it. Laugh. Starve it. House wins if we buy the frame; loud lose when we stop clapping.

Are we gambling? Hell yeah. Swallow spin, pick teams, toss dice. What if we stopped their hustle, played ours—raw, not red-blue, not broke with shotcallers grinning?

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Epilogue: The Obama-Trump Voter—Breaking the Sandbag

Wild card in this hustle: Obama-Trump voter—Gen Xer, punk rock to internet, mixtapes and mistrust. Bet hope in ’08, chaos in ’16. Not pawns—antagonists house didn’t clock.

We learned the system’s rigged. Obama’s tune felt real—change, not fluff. Banks fattened, we got foreclosures, turned. Trump: Molotov, not savior. No MAGA hats wholesale—just burn it, see what stands.

Pattern: we don’t stay bought. Sandbag needs lock-in. We shift. Not red-blue—cheer Trump against machine, ditch him when he’s shotcaller. Fails? Pivot. No tears, no showboating—just quiet moves keeping us free.

Power house can’t game. Support’s a moving target. No sucker double-down—call bluff, flip bird, rewrite odds. Parties hate it—want sheep. We’re strays, wise to fixes.

Play’s not hills, but loose, sharp, low-key. Obama-Trump’s a signal—break sandbag, ditch cockfight, bet bigger. Trump flops? Turn. Machine wins? Torch it. Not here to lose—or strut. Here to keep it honest. You with me?

Ric