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Altcoin Costs is a phenomenal wordpress primarily based cryptocurrency record with USD worth, market cap and quantity associated info for over 1,000 altcoins.

(BTC) Bitcoin, (ETH) Ethereum, (XRP) Ripple, (LTC) Litecoin, (DASH) Sprint, (ETC) Ethereum Basic, (XEM) NEM, (XMR) Monero, (REP) Augur, (MAID) MaidSafeCoin, (GNT) Golem, (ZEC) Zcash, (DCR) Decred, (PIVX) PIVX, (USDT) Tether, (FCT) Factom, (GAME) GameCredits, (BCC) BitConnect, (DOGE) Dogecoin, (STRAT) Stratis, (WAVES) Waves, (STEEM) Steem, (DGD) DigixDAO, (LSK) Lisk, (ICN) Iconomi, (ARDR) Ardor, (SNGLS) SingularDTV, (XLM) Stellar Lumens, (BCN) Bytecoin, (BTS) BitShares, (ROUND) Spherical, (GBYTE) Byteball, (NXT) Nxt, (1ST) First Blood, (PPC) Peercoin, (SJCX) Storjcoin X, (RLC) RLC, (SC) Siacoin, (EMC) Emercoin, (SYS) SysCoin, (MLN) Melon, (ARK) Ark, (KMD) Komodo, (LKK) Lykke, (NXS) Nexus, (NLG) Gulden, (XZC) ZCoin, (CRB) Creditbit, (NMC) Namecoin, (XAUR) Xaurum, (TRST) WeTrust, (BCY) Bitcrystals, (BAY) BitBay, (CRW) Crown, (XCP) Counterparty, (BTCD) BitcoinDark, (NAV) NAV Coin, (POSW) PoSW Coin, (ANS) AntShares, (AGRS) Agoras Tokens, (DGB) DigiByte, (BLK) BlackCoin, (UBQ) Ubiq, (AMP) Synereo, (POT) PotCoin, (EDG) Edgeless, (SKY) Skycoin, (TIME) Chronobank, (NXC) Nexium, (SWT) Swarm Metropolis, (VSL) vSlice, (IOC) I/O Coin, (YBC) YbCoin, (MONA) MonaCoin, (ION) ION, (NVC) Novacoin, (EXP) Expanse, (RBY) Rubycoin, (EDR) E-Dinar Coin, (INCNT) Incent, (RADS) Radium, (BLOCK) Blocknet, (LBC) LBRY Credit, ([email protected]) Bankcoin, (ZCL) ZClassic, (GRC) GridCoin, (MUE) MonetaryUnit, (BELA) BelaCoin, (XBC) Bitcoin Plus, (VIA) Viacoin, (SLR) SolarCoin, (BURST) Burst, (VASH) VPNCoin, (OMNI) Omni, (SIB) SIBCoin, (XPM) Primecoin, (CLAM) Clams, (GCR) World Foreign money Reserve, (GOLOS) Golos, (ARC) ArcticCoin, (VTC) Vertcoin, (NAUT) NautilusCoin, (SDC) ShadowCash, (UNITY) SuperNET, (HEAT) HEAT, (PEPECASH) Pepe Money, (NEOS) NeosCoin, (AEON) Aeon, (LMC) LoMoCoin, (DAR) Darcrus, (VRS) Veros, (PASC) Pascal Coin, (GLD) GoldCoin, (ENRG) Energycoin, (FAIR) FairCoin, (MOON) Mooncoin, (FTC) Feathercoin, (VRC) VeriCoin, (JINN) Jinn, (SLS) SaluS, (SPR) SpreadCoin, (CLOAK) CloakCoin, (ZENI) Zennies, (BSD) BitSend, (RDD) ReddCoin, (FLO) FlorinCoin, (SHIFT) Shift, (EMC2) Einsteinium, (CCRB) CryptoCarbon, (PINK) PinkCoin, (FRST) FirstCoin, (GAM) Gambit, (EAC) EarthCoin, (XAS) Asch, (UNO) Unobtanium, (OK) OKCash, (GRS) Groestlcoin, (AUR) Auroracoin, (BTM) Bitmark, (XVC) Vcash, (BTA) Bata, (SBD) Steem Dollars, (YOC) Yocoin, (FLDC) FoldingCoin, (NOTE) DNotes, (SAFEX) Secure Trade Coin, (XBB) Boolberry, (DMD) Diamond, (CURE) CureCoin, (CNT) Centurion, (TX) TransferCoin, (MEC) Megacoin, (BLOCKPAY) BlockPay, (CHC) ChainCoin, (XDN) DigitalNote, (ATMS) Atmos, (XVG) Verge, (WBB) Wild Beast Block, (BOST) BoostCoin, (VISIO) Visio, (RIC) Riecoin, (OBITS) OBITS, (WDC) WorldCoin, (XSPEC) Spectrecoin, (SPHR) Sphere, (HKG) Hacker Gold, (PDC) Challenge Decorum, (VTR) vTorrent, (EMV) Ethereum Film Enterprise, (TRIG) Triggers, (MER) Mercury, (INSANE) InsaneCoin, (QRK) Quark, (ADCN) Asiadigicoin, (JNS) Janus, (SEQ) Sequence, (TIPS) FedoraCoin, (BPC) Bitpark Coin, (ADC) AudioCoin, (ZCC) ZcCoin, (VLT) Veltor, (MUSIC) Musicoin, (BITB) BitBean, (XHI) HiCoin, (RISE) Rise, (BRX) Breakout Stake, (HUC) HunterCoin, (XRB) RaiBlocks, (DYN) Dynamic, (ZEIT) Zeitcoin, (EXCL) ExclusiveCoin, (J) Joincoin, (IFC) Infinitecoin, (DGC) Digitalcoin, (BITCNY) bitCNY, (ADZ) Adzcoin, (XCN) Cryptonite, (FCN) Fantomcoin, (PUT) PutinCoin, (MILO) MiloCoin, (BRK) Breakout, (BASH) LuckChain, (ERC) EuropeCoin, (QWARK) Qwark, (ICASH) iCash, (QORA) Qora, (TRUMP) TrumpCoin, (XMY) Myriad, (EFL) e-Gulden, (IXC) Ixcoin, (FC2) FuelCoin, (XBY) XtraBYtes, (ZET) Zetacoin, (EL) Elcoin, (TKS) Tokes, (COVAL) Circuits of Worth, (HPC) Happycoin, (XTO) Tao, (CADASTRAL) Bitland, (BLITZ) Blitzcash, (RNS) Renos, (TAG) TagCoin, (MSCN) Grasp Swiscoin, (ATOM) Atomic Coin, (GEO) GeoCoin, (SWIFT) Bitswift, (TIT) Titcoin, (SRC) SecureCoin, (PSB) Pesobit, (CANN) CannabisCoin, (VOX) Voxels, (2GIVE) 2GIVE, (INPAY) Inpay, (ESP) Espers, (SNRG) Synergy, (ABY) ArtByte, (TES) TeslaCoin, (START) Startcoin, (XMG) Magi, (QTL) Quatloo, (VRM) VeriumReserve, (CSC) CasinoCoin, (EGC) EvergreenCoin, (MEME) Pepe, (TOR) Torcoin, (JWL) Jewels, (XST) Stealthcoin, (SYNX) Syndicate, (TRC) Terracoin, (KOBO) Kobocoin, (XWC) WhiteCoin, (MOIN) Moin, (MZC) MazaCoin, (XVP) Virtacoinplus, (XTC) TileCoin, (MED) MediterraneanCoin, (ORB) Orbitcoin, (THC) HempCoin, (TRUST) TrustPlus, (DOPE) DopeCoin, (YASH) YashCoin, (POST) PostCoin, (CPC) Capricoin, (NSR) NuShares, (KORE) KoreCoin, (I0C) I0Coin, (RBT) Rimbit, (CARBON) Carboncoin, (MOJO) MojoCoin, (PRC) PRCoin, (BLRY) BillaryCoin, (PKB) ParkByte, (8BIT) 8Bit, (SMC) SmartCoin, (RBIES) Rubies, (NOBL) NobleCoin, (DEM) Deutsche eMark, (XCT) C-Bit, (UIS) Unitus, (GCC) TheGCCcoin, (BTB) BitBar, (LANA) LanaCoin, (FRC) Freicoin, (CJ) Cryptojacks, (LTB) LiteBar, (ZDASH) Zdash, (TRK) Truckcoin, (BUCKS) SwagBucks, (USNBT) NuBits, (BYC) Bytecent, (PIP) PipCoin, (ZOI) Zoin, (CCN) Cannacoin, (VIDZ) PureVidz, (KURT) Kurrent, (ZER) Zero, (MTM) MTMGaming, (DRACO) DT Token, (DOT) Dotcoin, (SXC) Sexcoin, (KRB) Karbowanec, (INFX) Influxcoin, (BITS) Bitstar, (BITUSD) bitUSD, (CNO) Coin(O), (GB) GoldBlocks, (SLG) Sterlingcoin, (BRIT) BritCoin, (TRI) Triangles, (UNB) UnbreakableCoin, (ATX) Artex Coin, (SWING) Swing, (HONEY) Honey, (ALL) Allion, (PASL) Pascal Lite, (MAC) Machinecoin, (GP) GoldPieces, (ERY) Eryllium, (HZ) Horizon, (GAIA) GAIA, (HXX) Hexx, (WEX) Wexcoin, (CBX) Crypto Bullion, (BITBTC) bitBTC, (CREVA) CrevaCoin, (FRN) Francs, (IMS) Unbiased Cash System, (BITEUR) bitEUR, (IMX) Influence, (BLC) Blakecoin, (XRA) Ratecoin, (42) 42-coin, (C2) Coin2.1, (BTCR) Bitcurrency, (BERN) BERNcash, (ENT) Eternity, (MI) Xiaomicoin, (EMD) Emerald Crypto, (ICOB) ICOBID, (XCI) Hashish Business Coin, (HBN) HoboNickels, (GAP) Gapcoin, (PHS) Thinker Stones, (QBK) Qibuck, (CHESS) ChessCoin, (BSTY) GlobalBoost-Y, (UNI) Universe, (NEVA) NevaCoin, (ARCO) AquariusCoin, (BIC) Bikercoin, (XLR) Solaris, (EVO) Evotion, (BVC) BeaverCoin, (LUNA) Luna Coin, (SFC) Solarflarecoin, (ELS) Elysium, (ACOIN) Acoin, (CON) PayCon, (XBTS) Beatcoin, (420G) GanjaCoin, (MAR) Marijuanacoin, (XNG) Enigma, (DGCS) Digital Credit, (ASAFE) AllSafe, (WGC) World Gold Coin, (CALC) CaliphCoin, (SOAR) Soarcoin, (ARC) Arcade Token, (WCT) Waves Neighborhood Token, (DEX) InstantDEX, (MUSE) MUSE, (DBIC) DubaiCoin, (LOG) Woodcoin, (MINT) Mintcoin, (RC) RussiaCoin, (AC) AsiaCoin, (PANGEA) Pangea Poker, (ICOO) ICO OpenLedger, (CASINO) On line casino, (USC) Final Safe Money, (UNIBURST) UniBURST, (SCOT) Scotcoin, (PND) Pandacoin, (PTC) Pesetacoin, (FUND) Cryptofund, (DSH) Dashcoin, (TIX) Tickets, (MNM) Mineum, (DRS) Digital Rupees, (CDN) Canada eCoin, (GEMZ) GetGems, (VLTC) Vault Coin, (LTBC) LTBcoin, (MAX) MaxCoin, (GLC) GlobalCoin, (CV2) Colossuscoin V2, (ECC) E-Foreign money Coin , (BLU) BlueCoin, (808) 808Coin, (TSTR) Tristar Coin, (REE) ReeCoin, (TALK) BTCtalkcoin, (FUNK) The Cypherfunks, (HTC) HitCoin, (BTSR) BTSR, (AMS) AmsterdamCoin, (SHORTY) Shorty, (BITZ) Bitz, (TSE) Tattoocoin (Customary Version), (CAGE) CageCoin, (NET) NetCoin, (UNITS) GameUnits, (VC) VirtualCoin, (FLY) Flycoin, (RAREPEPEPRTY) Uncommon Pepe Celebration, (LOT) LottoCoin, (HODL) HOdlcoin, (TROLL) Trollcoin, (SMLY) SmileyCoin, (PIGGY) Piggycoin, (NKA) IncaKoin, (XPY) PayCoin, (NEU) NeuCoin, (LDOGE) LiteDoge, (TEK) TEKcoin, (1337) 1337, (MXT) MarteXcoin, (PAK) Pakcoin, (CAP) Bottlecaps, (FLT) FlutterCoin, (NLC2) NoLimitCoin, (RED) RedCoin, (FST) Fastcoin, (METAL) MetalCoin, (ELE) Elementrem, (DLC) Dollarcoin, (QCN) QuazarCoin, (XPD) PetroDollar, (DRAGON) BTCDragon, (KTN) KarmaToken, (BITSILVER) bitSilver, (SLING) Sling, (NTRN) Neutron, (NETKO) Netko, (CORG) CorgiCoin, (GRN) Granite, (WAY) WayGuide, (KUSH) KushCoin, (XRE) RevolverCoin, (ANC) Anoncoin, (KLC) KiloCoin, (ARG) Argentum, (UFO) UFO Coin, (AMBER) AmberCoin, (GCN) GCoin, (GREV2) Greencoin, (BIP) BipCoin, (SPEX) SproutsExtreme, (YAC) Yacoin, (TTC) TittieCoin, (JIN) Jin Coin, (XPTX) PlatinumBAR, (COXST) CoExistCoin, (SPRTS) Sprouts, (CCM100) CCMiner, (HYP) HyperStake, (DBTC) Debitcoin, (STS) Stress, (ZYD) Zayedcoin, (GUN) Guncoin, (NYAN) Nyancoin, (PXI) Prime-XI, (BIGUP) BigUp, (MAD) SatoshiMadness, (PX) PX, (FJC) FujiCoin, (EBT) Ebittree Coin, (LEX) Lex4All, (AU) AurumCoin, (UNIT) Common Foreign money, (HTML5) HTMLCOIN, (XCO) X-Coin, (CWXT) CryptoWorldX Token, (FRK) Franko, (NEWB) Newbium, (MGM) Magnum, (XBTC21) Bitcoin 21, (DRM) Dreamcoin, (SPACE) SpaceCoin, (U) UCoin, (BTD) Bitcloud, (FLVR) FlavorCoin, (DP) DigitalPrice, (PR) Prototanium, (CRX) Chronos, (WMC) WMCoin, (GRT) Grantcoin, (LVPS) LevoPlus, (FDC) Future Digital Foreign money, (BITGOLD) bitGold, (HMP) HempCoin, (ANTI) AntiBitcoin, (UNIC) UniCoin, (PONZI) PonziCoin, (STV) Sativacoin, (CUBE) DigiCube, (XJO) Joulecoin, (CYP) Cypher, (BIOS) BiosCrypto, (GBT) GameBet Coin, (MST) MustangCoin, (888) OctoCoin, (ISL) IslaCoin, (ZUR) Zurcoin, (URO) Uro, (CESC) CryptoEscudo, (POP) PopularCoin, (611) SixEleven, (FIRE) Firecoin, (EVIL) Evil Coin, (TAJ) TajCoin, (SCRT) SecretCoin, (ARB) ARbit, (DES) Future, (ACP) AnarchistsPrime, (SONG) SongCoin, (B3) B3Coin, (BUMBA) BumbaCoin, (BOLI) Bolivarcoin, (AGLC) AgrolifeCoin, (SOON) SoonCoin, (WARP) WARP, (ARI) Aricoin, (GCC) GuccioneCoin, (BOB) Dobbscoin, (RPC) RonPaulCoin, (PLNC) PLNcoin, (ORLY) Orlycoin, (SPT) Spots, (XCRE) Creatio, (TGC) Tigercoin, (CTO) Crypto, (ZNY) Bitzeny, (VPRC) VapersCoin, (VIP) VIP Tokens, (GPU) GPU Coin, (RIDE) Trip My Automotive, (PIE) PIECoin, (EUC) Eurocoin, (PULSE) Pulse, (URC) Unrealcoin, (BUN) BunnyCoin, (ABN) Abncoin, (LIR) LetItRide, (CAB) Cabbage, (BTQ) BitQuark, (BLZ) BlazeCoin, (STEPS) Steps, (DLISK) DAPPSTER, (SCORE) Scorecoin, (LTCR) Litecred, (MND) MindCoin, (HMC) Hommalicoin, (DUO) ParallelCoin, (WORM) HealthyWormCoin, (OCEAN) BurstOcean, (AUM) Alexium, (OS76) OsmiumCoin, (FUZZ) FuzzBalls, (ICON) Iconic, (LEA) LeaCoin, (VEC2) Vector, (CMT) Comet, (FLAX) Flaxscript, (HVCO) Excessive Voltage, (BIOB) BioBar, (JOBS) JobsCoin, (CONX) Concoin, (EGO) EGO, (BSTAR) Blackstar, (DPAY) DPAY, (G3N) G3N, (BXT) BitTokens, (IBANK) iBank, (JIO) JIO Token, (BSC) BowsCoin, ($$$) Cash, (MTLMC3) Steel Music Coin, (CXT) Coinonat, (SH) Shilling, (PEX) PosEx, (HIRO) Hirocoin, (PRX) Printerium, (XRC) Rawcoin, (MEOW) Kittehcoin, (BENJI) BenjiRolls, (XOC) Xonecoin, (TAGR) TAGRcoin, (CF) Californium, (GUA) Guarany, (SDP) SydPak, (REV) Revenu, (IMPS) ImpulseCoin, (ZNE) Zonecoin, (PHO) Photon, (ALTC) Antilitecoin, (NYC) NewYorkCoin, (GEERT) GeertCoin, (IMPCH) Impeachcoin, (SANDG) Save and Achieve, (CASH) Cashcoin, (SLFI) Selfiecoin, (NODC) NodeCoin, (1CR) 1CRedit, (P7C) P7Coin, (ARGUS) Argus, (HAM) HamRadioCoin, (DOLLAR) Greenback On-line, (XEN) Xenixcoin, (PWR) Powercoin, (ZHS) Zcashshare, (MBIT) Mbitbooks, (BOAT) Doubloon, (TOKEN) SwapToken, (CRT) CRTCoin, (PIZZA) PizzaCoin, (CSH) Cashout, (MUG) MikeTheMug, (DIX) Dix Asset, (CHAO) 23 Skidoo, (SATOSHICARD) SATOSHICARD, (XOT) Web of Issues, (BTU) Bitcoin Limitless (Futures), (AMIS) AMIS, (ACCI) NxttyACCI, (FRGC) Fargocoin, (ALT) Altcoin, (ECN) E-coin, (IOP) Web of Individuals, (DBIX) DubaiCoin, (XDE2) XDE II, (PLU) Pluton, (XFC) Forevercoin, (ZBC) Zilbercoin, (YOG) Yogold, (TESLA) TeslaCoilCoin, (PIO) Pioneershares, (BTG) Bitgem, (FAZZ) Fazzcoin, (TAAS) TaaS (Pre-Launch), (THS) TechShares, (DMC) DynamicCoin, (LEO) LEOcoin, (DIBC) DIBCOIN, (DTB) Databits, (DCT) Respectable (Pre-Launch), (CLUB) ClubCoin, (EB3) EB3 Coin, (WGO) WavesGo, (GAY) GAYcoin, (DEUS) DeusCoin, (GUP) Guppy (Pre-Launch), (APC) AlpaCoin, (WINGS) Wings (Pre-Launch), (TROPTIONS) TROPTIONS, (GBG) Golos Gold, (PCS) Pabyosi Coin (Particular), (WEC) Wowecoin, (WA) WA Area, (AXF) AxFunds, (DWC) DeepWebCash, (IVZ) InvisibleCoin, (WYV) Wyvern, (BUK) CryptoBuck, (OMC) Omicron, (UTA) UtaCoin, (DTF) Digitalfund, (ACN) Avoncoin, (EDRC) EDRCoin, (ZSE) ZSEcoin, (LDCN) LandCoin, (XID) Worldwide Diamond, (ELC) Elacoin, (GARY) President Johnson, (RHFC) RHFCoin, (TLE) Tattoocoin (Restricted Version), (MG) Thoughts Gene, (LEC) LeCoin, (GBC) GBCGoldCoin, (DASHS) Dashs, (DCRE) DeltaCredits, (HLB) Lepaoquan, (TP1) KolschCoin, (BIT) First Bitcoin, (OPAL) Opal, (HNC) Helleniccoin, (SHELL) ShellPay, (RBX) Ripto Bux, (KED) Darsek, (RYCN) RoyalCoin 2, (BTCS) Bitcoin Scrypt, (HAL) Halcyon, (SAK) Sharkcoin, (EGG) EggCoin, (BGC) BagCoin, (PSY) Psilocybin, (GMF) Grumfork, (PRES) President Trump, (TERA) TeraCoin, (NTCC) Neptune Basic, (UTC) UltraCoin, (XAU) Xaucoin, (BURN) President Sanders, (MAVRO) Mavro, (RICHX) RichCoin, (NBIT) netBit, (AV) AvatarCoin, (BLAZR) BlazerCoin, (AIB) Superior Web Blocks, (XGR) GoldReserve, (TRICK) TrickyCoin, (KASHH) KashhCoin, (XQN) Quotient, (BCF) BitcoinFast, (CNC) CHNCoin, (UR) UR, (CLINT) Clinton, (GML) GameLeagueCoin, (BXC) Bitcedi, (ROYAL) RoyalCoin, (BEST) BestChain, (FUN) Alphabet Coin Fund, (MOTO) Motocoin, (XVS) Vsync, (FRWC) FrankyWillCoin, (OCOW) OCOW, (ADT) The Aladin, (WSX) WeAreSatoshi, (OPES) Opescoin, (TCOIN) T-coin, (MMXVI) MMXVI, (PXC) Phoenixcoin, (TODAY) TodayCoin, (TIC) True Funding Coin, (SKC) Skeincoin, (LFC) BigLifeCoin, (XVE) The Vegan Initiative, (DBG) Digital Bullion Gold, (ASC) AsicCoin, (DUB) Dubstep, (MONETA) Moneta, (RUBIT) RubleBit, (BRAIN) Braincoin, (GMB) Gambleo, (QBC) Quebecoin, (LAZ) Lazaruscoin, (MARX) MarxCoin, (SPORT) SportsCoin, (MCRN) MACRON, (BAC) BitAlphaCoin, (CBD) CBD Crystals, (SKR) Sakuracoin, (QBT) Cubits, (DISK) DarkLisk, (GAIN) UGAIN, (OP) Operand, (PRM) PrismChain, (HCC) Completely satisfied Creator Coin, (CYC) Biking Coin, (LEPEN) LePen, (GMX) GoldMaxCoin, (LTH) LAthaan, (GBRC) World Enterprise Revolution, (TCR) TheCreed, (LKC) LinkedCoin, (MBL) MobileCash, (FEDS) FedoraShare, (POKE) PokeCoin, (TEAM) TeamUp, (VGC) VegasCoin, (UNC) UNCoin, (CC) CyberCoin, (PAYP) PayPeer, (TELL) Tellurion, (MONEY) MoneyCoin, (XSTC) Secure Commerce Coin, (PDG) PinkDog, (WOW) Wowcoin, (IFLT) InflationCoin, (ACES) Aces, (YES) Yescoin, (FFC) FireFlyCoin, (CME) Cashme, (STRB) SuperTurboStake, (SOUL) SoulCoin, (HILL) President Clinton, (RCN) Rcoin, (PBC) PabyosiCoin, (X2) X2, (CHOOF) ChoofCoin, (VTY) Victoriouscoin, (VAL) Valorbit, (DIME) Dimecoin, (VTA) Virtacoin, (DVC) Devcoin, (XP) XP, (NBE) BitCentavo, (PAC) Paccoin

and lots of extra!

Altcoin Prices is a beautiful wordpress based cryptocurrency list with USD value, market cap and volume related information for over 1,000 altcoins.(BTC) Bitcoin, (ETH) Ethereum, (XRP) Ripple, (LTC) Litecoin, (DASH) Dash, (ETC) Ethereum Classic, (XEM) NEM, (XMR) Monero, (REP) Augur, (MAID) MaidSafeCoin, (GNT) Golem, (ZEC) Zcash, (DCR) Decred, (PIVX) PIVX, (USDT) Tether, (FCT) Factom, (GAME) GameCredits, (BCC) BitConnect, (DOGE) Dogecoin, (STRAT) Stratis, (WAVES) Waves, (STEEM) Steem, (DGD) DigixDAO, (LSK) Lisk, (ICN) Iconomi, (ARDR) Ardor, (SNGLS) SingularDTV, (XLM) Stellar Lumens, (BCN) Bytecoin, (BTS) BitShares, (ROUND) Round, (GBYTE) Byteball, (NXT) Nxt, (1ST) First Blood, (PPC) Peercoin, (SJCX) Storjcoin X, (RLC) RLC, (SC) Siacoin, (EMC) Emercoin, (SYS) SysCoin, (MLN) Melon, (ARK) Ark, (KMD) Komodo, (LKK) Lykke, (NXS) Nexus, (NLG) Gulden, (XZC) ZCoin, (CRB) Creditbit, (NMC) Namecoin, (XAUR) Xaurum, (TRST) WeTrust, (BCY) Bitcrystals, (BAY) BitBay, (CRW) Crown, (XCP) Counterparty, (BTCD) BitcoinDark, (NAV) NAV Coin, (POSW) PoSW Coin, (ANS) AntShares, (AGRS) Agoras Tokens, (DGB) DigiByte, (BLK) BlackCoin, (UBQ) Ubiq, (AMP) Synereo, (POT) PotCoin, (EDG) Edgeless, (SKY) Skycoin, (TIME) Chronobank, (NXC) Nexium, (SWT) Swarm City, (VSL) vSlice, (IOC) I/O Coin, (YBC) YbCoin, (MONA) MonaCoin, (ION) ION, (NVC) Novacoin, (EXP) Expanse, (RBY) Rubycoin, (EDR) E-Dinar Coin, (INCNT) Incent, (RADS) Radium, (BLOCK) Blocknet, (LBC) LBRY Credits, (B@) Bankcoin, (ZCL) ZClassic, (GRC) GridCoin, (MUE) MonetaryUnit, (BELA) BelaCoin, (XBC) Bitcoin Plus, (VIA) Viacoin, (SLR) SolarCoin, (BURST) Burst, (VASH) VPNCoin, (OMNI) Omni, (SIB) SIBCoin, (XPM) Primecoin, (CLAM) Clams, (GCR) Global Currency Reserve, (GOLOS) Golos, (ARC) ArcticCoin, (VTC) Vertcoin, (NAUT) NautilusCoin, (SDC) ShadowCash, (UNITY) SuperNET, (HEAT) HEAT, (PEPECASH) Pepe Cash, (NEOS) NeosCoin, (AEON) Aeon, (LMC) LoMoCoin, (DAR) Darcrus, (VRS) Veros, (PASC) Pascal Coin, (GLD) GoldCoin, (ENRG) Energycoin, (FAIR) FairCoin, (MOON) Mooncoin, (FTC) Feathercoin, (VRC) VeriCoin, (JINN) Jinn, (SLS) SaluS, (SPR) SpreadCoin, (CLOAK) CloakCoin, (ZENI) Zennies, (BSD) BitSend, (RDD) ReddCoin, (FLO) FlorinCoin, (SHIFT) Shift, (EMC2) Einsteinium, (CCRB) CryptoCarbon, (PINK) PinkCoin, (FRST) FirstCoin, (GAM) Gambit, (EAC) EarthCoin, (XAS) Asch, (UNO) Unobtanium, (OK) OKCash, (GRS) Groestlcoin, (AUR) Auroracoin, (BTM) Bitmark, (XVC) Vcash, (BTA) Bata, (SBD) Steem Dollars, (YOC) Yocoin, (FLDC) FoldingCoin, (NOTE) DNotes, (SAFEX) Safe Exchange Coin, (XBB) Boolberry, (DMD) Diamond, (CURE) CureCoin, (CNT) Centurion, (TX) TransferCoin, (MEC) Megacoin, (BLOCKPAY) BlockPay, (CHC) ChainCoin, (XDN) DigitalNote, (ATMS) Atmos, (XVG) Verge, (WBB) Wild Beast Block, (BOST) BoostCoin, (VISIO) Visio, (RIC) Riecoin, (OBITS) OBITS, (WDC) WorldCoin, (XSPEC) Spectrecoin, (SPHR) Sphere, (HKG) Hacker Gold, (PDC) Project Decorum, (VTR) vTorrent, (EMV) Ethereum Movie Venture, (TRIG) Triggers, (MER) Mercury, (INSANE) InsaneCoin, (QRK) Quark, (ADCN) Asiadigicoin, (JNS) Janus, (SEQ) Sequence, (TIPS) FedoraCoin, (BPC) Bitpark Coin, (ADC) AudioCoin, (ZCC) ZcCoin, (VLT) Veltor, (MUSIC) Musicoin, (BITB) BitBean, (XHI) HiCoin, (RISE) Rise, (BRX) Breakout Stake, (HUC) HunterCoin, (XRB) RaiBlocks, (DYN) Dynamic, (ZEIT) Zeitcoin, (EXCL) ExclusiveCoin, (J) Joincoin, (IFC) Infinitecoin, (DGC) Digitalcoin, (BITCNY) bitCNY, (ADZ) Adzcoin, (XCN) Cryptonite, (FCN) Fantomcoin, (PUT) PutinCoin, (MILO) MiloCoin, (BRK) Breakout, (BASH) LuckChain, (ERC) EuropeCoin, (QWARK) Qwark, (ICASH) iCash, (QORA) Qora, (TRUMP) TrumpCoin, (XMY) Myriad, (EFL) e-Gulden, (IXC) Ixcoin, (FC2) FuelCoin, (XBY) XtraBYtes, (ZET) Zetacoin, (EL) Elcoin, (TKS) Tokes, (COVAL) Circuits of Value, (HPC) Happycoin, (XTO) Tao, (CADASTRAL) Bitland, (BLITZ) Blitzcash, (RNS) Renos, (TAG) TagCoin, (MSCN) Master Swiscoin, (ATOM) Atomic Coin, (GEO) GeoCoin, (SWIFT) Bitswift, (TIT) Titcoin, (SRC) SecureCoin, (PSB) Pesobit, (CANN) CannabisCoin, (VOX) Voxels, (2GIVE) 2GIVE, (INPAY) Inpay, (ESP) Espers, (SNRG) Synergy, (ABY) ArtByte, (TES) TeslaCoin, (START) Startcoin, (XMG) Magi, (QTL) Quatloo, (VRM) VeriumReserve, (CSC) CasinoCoin, (EGC) EvergreenCoin, (MEME) Pepe, (TOR) Torcoin, (JWL) Jewels, (XST) Stealthcoin, (SYNX) Syndicate, (TRC) Terracoin, (KOBO) Kobocoin, (XWC) WhiteCoin, (MOIN) Moin, (MZC) MazaCoin, (XVP) Virtacoinplus, (XTC) TileCoin, (MED) MediterraneanCoin, (ORB) Orbitcoin, (THC) HempCoin, (TRUST) TrustPlus, (DOPE) DopeCoin, (YASH) YashCoin, (POST) PostCoin, (CPC) Capricoin, (NSR) NuShares, (KORE) KoreCoin, (I0C) I0Coin, (RBT) Rimbit, (CARBON) Carboncoin, (MOJO) MojoCoin, (PRC) PRCoin, (BLRY) BillaryCoin, (PKB) ParkByte, (8BIT) 8Bit, (SMC) SmartCoin, (RBIES) Rubies, (NOBL) NobleCoin, (DEM) Deutsche eMark, (XCT) C-Bit, (UIS) Unitus, (GCC) TheGCCcoin, (BTB) BitBar, (LANA) LanaCoin, (FRC) Freicoin, (CJ) Cryptojacks, (LTB) LiteBar, (ZDASH) Zdash, (TRK) Truckcoin, (BUCKS) SwagBucks, (USNBT) NuBits, (BYC) Bytecent, (PIP) PipCoin, (ZOI) Zoin, (CCN) Cannacoin, (VIDZ) PureVidz, (KURT) Kurrent, (ZER) Zero, (MTM) MTMGaming, (DRACO) DT Token, (DOT) Dotcoin, (SXC) Sexcoin, (KRB) Karbowanec, (INFX) Influxcoin, (BITS) Bitstar, (BITUSD) bitUSD, (CNO) Coin(O), (GB) GoldBlocks, (SLG) Sterlingcoin, (BRIT) BritCoin, (TRI) Triangles, (UNB) UnbreakableCoin, (ATX) Artex Coin, (SWING) Swing, (HONEY) Honey, (ALL) Allion, (PASL) Pascal Lite, (MAC) Machinecoin, (GP) GoldPieces, (ERY) Eryllium, (HZ) Horizon, (GAIA) GAIA, (HXX) Hexx, (WEX) Wexcoin, (CBX) Crypto Bullion, (BITBTC) bitBTC, (CREVA) CrevaCoin, (FRN) Francs, (IMS) Independent Money System, (BITEUR) bitEUR, (IMX) Impact, (BLC) Blakecoin, (XRA) Ratecoin, (42) 42-coin, (C2) Coin2.1, (BTCR) Bitcurrency, (BERN) BERNcash, (ENT) Eternity, (MI) Xiaomicoin, (EMD) Emerald Crypto, (ICOB) ICOBID, (XCI) Cannabis Industry Coin, (HBN) HoboNickels, (GAP) Gapcoin, (PHS) Philosopher Stones, (QBK) Qibuck, (CHESS) ChessCoin, (BSTY) GlobalBoost-Y, (UNI) Universe, (NEVA) NevaCoin, (ARCO) AquariusCoin, (BIC) Bikercoin, (XLR) Solaris, (EVO) Evotion, (BVC) BeaverCoin, (LUNA) Luna Coin, (SFC) Solarflarecoin, (ELS) Elysium, (ACOIN) Acoin, (CON) PayCon, (XBTS) Beatcoin, (420G) GanjaCoin, (MAR) Marijuanacoin, (XNG) Enigma, (DGCS) Digital Credits, (ASAFE) AllSafe, (WGC) World Gold Coin, (CALC) CaliphCoin, (SOAR) Soarcoin, (ARC) Arcade Token, (WCT) Waves Community Token, (DEX) InstantDEX, (MUSE) MUSE, (DBIC) DubaiCoin, (LOG) Woodcoin, (MINT) Mintcoin, (RC) RussiaCoin, (AC) AsiaCoin, (PANGEA) Pangea Poker, (ICOO) ICO OpenLedger, (CASINO) Casino, (USC) Ultimate Secure Cash, (UNIBURST) UniBURST, (SCOT) Scotcoin, (PND) Pandacoin, (PTC) Pesetacoin, (FUND) Cryptofund, (DSH) Dashcoin, (TIX) Tickets, (MNM) Mineum, (DRS) Digital Rupees, (CDN) Canada eCoin, (GEMZ) GetGems, (VLTC) Vault Coin, (LTBC) LTBcoin, (MAX) MaxCoin, (GLC) GlobalCoin, (CV2) Colossuscoin V2, (ECC) E-Currency Coin , (BLU) BlueCoin, (808) 808Coin, (TSTR) Tristar Coin, (REE) ReeCoin, (TALK) BTCtalkcoin, (FUNK) The Cypherfunks, (HTC) HitCoin, (BTSR) BTSR, (AMS) AmsterdamCoin, (SHORTY) Shorty, (BITZ) Bitz, (TSE) Tattoocoin (Standard Edition), (CAGE) CageCoin, (NET) NetCoin, (UNITS) GameUnits, (VC) VirtualCoin, (FLY) Flycoin, (RAREPEPEPRTY) Rare Pepe Party, (LOT) LottoCoin, (HODL) HOdlcoin, (TROLL) Trollcoin, (SMLY) SmileyCoin, (PIGGY) Piggycoin, (NKA) IncaKoin, (XPY) PayCoin, (NEU) NeuCoin, (LDOGE) LiteDoge, (TEK) TEKcoin, (1337) 1337, (MXT) MarteXcoin, (PAK) Pakcoin, (CAP) Bottlecaps, (FLT) FlutterCoin, (NLC2) NoLimitCoin, (RED) RedCoin, (FST) Fastcoin, (METAL) MetalCoin, (ELE) Elementrem, (DLC) Dollarcoin, (QCN) QuazarCoin, (XPD) PetroDollar, (DRAGON) BTCDragon, (KTN) KarmaToken, (BITSILVER) bitSilver, (SLING) Sling, (NTRN) Neutron, (NETKO) Netko, (CORG) CorgiCoin, (GRN) Granite, (WAY) WayGuide, (KUSH) KushCoin, (XRE) RevolverCoin, (ANC) Anoncoin, (KLC) KiloCoin, (ARG) Argentum, (UFO) UFO Coin, (AMBER) AmberCoin, (GCN) GCoin, (GREV2) Greencoin, (BIP) BipCoin, (SPEX) SproutsExtreme, (YAC) Yacoin, (TTC) TittieCoin, (JIN) Jin Coin, (XPTX) PlatinumBAR, (COXST) CoExistCoin, (SPRTS) Sprouts, (CCM100) CCMiner, (HYP) HyperStake, (DBTC) Debitcoin, (STS) Stress, (ZYD) Zayedcoin, (GUN) Guncoin, (NYAN) Nyancoin, (PXI) Prime-XI, (BIGUP) BigUp, (MAD) SatoshiMadness, (PX) PX, (FJC) FujiCoin, (EBT) Ebittree Coin, (LEX) Lex4All, (AU) AurumCoin, (UNIT) Universal Currency, (HTML5) HTMLCOIN, (XCO) X-Coin, (CWXT) CryptoWorldX Token, (FRK) Franko, (NEWB) Newbium, (MGM) Magnum, (XBTC21) Bitcoin 21, (DRM) Dreamcoin, (SPACE) SpaceCoin, (U) UCoin, (BTD) Bitcloud, (FLVR) FlavorCoin, (DP) DigitalPrice, (PR) Prototanium, (CRX) Chronos, (WMC) WMCoin, (GRT) Grantcoin, (LVPS) LevoPlus, (FDC) Future Digital Currency, (BITGOLD) bitGold, (HMP) HempCoin, (ANTI) AntiBitcoin, (UNIC) UniCoin, (PONZI) PonziCoin, (STV) Sativacoin, (CUBE) DigiCube, (XJO) Joulecoin, (CYP) Cypher, (BIOS) BiosCrypto, (GBT) GameBet Coin, (MST) MustangCoin, (888) OctoCoin, (ISL) IslaCoin, (ZUR) Zurcoin, (URO) Uro, (CESC) CryptoEscudo, (POP) PopularCoin, (611) SixEleven, (FIRE) Firecoin, (EVIL) Evil Coin, (TAJ) TajCoin, (SCRT) SecretCoin, (ARB) ARbit, (DES) Destiny, (ACP) AnarchistsPrime, (SONG) SongCoin, (B3) B3Coin, (BUMBA) BumbaCoin, (BOLI) Bolivarcoin, (AGLC) AgrolifeCoin, (SOON) SoonCoin, (WARP) WARP, (ARI) Aricoin, (GCC) GuccioneCoin, (BOB) Dobbscoin, (RPC) RonPaulCoin, (PLNC) PLNcoin, (ORLY) Orlycoin, (SPT) Spots, (XCRE) Creatio, (TGC) Tigercoin, (CTO) Crypto, (ZNY) Bitzeny, (VPRC) VapersCoin, (VIP) VIP Tokens, (GPU) GPU Coin, (RIDE) Ride My Car, (PIE) PIECoin, (EUC) Eurocoin, (PULSE) Pulse, (URC) Unrealcoin, (BUN) BunnyCoin, (ABN) Abncoin, (LIR) LetItRide, (CAB) Cabbage, (BTQ) BitQuark, (BLZ) BlazeCoin, (STEPS) Steps, (DLISK) DAPPSTER, (SCORE) Scorecoin, (LTCR) Litecred, (MND) MindCoin, (HMC) Hommalicoin, (DUO) ParallelCoin, (WORM) HealthyWormCoin, (OCEAN) BurstOcean, (AUM) Alexium, (OS76) OsmiumCoin, (FUZZ) FuzzBalls, (ICON) Iconic, (LEA) LeaCoin, (VEC2) Vector, (CMT) Comet, (FLAX) Flaxscript, (HVCO) High Voltage, (BIOB) BioBar, (JOBS) JobsCoin, (CONX) Concoin, (EGO) EGO, (BSTAR) Blackstar, (DPAY) DPAY, (G3N) G3N, (BXT) BitTokens, (IBANK) iBank, (JIO) JIO Token, (BSC) BowsCoin, ($$$) Money, (MTLMC3) Metal Music Coin, (CXT) Coinonat, (SH) Shilling, (PEX) PosEx, (HIRO) Hirocoin, (PRX) Printerium, (XRC) Rawcoin, (MEOW) Kittehcoin, (BENJI) BenjiRolls, (XOC) Xonecoin, (TAGR) TAGRcoin, (CF) Californium, (GUA) Guarany, (SDP) SydPak, (REV) Revenu, (IMPS) ImpulseCoin, (ZNE) Zonecoin, (PHO) Photon, (ALTC) Antilitecoin, (NYC) NewYorkCoin, (GEERT) GeertCoin, (IMPCH) Impeachcoin, (SANDG) Save and Gain, (CASH) Cashcoin, (SLFI) Selfiecoin, (NODC) NodeCoin, (1CR) 1CRedit, (P7C) P7Coin, (ARGUS) Argus, (HAM) HamRadioCoin, (DOLLAR) Dollar Online, (XEN) Xenixcoin, (PWR) Powercoin, (ZHS) Zcashshare, (MBIT) Mbitbooks, (BOAT) Doubloon, (TOKEN) SwapToken, (CRT) CRTCoin, (PIZZA) PizzaCoin, (CSH) Cashout, (MUG) MikeTheMug, (DIX) Dix Asset, (CHAO) 23 Skidoo, (SATOSHICARD) SATOSHICARD, (XOT) Internet of Things, (BTU) Bitcoin Unlimited (Futures), (AMIS) AMIS, (ACCI) NxttyACCI, (FRGC) Fargocoin, (ALT) Altcoin, (ECN) E-coin, (IOP) Internet of People, (DBIX) DubaiCoin, (XDE2) XDE II, (PLU) Pluton, (XFC) Forevercoin, (ZBC) Zilbercoin, (YOG) Yogold, (TESLA) TeslaCoilCoin, (PIO) Pioneershares, (BTG) Bitgem, (FAZZ) Fazzcoin, (TAAS) TaaS (Pre-Launch), (THS) TechShares, (DMC) DynamicCoin, (LEO) LEOcoin, (DIBC) DIBCOIN, (DTB) Databits, (DCT) Decent (Pre-Launch), (CLUB) ClubCoin, (EB3) EB3 Coin, (WGO) WavesGo, (GAY) GAYcoin, (DEUS) DeusCoin, (GUP) Guppy (Pre-Launch), (APC) AlpaCoin, (WINGS) Wings (Pre-Launch), (TROPTIONS) TROPTIONS, (GBG) Golos Gold, (PCS) Pabyosi Coin (Special), (WEC) Wowecoin, (WA) WA Space, (AXF) AxFunds, (DWC) DeepWebCash, (IVZ) InvisibleCoin, (WYV) Wyvern, (BUK) CryptoBuck, (OMC) Omicron, (UTA) UtaCoin, (DTF) Digitalfund, (ACN) Avoncoin, (EDRC) EDRCoin, (ZSE) ZSEcoin, (LDCN) LandCoin, (XID) International Diamond, (ELC) Elacoin, (GARY) President Johnson, (RHFC) RHFCoin, (TLE) Tattoocoin (Limited Edition), (MG) Mind Gene, (LEC) LeCoin, (GBC) GBCGoldCoin, (DASHS) Dashs, (DCRE) DeltaCredits, (HLB) Lepaoquan, (TP1) KolschCoin, (BIT) First Bitcoin, (OPAL) Opal, (HNC) Helleniccoin, (SHELL) ShellPay, (RBX) Ripto Bux, (KED) Darsek, (RYCN) RoyalCoin 2, (BTCS) Bitcoin Scrypt, (HAL) Halcyon, (SAK) Sharkcoin, (EGG) EggCoin, (BGC) BagCoin, (PSY) Psilocybin, (GMF) Grumfork, (PRES) President Trump, (TERA) TeraCoin, (NTCC) Neptune Classic, (UTC) UltraCoin, (XAU) Xaucoin, (BURN) President Sanders, (MAVRO) Mavro, (RICHX) RichCoin, (NBIT) netBit, (AV) AvatarCoin, (BLAZR) BlazerCoin, (AIB) Advanced Internet Blocks, (XGR) GoldReserve, (TRICK) TrickyCoin, (KASHH) KashhCoin, (XQN) Quotient, (BCF) BitcoinFast, (CNC) CHNCoin, (UR) UR, (CLINT) Clinton, (GML) GameLeagueCoin, (BXC) Bitcedi, (ROYAL) RoyalCoin, (BEST) BestChain, (FUN) Alphabet Coin Fund, (MOTO) Motocoin, (XVS) Vsync, (FRWC) FrankyWillCoin, (OCOW) OCOW, (ADT) The Aladin, (WSX) WeAreSatoshi, (OPES) Opescoin, (TCOIN) T-coin, (MMXVI) MMXVI, (PXC) Phoenixcoin, (TODAY) TodayCoin, (TIC) True Investment Coin, (SKC) Skeincoin, (LFC) BigLifeCoin, (XVE) The Vegan Initiative, (DBG) Digital Bullion Gold, (ASC) AsicCoin, (DUB) Dubstep, (MONETA) Moneta, (RUBIT) RubleBit, (BRAIN) Braincoin, (GMB) Gambleo, (QBC) Quebecoin, (LAZ) Lazaruscoin, (MARX) MarxCoin, (SPORT) SportsCoin, (MCRN) MACRON, (BAC) BitAlphaCoin, (CBD) CBD Crystals, (SKR) Sakuracoin, (QBT) Cubits, (DISK) DarkLisk, (GAIN) UGAIN, (OP) Operand, (PRM) PrismChain, (HCC) Happy Creator Coin, (CYC) Cycling Coin, (LEPEN) LePen, (GMX) GoldMaxCoin, (LTH) LAthaan, (GBRC) Global Business Revolution, (TCR) TheCreed, (LKC) LinkedCoin, (MBL) MobileCash, (FEDS) FedoraShare, (POKE) PokeCoin, (TEAM) TeamUp, (VGC) VegasCoin, (UNC) UNCoin, (CC) CyberCoin, (PAYP) PayPeer, (TELL) Tellurion, (MONEY) MoneyCoin, (XSTC) Safe Trade Coin, (PDG) PinkDog, (WOW) Wowcoin, (IFLT) InflationCoin, (ACES) Aces, (YES) Yescoin, (FFC) FireFlyCoin, (CME) Cashme, (STRB) SuperTurboStake, (SOUL) SoulCoin, (HILL) President Clinton, (RCN) Rcoin, (PBC) PabyosiCoin, (X2) X2, (CHOOF) ChoofCoin, (VTY) Victoriouscoin, (VAL) Valorbit, (DIME) Dimecoin, (VTA) Virtacoin, (DVC) Devcoin, (XP) XP, (NBE) BitCentavo, (PAC) Paccoinand many more! View author portfolio Use, by you or one client, in a single end product which end users are not charged for. The total price includes the item price and a buyer fee.Use, by you or one client, in a single end product which end users can be charged for. The total price includes the item price and a buyer fee. View license details Price is in US dollars. Deliver better projects faster. Photos, templates & courses Unlimited downloads. Only $29/month Learn almost anything with Envato Tuts+ for free 25,000+ tutorials and 1,000+ courses Designers matched perfectly to you on Envato Studio 2000 artists ready to undertake your work

This script allows you to create your very own altcoin calculator & ticker website supporting 1,000+ cryptocurrencies and 31 fiat currencies.(AUD) Australian Dollar, (BGN) Bulgarian Lev, (BRL) Brazilian Real, (CAD) Canadian Dollar, (CHF) Swiss Franc, (CNY) Chinese Yuan, (CZK) Czech Koruna, (DKK) Danish Krone, (GBP) Pound Sterling, (HKD) Hong Kong Dollar, (HRK) Croatian Kuna, (HUF) Hungarian Forint, (IDR) Indonesian Rupiah, (ILS) New Israeli Shekel, (INR) Indian Rupee, (JPY) Japanese Yen, (KRW) Korean Won, (MXN) Mexican Peso, (MYR) Malaysian Ringgit, (NOK) Norwegian Krone, (NZD) New Zealand Dollar, (PHP) Philippine Peso, (PLN) Polish Zloty, (RON) Romanian Leu, (RUB) Russian Ruble, (SEK) Swedish Krona, (SGD) Singapore Dollar, (THB) Thai Baht, (TRY) Turkish Lira, (ZAR) South African Rand, (EUR) Euro, (USD) US Dollar(BTC) Bitcoin, (ETH) Ethereum, (XRP) Ripple, (LTC) Litecoin, (DASH) Dash, (ETC) Ethereum Classic, (XEM) NEM, (XMR) Monero, (REP) Augur, (MAID) MaidSafeCoin, (GNT) Golem, (ZEC) Zcash, (DCR) Decred, (PIVX) PIVX, (USDT) Tether, (FCT) Factom, (GAME) GameCredits, (BCC) BitConnect, (DOGE) Dogecoin, (STRAT) Stratis, (WAVES) Waves, (STEEM) Steem, (DGD) DigixDAO, (LSK) Lisk, (ICN) Iconomi, (ARDR) Ardor, (SNGLS) SingularDTV, (XLM) Stellar Lumens, (BCN) Bytecoin, (BTS) BitShares, (ROUND) Round, (GBYTE) Byteball, (NXT) Nxt, (1ST) First Blood, (PPC) Peercoin, (SJCX) Storjcoin X, (RLC) RLC, (SC) Siacoin, (EMC) Emercoin, (SYS) SysCoin, (MLN) Melon, (ARK) Ark, (KMD) Komodo, (LKK) Lykke, (NXS) Nexus, (NLG) Gulden, (XZC) ZCoin, (CRB) Creditbit, (NMC) Namecoin, (XAUR) Xaurum, (TRST) WeTrust, (BCY) Bitcrystals, (BAY) BitBay, (CRW) Crown, (XCP) Counterparty, (BTCD) BitcoinDark, (NAV) NAV Coin, (POSW) PoSW Coin, (ANS) AntShares, (AGRS) Agoras Tokens, (DGB) DigiByte, (BLK) BlackCoin, (UBQ) Ubiq, (AMP) Synereo, (POT) PotCoin, (EDG) Edgeless, (SKY) Skycoin, (TIME) Chronobank, (NXC) Nexium, (SWT) Swarm City, (VSL) vSlice, (IOC) I/O Coin, (YBC) YbCoin, (MONA) MonaCoin, (ION) ION, (NVC) Novacoin, (EXP) Expanse, (RBY) Rubycoin, (EDR) E-Dinar Coin, (INCNT) Incent, (RADS) Radium, (BLOCK) Blocknet, (LBC) LBRY Credits, (B@) Bankcoin, (ZCL) ZClassic, (GRC) GridCoin, (MUE) MonetaryUnit, (BELA) BelaCoin, (XBC) Bitcoin Plus, (VIA) Viacoin, (SLR) SolarCoin, (BURST) Burst, (VASH) VPNCoin, (OMNI) Omni, (SIB) SIBCoin, (XPM) Primecoin, (CLAM) Clams, (GCR) Global Currency Reserve, (GOLOS) Golos, (ARC) ArcticCoin, (VTC) Vertcoin, (NAUT) NautilusCoin, (SDC) ShadowCash, (UNITY) SuperNET, (HEAT) HEAT, (PEPECASH) Pepe Cash, (NEOS) NeosCoin, (AEON) Aeon, (LMC) LoMoCoin, (DAR) Darcrus, (VRS) Veros, (PASC) Pascal Coin, (GLD) GoldCoin, (ENRG) Energycoin, (FAIR) FairCoin, (MOON) Mooncoin, (FTC) Feathercoin, (VRC) VeriCoin, (JINN) Jinn, (SLS) SaluS, (SPR) SpreadCoin, (CLOAK) CloakCoin, (ZENI) Zennies, (BSD) BitSend, (RDD) ReddCoin, (FLO) FlorinCoin, (SHIFT) Shift, (EMC2) Einsteinium, (CCRB) CryptoCarbon, (PINK) PinkCoin, (FRST) FirstCoin, (GAM) Gambit, (EAC) EarthCoin, (XAS) Asch, (UNO) Unobtanium, (OK) OKCash, (GRS) Groestlcoin, (AUR) Auroracoin, (BTM) Bitmark, (XVC) Vcash, (BTA) Bata, (SBD) Steem Dollars, (YOC) Yocoin, (FLDC) FoldingCoin, (NOTE) DNotes, (SAFEX) Safe Exchange Coin, (XBB) Boolberry, (DMD) Diamond, (CURE) CureCoin, (CNT) Centurion, (TX) TransferCoin, (MEC) Megacoin, (BLOCKPAY) BlockPay, (CHC) ChainCoin, (XDN) DigitalNote, (ATMS) Atmos, (XVG) Verge, (WBB) Wild Beast Block, (BOST) BoostCoin, (VISIO) Visio, (RIC) Riecoin, (OBITS) OBITS, (WDC) WorldCoin, (XSPEC) Spectrecoin, (SPHR) Sphere, (HKG) Hacker Gold, (PDC) Project Decorum, (VTR) vTorrent, (EMV) Ethereum Movie Venture, (TRIG) Triggers, (MER) Mercury, (INSANE) InsaneCoin, (QRK) Quark, (ADCN) Asiadigicoin, (JNS) Janus, (SEQ) Sequence, (TIPS) FedoraCoin, (BPC) Bitpark Coin, (ADC) AudioCoin, (ZCC) ZcCoin, (VLT) Veltor, (MUSIC) Musicoin, (BITB) BitBean, (XHI) HiCoin, (RISE) Rise, (BRX) Breakout Stake, (HUC) HunterCoin, (XRB) RaiBlocks, (DYN) Dynamic, (ZEIT) Zeitcoin, (EXCL) ExclusiveCoin, (J) Joincoin, 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The newly radicalized eBay founder hired Glenn Greenwald, Matt Taibbi, and a slew of the country’s most combative journalists — who are already fighting with their financial sponsor. Every September, for a siren-snarled week, much of midtown Manhattan surrenders to a pair of occupying powers: the United Nations and the Clinton Global Initiative. The U.N.’s annual General Assembly brings in the foreign excellencies and tin-pot dictators, but it’s Bill Clinton’s event that attracts the billionaires. This year’s edition, co-sponsored by, among others, a Greek shipping magnate’s wife and a Ukrainian oligarch, took place inside the barricaded Times Square Sheraton, where the Clintons made evangelical “calls to action” on issues like water scarcity and women’s empowerment. One evening, in conjunction with CGI, Pierre Omidyar threw a reception across the street. Omidyar, the programmer who created eBay, is one of America’s richest men, a 47-year-old philanthropist intent on giving away the fortune he made when he was 31. He is on collegial terms with the Clintons and has been a partner in their charity work. His guests, sipping wine inside a vaulted glass atrium, represented foundations and banks, governments and NGOs, tech start-ups and McKinsey. Omidyar’s foundation had just unveiled a $200 million Global Innovation Fund, established in partnership with the U.S. Agency for International Development. The announcement was timed to coincide with President Obama’s speech to the conference that afternoon on nurturing civil society. Omidyar was late to the party, however — he’d spent much of his day hatching plans with some of Obama’s most uncivil opponents. Down in the Flatiron District, he has been building a ­digital-media organization dedicated to a scorching brand of “fearless, adversarial journalism.” Its prime target is the U.S. intelligence apparatus, and its marquee voice is Glenn Greenwald, the columnist who shared a Pulitzer Prize this year with documentarian Laura Poitras and others for obtaining and publishing Edward Snowden’s leaks about NSA surveillance. Since that story broke, Snowden, Greenwald, and Poitras have become heroes of a crypto-insurgency. More quietly, Omidyar has become the movement’s prime benefactor, financing an operation to disseminate government secrets. Earlier this year, Greenwald, Poitras, and a third comrade in arms — former Nation writer Jeremy Scahill — launched a website called the Intercept. It is meant to be the prototype for a fleet of publications funded by Omidyar’s flagship company, First Look Media, to which Omidyar has initially committed $250 million. “We have the luxury of doing something different because we have this kind of infinite-resource backer,” Greenwald told me on the phone from Brazil, where he is based. “We’re thinking about how to do journalism structurally differently.” At the time of Omidyar’s visit, a second site, Racket, was also revving up for its launch. Headed by the polemical magazine writer Matt Taibbi, it was going to offer scabrous satire of the financial industry and politics. Omidyar’s organization operates a little like WikiLeaks, except it is staffed by well-salaried journalists and backed by Silicon Valley money. It aims to unite strident ideology with publishing technology, cryptography, and aggressive legal defense. The Intercept has become the custodian of Snowden’s immense archive of classified documents, which it continues to mine for stories. Greenwald says the site also plans to share them with outside reporters and is building a secure “reading room” in its Fifth Avenue headquarters building, where it is currently renovating three floors. The Intercept is encouraging others in the intelligence world to leak via an encrypted system called SecureDrop. Between its periodic scoops, it serves up regular doses of acidic commentary by critics of Obama’s national-security policies. Omidyar was an admirer of Obama’s right up to the moment the Snowden story broke, and many people who know him well, the types you might meet at CGI, struggle to explain his sudden turn toward confrontation. “He’s a very serious and public-spirited person,” says General Wesley Clark, who has been friendly with Omidyar since he raised money for his 2004 presidential campaign. Clark has publicly dismissed concerns about NSA surveillance and told me he couldn’t really explain why Omidyar was so agitated. Omidyar is mellow by nature; he lives in Hawaii and is a devotee of Buddhism. “He’s not this hard-core, radical maverick,” Greenwald says. “Back before this all happened, he just seemed like the normal, average, amicable billionaire.” Omidyar has communicated little about his motivations beyond a handful of abstruse public statements. He remains a remote and somewhat mysterious figure, even to his collaborators. “To this day,” Greenwald says, “I’ve never met Pierre in person.” There he was, though, inside the throng of the reception: a thin man in a hounds­tooth blazer, peering intently through rimless glasses. His thick black hair, once worn in a luxuriant ponytail, is now short and streaked by a single gray forelock. Omidyar has an aura of reserve, shuns personal publicity, and seems allergic to the pitching and prostration that his $8 billion net worth inspires in others. He found Jeff Skoll — his partner in eBay, now a philanthropist too — and immersed himself in conversation. Then he broke away to embrace a red-robed Buddhist monk, a fellow acolyte of the Dalai Lama’s. Dutifully, Omidyar came forward to speak, clinking his glass next to a microphone in an ineffective effort to quiet the conversation. He began to read remarks off a stack of oversize notecards, but he stopped, visibly annoyed by the squealing brakes of a passing truck. “Isn’t New York wonderful? All this ambient sound,” he said. Then he forged onward. “As some of you may know, we’ve been exploring my interest in journalism. We’re really looking for new ways to bring more transparency and accountability to our government and to society as a whole.” Omidyar’s soft words were nearly drowned out by the cocktail-hour din. But billionaires have many ways to voice their inner displeasure. That morning, Greenwald had published an Intercept column excoriating Obama’s move to bomb ISIS in Syria, suggesting he was intentionally driving recruits to the terrorist army. “At this point, it’s more rational to say they do all of this not despite triggering those outcomes but because of it,” Greenwald wrote. “Continuously creating and strengthening enemies is a feature, not a bug. It is what justifies the ongoing greasing of the profitable and power-vesting machine of Endless War.” Omidyar later tweeted a promotional link. Omidyar was aware I had made interview requests, but he had remained reticent about his fight for radical transparency. There were rumors of turmoil behind the scenes at First Look — angry conflicts that reflected the inherent contradictions of a leftist offensive funded by a billionaire whose idiosyncratic belief system didn’t fit into neat political categories. When I approached Omidyar after his speech, he handed me his business card, flipping it over to point out one of those square UPC-like symbols, a code that linked to his website. “This is like a tracking chip,” he joked. “It’s like our version of the NSA tracking thing.” Then he courteously turned away. It is possible to begin to discern Omidyar’s motivations with a little online surveillance. Within his natural habitat, he can be as voluble as he is personally shy. These days, his preferred medium is his Twitter account, @pierre, but the web is strewn with dormant blogs and avatars. His accounts offer granules of self-disclosure in the form of complaints (about the difficulty of ordering vegan room service), enthusiasms (the Segway), and philosophical musings (on “Star Trek ethics”). As an engineer, Omidyar thinks of the world in terms of structures, and when he sees weaknesses, he becomes alarmed. Before the 2004 election, he blogged that the voting system was “headed towards a disaster,” and he excitedly quoted an anonymous inside source who described flaws in electronic machines that could lead to fraud. He is fascinated by diseases like Ebola and thinks the public-health system could be helpless in a crisis. “Since we know a pandemic is coming,” he wrote in a blog post for a flu initiative, “it’s only a matter of time until we’re sick and we have to take care of ourselves.” Electronic privacy is another long-standing concern, reflected both in Omidyar’s philanthropic donations — to the Electronic Frontier Foundation, among other organizations — and his personal writings. During the Bush administration, his thoughts frequently returned to concerns about the War on Terror’s effect on civil liberties. He was also early to recognize the way technology was creating a virtual state of full disclosure, enticing people to consensually expose their inner lives to the narcotic curiosity of others. One evening in February 2004, on his personal blog, Omidyar narrated an account of how he had been drawn into some idle snooping: “So, I’m in a hotel room in Boston, listening to some Moby in my iTunes, and I happen to notice a little blue icon in my list of playlists that I haven’t seen before.” The icon linked to someone else’s computer, shared through the hotel’s Wi-Fi network. Omidyar clicked and browsed his neighbor’s library, noticing a file called “conjugal visit” that looked suspiciously like a home recording. “There’s something creepy about this experience. Hotel rooms when you’re by yourself are already a little creepy, since you don’t really know what’s going on behind that wall … Now, I wonder, is he next door? Or above? Or below? “I check the lock on my door. But I also feel a little bit like a peeping Tom. Is there a word for this phenomenon yet?” Two days before, not far from Omidyar’s hotel, Mark Zuckerberg had launched Facebook; the creeping uneasiness he described is now a defining characteristic of our times. But the rise of self-revelation has been accompanied by disquiet about the privacy we may be ceding, willingly or not. Omidyar thinks the public is too complacent about intrusion and quotes Google’s Eric Schmidt, who says that government monitoring could “end up breaking the internet.” By this, Omidyar means that a spirit of online community and free exchange was the precondition for the digital age, and eBay’s success, and his unfathomable wealth. He worries that spying could turn trust to paranoia, a threat he takes very personally. “If you think ‘I’ve got nothing to hide’ is good basis for security policy,” Omidyar tweeted last year, “you’ve never been racially profiled or walked into [the] wrong church.” Omidyar’s parents are Iranian. He was born in Paris, and he is a naturalized citizen: a member of the American community by choice. His parents moved to Washington, D.C., when he was young and soon separated. He was raised by his mother, Elahé Mir-Djalali, a linguist. Much of her published work was done in collaboration with a federally contracted think tank run by a psychologist who developed a word-association technique to help the military understand foreign mentalities. Academically, she was interested in the ways that “the hidden aspects of cultural meanings” make it difficult for speakers from different backgrounds to understand each other, and her studies identified the discontent among students in Iran just prior to the 1979 revolution. When Omidyar was in eighth grade, his mother moved to Honolulu to seek a position at a government-policy institute affiliated with the University of Hawaii. Pierre enrolled in the elite Punahou School, from which Barack Obama had graduated the year before. Years later, Omidyar would listen to Obama’s rhetoric of “one America” and hear echoes of his own life. “I’ve always loved this country and its ideals with the fervor of a convert,” Omidyar blogged during the 2008 primaries. “He puts words to what I feel.” Omidyar used to beg his mother to let him spend his Saturdays playing with an Apple II at a Honolulu computer store. He went on to study computer science at Tufts University, where he met his future wife, Pam. They moved out to Silicon Valley in the late ’80s. As a programmer, he “wasn’t a ninja,” says a colleague from that time, but he had the intellectual acuity to comprehend the potential of the internet. He was intuitive and, once convinced of his personal logic, difficult to budge. “I think I had a bad combination of personality traits: lots of self-confidence, and a perfectionist attitude towards my work,” Omidyar wrote in a public online chat years later. “I probably came across as an arrogant know-it-all, though of course that was never my intention.” Omidyar co-founded a start-up, Ink Development, but when he disagreed with his partners over its direction, he left to take a job with a company called General Magic, an Apple spinoff that was developing a rudimentary form of tablet computing. General Magic was a ’90s hotbed: It called its young employees “magicians” and had an inspirational rabbit that hopped freely around the office. But in Omidyar’s view, both his start-up (which eventually sold to Microsoft, making him a millionaire) and General Magic had a fatal flaw: Their systems were not built to take advantage of the web. “Basically the latest, coolest shiny toy at the time was the web, was interactivity,” Omidyar later recalled. Originally, the domain eBay.com had nothing to do with auctions — it was a workshop where Omidyar would tinker. Its earliest incarnation hosted a web page about Ebola, inspired by the national scare that coincided with the movie Outbreak. (Later, eBay would offer a variety of origin stories for its odd name, none having to do with Ebola in the Bay Area.) In August 1995, as General Magic began to show signs of financial distress, Omidyar took advantage of the Labor Day weekend to program a simple auction service and posted a link to it on eBay.com. He soon recruited a company president, Skoll, whose first management decision was to remove the alarming Ebola content, over Omidyar’s objection that it was still drawing lots of traffic. The online-auction idea wasn’t original — a founder of a preexisting site, OnSale, recalls talking to Omidyar about a job before he started his competitor — but eBay was unusually frictionless. The company never touched the inventory, and it left market regulation to buyers and sellers. Instead of policing cheats, Omidyar wrote a manifesto declaring “most people are honest” and set up a forum where users could assign each other positive and negative ratings. “It turned out to be this magic thing,” he later said. By 1997, eBay was hosting 200,000 monthly auctions; the next year, the company went public. “We literally went from Pierre having maybe a couple million, and me just scraping by, to us being billionaires,” Skoll told me. Omidyar’s insight, then contrarian, is now commonplace: Websites are communities, and people in them care about their reputations. “When everyone else at the time was saying, ‘Wow, what’s great about the internet is that you can be completely anonymous,’ Pierre was saying, ‘No, no, no, I want complete transparency,’” says Steve Westly, an early eBay executive. While Omidyar built his online market­place on a foundation of public disclosure, he has closely guarded the dimensions of his own life that he deems unfit for inspection. His crusade against government spying grows out of a conviction that people should be able to protect the secret parts of themselves. When eBay became a dot-com phenomenon, a spokeswoman asked him what she should tell reporters about the company founder. He replied: “That I like my privacy.” After eBay went public, he retreated from the public exposure and administrative hassle that went with running the company, ceding responsibilities to a strong CEO, Meg Whitman. He drifted for a while: first to Paris, then Las Vegas. He built himself a 48,000-square-foot mansion overlooking the desert, which he told Esquire he liked because it gave him “the sense of what the planet was like before humans showed up.” Eventually, he and Pam decided to relocate back to Hawaii — about as far as you can get from mainland America without being an exile. Omidyar was still fretful about his security and cognizant of the state’s isolation. He had heard that Hawaii had food supplies for only about a week in case of a catastrophe. In 2009, the Honolulu Advertiser reported he kept emergency stockpiles near his home and had purchased a solar-powered ranch in Montana to serve as a “safe house.” But the Omidyars took to the island lifestyle. Pam surfed, and their three kids were brought up relatively free of ostentation. Pierre and Pam donated generously to Hawaiian causes, including sustainable agriculture. He drove a Prius with a LIVE ALOHA bumper sticker. Though he continued to be eBay’s board chairman and largest shareholder, Omidyar receded from view in Silicon Valley. “Pierre has been such a reclusive guy for the past few years,” says Philip Rosedale, who founded the technology firm Linden Lab, developer of the animated interactive world Second Life. During the mid-2000s, Omidyar immersed himself in the Second Life community, adopting a secret identity: a tattooed black man named Kitto Mandala. Even after Omidyar became a Linden Lab investor, Rosedale primarily interacted with his animated avatar. Mandala rode a Segway and wore a T-shirt that said KISS ME I’M LAWFUL EVIL. He could fly, and hardly anyone knew he was really a billionaire. In 2003, Omidyar took a trip with some of his real-life peers to NASA’s Space Camp in Alabama. Larry Page and Sergey Brin were there, as was Elon Musk, who had just sold PayPal to eBay. They played astronaut for a week, simulating a space-shuttle launch and weightlessness. They had dinner with Buzz Aldrin and a NASA official, during which the campers pressed to know why America hadn’t sent a man to Mars. Musk is now building a private company, SpaceX, with the aim of personally landing on Mars. Brin wants to defeat Parkinson’s disease, while Page has invested in promoting longevity, even immortality. Jeff Bezos, Amazon’s founder, has his own rocket company and plans to restore the Washington Post to financial health — no small challenge given the struggles of the news business, in part owing to the disruption of classified advertising by companies like eBay. Omidyar, by contrast, had trouble settling on a moon-shot project. He didn’t aspire to live forever or touch the stars. He wanted to do unglamorous work at the grass roots, applying the optimistic lesson he drew from eBay: that “people are basically good” and capable of overcoming forces like disease, ignorance, poverty, and repression. But how could this humanistic philosophy bring actual humans together? Through a foundation, Omidyar tried sprinkling angel investments on “social entrepreneurs” and created a patented technology platform meant to allow them to trade ideas the way people bought and sold goods on eBay. (Some users grew frustrated when they learned the conversation wasn’t meant to be a route to Omidyar’s own money, and it ultimately shut down.) Meanwhile, Pam, who previously worked in biotechnology, funded projects like a video game called Re-Mission, designed to help kids fight cancer, and founded an organization called Humanity United, which campaigns against human trafficking and genocide. Pierre realized that information gave rise to action, and that led him to think about newspapers, too. “He was genuinely interested and concerned about a dissipating news industry,” says Brian Greenspun, publisher of the Las Vegas Sun, who had lengthy discussions with Omidyar almost a decade ago. “And what impact it will have on our democracy.” Omidyar believed that powerful institutions needed to be kept in check, so he funded organizations like the Sunlight Foundation, a watchdog for money in politics, and the Center for Public Integrity, an investigative-journalism nonprofit. At the same time, his own philanthropic organization, Omidyar Network, conducted itself with unusual secrecy. Founded in 2004, it was at the vanguard of a movement called “venture philanthropy.” It is modeled on a VC firm, making both grants to nonprofits and equity investments in for-profit companies. The organization is partly a private entity, partly a foundation that functions as “just a checkbook,” as Omidyar wrote in the Harvard Business Review. At the cost of millions in tax breaks, this hybrid structure allows the Network to get around many nonprofit regulations. Though Omidyar has been one of the most generous donors to Guidestar, which tracks federal financial disclosures by nonprofits, you won’t find much useful information about Omidyar Network there. Many in the philanthropy world were aghast when Omidyar began mingling altruism and capitalism, but he dismissed the objections as “old thinking.” He found an area that promised to unite both instincts: microfinance. Omidyar loved the idea that giving out tiny loans in developing countries could unleash entrepreneurialism. He endowed a $100 million fund, administered by Tufts, that invests in microfinance institutions, and donated to numerous nonprofits in the sector. In 2008, Omidyar took a trip to India, where he visited a village near Hyderabad with the founder of a lender called SKS, in which Omidyar Network was an indirect shareholder, via a 22 percent investment in a Cayman ­Islands–based private-equity fund. He watched as cross-legged women in saris borrowed cash. But when SKS mounted an IPO, the microfinance venture turned into a philanthropic debacle. Unitus, Inc., the Omidyar-supported nonprofit that ran the private-equity vehicle, had a convoluted structure rife with potential boardroom conflicts of interest. (“We have managed to stay out of jail, so we must not be violating any ethics,” one Unitus board member assured a consultant paid by Omidyar.) As it prepared to reap millions from the stock sale, Unitus disbanded its charitable microfinance operations, declaring the concept “validated.” But SKS’s stock later crashed in the midst of political uproar in India over harsh collection tactics, which were tied by opponents to a number of suicides. Omidyar seems to take such setbacks in stride; he sees traditional philanthropy as overly risk-averse. “In Silicon Valley,” he said at a 2011 nonprofit conference, “we say if you haven’t tried something and failed, and actually learned something from that failure, then why would I want to work with you?” But Omidyar’s habit of investing heavily in big ideas, and sometimes dropping them abruptly, made him appear fickle and inscrutable to many in the philanthropy world. “He got this reputation of being an arrogant know-it-all,” says one nonprofit-sector consultant, echoing Omidyar’s earlier self-assessment. “But they all kissed the ring because they wanted his money.” When Omidyar moved away from microfinance, he returned his attention to another desperate population: journalists. Fixing the problem of news appealed both to his apocalyptic side — in 2007, he proposed creating a peer-to-peer text-messaging service that would help people to “survive a flu pandemic or other widespread disaster” — and to his belief in the responsibilities of citizenship. In 2008, he started a company called Peer News, working with a small team of programmers in an office in Honolulu. At first it developed a system called Ginx, which was supposed to track the information coursing through Twitter. But it wasn’t able to break into the crowded market, so Peer News pivoted: It would create an ad-free subscription website covering Hawaiian government. Omidyar conceived of the Honolulu Civil Beat, launched in 2010, as what he called “a new civic square,” and he hoped to reproduce the model around the country. He recruited a staff of six “reporter-hosts” led by a newspaper refugee, John Temple, whose last editing job had terminated with the closure of the Rocky Mountain News. After a difficult start — half the initial reporting staff left within months — the Civil Beat found its niche in weighty investigations. Omidyar was a constant presence in the newsroom. When Pam learned of a remote beach that was despoiled by washed-up plastic, they flew there on his private jet with a reporter. Omidyar took the website’s photos himself. As a business, however, the Civil Beat never thrived. Omidyar was tight-lipped about audience numbers, even requiring his reporters to sign confidentiality agreements, but the subscription model clearly didn’t work. On Twitter, he pleaded to know how much a reader was willing to pay for his journalism: “No amount, no matter how small? Or a fair price?” Ultimately, he formed a partnership with Arianna Huffington to collaborate on an advertising-supported sister site. While the Civil Beat still covers politics and pension funds, HuffPost Hawaii promotes clickable content like yoga articles and photo galleries of cute seals. The compromise solution assured the Civil Beat’s survival, but it was far from Omidyar’s original vision. For all his good intentions, he was still searching for that galvanizing cause. Little did he know it had been hidden there all along, in an underground bunker 25 miles outside Honolulu that served as an NSA signals operation center. On June 1, 2013 — three days after the HuffPost Hawaii partnership was announced — a technician who worked at the facility, Edward Snowden, made his rendezvous with reporters at a hotel in Hong Kong. The radicalization of Pierre Omidyar happened with jarring swiftness. In 2012, he advertised his proximity to Obama — he served on a presidential commission — by tweeting out a photo of Marine One hovering above the White House lawn. That same year, he responded to ­campaign-season viciousness by tweeting out a list hashtagged #Republicans­IRespect, citing figures like Robert Gates (a former CIA director) and Condoleezza Rice. He started the Democracy Fund, a foundation intended to promote moderation. “I’ve heard him use the term anti-partisan to describe himself,” says Joe Goldman, the fund’s president. “He believes it’s dangerous to get caught up on one side or the other.” But on June 5, 2013, Omidyar’s Twitter account posted a link to a Greenwald story in the Guardian: “Revealed: NSA collecting phone records of millions of Americans daily.” The issue touched a nerve in him — if ever there were a power that needed watching, it was the NSA. As further stories described the extent of the surveillance and Snowden identified himself, Omidyar vented his outrage. “Mr. President, look in the mirror,” he tweeted on June 23, “when did America become a country to seek asylum from? Whistleblowers are not spies.” On July 4, Omidyar tweeted the text of the Fourth Amendment. At this juncture, there were many ways Omidyar could have gone about influencing policy. He could have sought a meeting at the White House — Pam’s human-rights organization collaborates closely with the national-­security staff — or he could have funded a super-PAC. He could have rallied his fellow Silicon Valley billionaires to flex their lobbying might. Instead he decided to build a machine for confrontation and, as he puts it, “to convert mainstream readers into engaged citizens.” Omidyar kicked the tires on the Washington Post and raised the possibility of working with — or even somehow acquiring — the nonprofit outfit ProPublica. But the Post sold to his old competitor Bezos. ProPublica, like other nonprofits Omidyar talked to, wasn’t for sale. Amid a flurry of furious interaction with privacy activists, Omidyar encountered Trevor Timm of the Freedom of the Press Foundation. While discussing the Snowden leaks via an encrypted video chat, Omidyar mentioned that he was thinking of starting his own media organization. Timm suggested that he contact Greenwald. “I think within a week, I ­talked to Glenn on the phone,” Timm says. “And he said, ‘Yeah, we’ve already hired ten people.’ ” Greenwald had a tempestuous relationship with his Guardian editors and had already been planning to launch a website with Poitras and Scahill. “It was really kind of amazing, because we were actually in the process of doing almost exactly the same things,” Greenwald told me. “The obvious difference between what we were doing and what he was doing is that he has $8 billion.” During last year’s Clinton Global Initiative, Omidyar summoned NYU journalism professor Jay Rosen to his suite at the Hilton to discuss surveillance, whistleblower prosecutions, and the future of journalism. Rosen later became a formal adviser to what would be called First Look Media, espousing what he calls the “personal franchise model” of building a new-media brand: buying up stars with portable readerships. But while acquiring the Greenwald franchise made business sense, it came with complications. Practically, it was dispersed — Omidyar in Honolulu, Greenwald in Rio, Poitras in Berlin — and the journalists were afraid of what might happen if they returned to the U.S. Director of National Intelligence James Clapper labeled them “accomplices” to Snowden’s alleged espionage, and Mike Rogers, the Republican chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, likened them to a “thief selling stolen material.” Now that material was First Look’s chief journalistic asset. Before any firm plans were in place, much to Omidyar’s chagrin, word leaked to BuzzFeed that Greenwald was leaving the Guardian to pursue what he called a “once-in-a-career dream journalistic opportunity.” The founders’ initial statements were full of revolutionary swagger. “To quote that old CIA torturer,” Scahill told a German interviewer, “we gotta put on the big-boy pants.” He described “a journalist’s paradise,” where reporters would write what they pleased without interference from editors, the government, or Omidyar himself. To the world, First Look looked like Greenwald’s personal project, but Omidyar never expected to be a passive investor. He engaged in extensive discussions with Arianna Huffington, including a brainstorming session aboard a private jet when they went to India last October for a conference organized by the Dalai Lama. “He wants to do it in a way that can reach a mass audience, not just a niche audience,” Huffington told me. Omidyar thought he would create an omnibus site covering news, sports, and entertainment, generating readers and revenue for a galaxy of star-centered publications. He hired Taibbi, the Rolling Stone writer most famous for likening Goldman Sachs to a “vampire squid,” to start Racket, lampooning the financial industry in the tradition of Spy. First Look released an animated video in which Omidyar pledged to “bring back to journalism what’s been lost,” as a cartoon reporter sweated over a computer. “How does a company support itself given such ambition?” he narrated. “We’re figuring that out.” In fact, there were still lots of things to figure out, such as who was in charge, whether First Look’s journalism would be expected to make money, and if so, how. As First Look raced to launch the Intercept, its vehicle for advancing the Snowden disclosures, an Omidyar Network headhunter was dispatched to harvest talent, promising journalists the creative freedom that comes with a $250 million budget. Omidyar probably expected that the potential beneficiaries would be grateful. Instead, there was much gossip and trepidation. Within the ecosystem of journalism and transparency nonprofits, there is hardly an organization that doesn’t take Omidyar’s money, or hope for it, but many are wary of his influence. “If you’re answering to Omidyar,” says the director of one, “then you’re really not independent.” And Greenwald himself, who had declared war on U.S. intelligence and rejects journalistic pieties about objectivity, is a polarizing force. “I think the concept of adversarial journalism is a limited and flawed one,” says Steven Aftergood, the author of Secrecy News, a respected blog that has received past Omidyar Network funding. “It is not an impartial search for truth as much as it is a combative attempt to defeat a perceived adversary.” To take on the intelligence agencies, First Look has adopted some elements of spycraft. It is seeking out moles, and one of its first hires was a cryptography expert, who fortified its systems against penetration. To protect journalists from government retaliation, Omidyar established the Press Freedom Litigation Fund. But despite his aggressive approach, Omidyar ran into immediate criticism from the conspiratorial extremes of the left. Julian Assange attacked the “big power” of First Look, calling Omidyar an “extreme liberal centrist” and questioning his suspicious visits to the White House. The tech-news site PandoDaily published a series of scathing articles. “Never before has such a vast trove of public secrets,” journalist Mark Ames wrote last November, “been sold wholesale to a single billionaire as the foundation of a for-profit company.” Earlier this year, Omidyar convened a staff retreat at his Las Vegas mansion, which produced a declaration of editorial independence, promising that First Look would be incorporated as a nonprofit and that he would have “no involvement in the newsroom’s day-to-day operations.” In reality, though, he was deeply involved, demanding personal approval of even trivial expenses, and intent on finding a way to make the venture financially self-sustaining. But his staff was determined to hold him to his promise of “independence.” Many are vociferous personalities, not known for playing well with others. When one prominent editor was approached about a management role, he told Omidyar’s headhunter, “You don’t need an HR department, you need a psychotherapist.” The confusion inherent to any start-up has been exacerbated by Omidyar’s ruminative style. This spring, he went through a period of deep thinking, highlighted by a summit with news-­industry veterans at a hotel he part-owns in Laguna Beach, California. Under “Chatham House Rules,” no one was to talk directly about what was said. “He’s a true believer, I believe,” says Ken Doctor, a media analyst who attended. Many of those who have heard Omidyar and his aides, at that summit and other meetings, have come away thinking his plans sounded naïve and not fully baked. Sandy Rowe, a former editor of the Oregonian who was brought on as a consultant, says the fuzzy vision gives Omidyar flexibility. “This is a man who, since he said he would put down this $250 million, has never said, ‘Here is my plan.’ ” The absence of a plan, however, contributed to dissension within First Look, and chatter began to emanate from behind its wall of operational secrecy. There was an East Coast–West Coast feud, a divide between the journalists and the technologists. Omidyar’s loyalists out in California and Hawaii grumbled as Greenwald traveled the world, promoting a book, picking up awards, and speaking out of turn. Poitras, meanwhile, was immersed in finishing a documentary on Snowden. There was an internal battle over budgets, which stalled hiring and hindered journalistic output. The Intercept initially published at a piddling rate. In June, the three co-founders of the Intercept and Taibbi wrote a joint letter to Omidyar demanding freedom to proceed with their expansion. Omidyar then published a blog post saying he had “definitely rethought some of our original ideas and plans.” Instead of quick expansion, he announced that First Look would be in “planning, start-up, and experimental mode for at least the next few years,” focusing its immediate efforts on the Intercept and Racket while working to develop new journalistic technology and design with a team in San Francisco. He also appointed a confidant as First Look’s editorial boss: the former Civil Beat editor John Temple. “I think that the message,” Temple told me in August, “is that we’re not trying hard enough if we’re not failing a little bit, if we’re not saying things that don’t bear fruit.” The shift proved beneficial to the Intercept, which is no longer under the day-to-day management of its founders. Omidyar lured editor John Cook away from Gawker to run the site, and after a publication pause and a redesign, it has been gaining momentum, breaking big stories about the NSA’s surveillance of American Muslim leaders and the seemingly arbitrary standards of the government’s terrorist-screening system. The latter disclosure reportedly came from a leaker other than Snowden; the FBI recently searched the home of a government contractor suspected of being the source. The factional conflicts within Omidyar’s enterprise, however, seem far from settled. In August, Temple spoke enthusiastically about Racket, which he said had broadened its focus to include political topics. But as its launch date neared, Taibbi disappeared from the company amid disputes with First Look ­higher-ups. Omidyar announced Taibbi was leaving and that First Look would now “turn our focus to exploring next steps” for Racket, a project that a spokeswoman said had cost him $2 million over its eight months of development. In the wake of the tumultuous departure, the Intercept published a remarkable inside account describing “months of contentious disputes” between Taibbi and his superiors over his management, including a complaint from an employee that he was “verbally abusive.” But the journalists did not spare Omidyar from blame, describing what they called “a collision between the First Look executives, who by and large come from a highly structured Silicon Valley corporate environment, and the fiercely independent journalists who view corporate cultures and management-speak with disdain.” The iconoclasts even questioned Omidyar’s “avowed strategy” of hiring “anti-authoritarian iconoclasts.” Even before the turmoil, Temple hinted that a strategic reconsideration was under way. “It will be more complex,” he told me, “than an organization of iconoclasts.” He says that Omidyar sees journalism as “the third phase of his professional life,” bringing together his technology experience and philanthropy, and is prepared to be patient, even if it perplexes outsiders. Temple says there is no incongruity between Omidyar’s communitarian ideals and his financing of an insurgency. “It’s not all about civility,” Temple says. “It’s about having a healthy and open society.” There’s a tangible insight buried in that amorphous sentiment: Omidyar’s interest in journalism is mechanistic. He wants to aggregate to himself the power to declassify and to bring about the “greater good,” as he defines it. In October, the founding Intercept gang — minus Omidyar — got together for a party at Mayday Space, a loft in a graffitied section of Bushwick. The Snowden saga had entered its Redford-and-Hoffman phase with the premiere of Poitras’s documentary Citizenfour, which was partly financed by Skoll’s Participant Media and looks destined for Oscar consideration. A DJ spun songs next to a huge ­propaganda-style poster reading ­WHISTLE-BLOWER! KNOW YOUR PLACE … SHUT YOUR FACE. Smokers congregated on the balcony, which had a distant view of the Empire State Building, lit red. Greenwald hinted of further scoops. “Stay tuned, is all I can say,” he told me. Greenwald says that he and Omidyar plan to finally meet later this month, when they will appear at a very different sort of gathering: an invite-only event called Newsgeist, co-sponsored by Google and the Knight Foundation. Billed as an “unconference,” it has no agenda other than “reimagining the future of the news.” Greenwald told me “top editors, executives, moguls, and founders” are expected to attend, including Dean Baquet of the New York Times. I asked the organizer from Google about other attendees and speakers, but he said he could disclose no further details, to “protect the privacy and security of our invited guests.” It seems that the Newsgeist is very hush-hush. *This article appears in the November 3, 2014 issue of New York Magazine. News Anchors Reciting Sinclair Propaganda Is Even More Terrifying in Unison President Trump Apparently Doesn’t Know What DACA Is Red-State Teacher Unrest Just Keeps Spreading Happy, Relaxed Family Spends Easter Sunday Together The Parkland Teens Are Winning the Culture War The Last Conversation You’ll Ever Need to Have About Eating Right Donald Trump Jr. Goes ‘Hard’ at the Gym, Chops Off Mullet Denying Genetics Isn’t Shutting Down Racism, It’s Fueling It Tiffany Trump Masterfully Ducked a Kiss From Donald Trump A constant drip of corruption. And this is just what we know so far … The president isn’t draining the swamp — he’s monetizing it. And Democrats need to make that clear in the midterms. And most of its orders qualified for free shipping. An anti-immigrant tweet reveals that his policy ignorance knows no bounds. A new video demonstrates how the real “fake news” has never been more synchronized. Another sign that states are getting tougher on firearms after the Parkland mass shooting. Mass Palestinian protests along the border with Israel have already led to 15 deaths and hundreds of injuries. In a closely divided and intensely partisan state, this judicial election will be among other things a tune-up for November. Six weeks after they survived a mass shooting, they’ve already changed how America talks about guns. In the disturbing videos, officer Blane Salamoni is shown immediately threatening to shoot Sterling in the head. A provocative op-ed says Zell Miller’s and Bill Clinton’s embrace of merit-based scholarships showed their betrayal of liberalism. I beg to differ. A nice morning jeremiad against the news media. Less marketization, more protection for overworked athletes. Two years after many thousands of would-be Democratic primary voters discovered they were affiliated with a right-wing party, the confusion continues. Federal prosecutors rarely lose terrorism cases. But it only took an Orlando jury 12 hours to declare Salman “not guilty.” “These findings from the independent autopsy contradict the police narrative,” a lawyer for Clark’s family said. The Vatican is equivocating about what Francis did and didn’t say, but it’s certainly reviving some very old debates about the afterlife. The office in charge of staffing our government is run by young adults with little relevant experience — and a taste for Smirnoff Ice. Most of these not-really-accidental events are preventable by steps more powerful than telling people to “be careful.” Copyright © 2018, New York Media LLC. All Rights Reserved. Vulture®, Grub Street® and The Cut® are registered trademarks of New York Media LLC.

The Untold Story of Silk Road, Part 1 Click to share this story on Facebook Click to share this story on Twitter Click to comment on this story. (will open new tab) I’m sorry; your browser does not support HTML5 video in WebM with VP8 or MP4 with H.264. “I imagine that someday I may have a story written about my life and it would be good to have a detailed account of it.”—home/frosty/documents/journal/2012/q1/january/week1 The postman only rang once. Curtis Green was at home, greeting the morning with 64 ounces of Coca-Cola and powdered mini doughnuts. Fingers frosted synthetic white, he was startled to hear someone at the door. It was 11 am, and surprise visits were uncommon at his modest house in Spanish Fork, Utah, a high-desert hamlet in the shadow of the Wasatch Mountains. Green ambled over, adjusting his camouflage fanny pack. At 47 his body was already failing him: He was overweight, with four herniated discs, a bum knee, and gleaming white dental implants. To get around he sometimes borrowed his wife’s pink cane. Green waddled to the door, his two Chihuahuas, Max and Sammy, following attentively. He peeked through the front window and caught a glimpse of the postman hurrying off. The guy was wearing a US Postal Service jacket, but with sneakers and jeans. Weird, Green thought. Also odd was a van Green noticed across the street, one he’d never seen before: white, with no logos or rear windows. Green opened the door. It was winter, a day of high clouds and low sun. A pale haze washed out the white-tipped Spanish Fork Peak rising above the valley. Green looked down. On the porch sat a Priority box—about Bible-sized. His little dogs watched him pick up the mystery package. It was heavy, had no return address, and bore a postmark from Maryland. Green considered the package and then took it into his kitchen, where he tore it open with scissors, sending up a plume of white powder that covered his face and numbed his tongue. Just then the front door burst open, knocked off its hinges by a SWAT team wielding a battering ram. Quickly the house was flooded by cops in riot gear and black masks, weapons at the ready. There was Green, covered in cocaine and flanked by two Chihuahuas. “On the floor!” someone yelled. Green dropped the package where he stood. When he tried to comfort his pups, a dozen guns took aim: “Keep your hands where we can see them!” Officers cuffed Green on the floor while fending off Max, the older Chihuahua, who bared his tiny fangs and bit at their shoelaces. Splayed out on the carpet, Green was eye level with dozens of boots: A large tactical team—SWAT and DEA agents—fanned out through the house. He could hear things crashing, some officers yelling, others whispering to each other. He looked at the busted door and thought, Man, that thing was unlocked. On the living room wall hung family photos—his wife, Tonya, their two daughters, and a grandson—smiling brightly above Green, lying amid $27,000 worth of premium flake. (The package was stamped with a red dragon, the symbol for high-quality Peruvian.) Over the whole scene was a needlepoint that said: if i had known you were coming, i would have cleaned up! Excited by the company, little Max stopped shaking just long enough to crap right in the living room. The fact was, Green wasn’t just your average Mormon grandpa. Over the past few months he had been handling customer service for the massive online enterprise called Silk Road. It was like a clandestine eBay, a digital marketplace for illicit trade, mostly drugs. Green, under the handle Chronicpain, had parlayed his extensive personal narcotics knowledge—he’d been on pain meds for years—into a paying gig working for the site. Silk Road was hidden in the so-called dark web, a part of the Internet that’s invisible to search engines like Google. To access Silk Road you needed special cryptographic software. Combining an anonymous interface with traceless payments in the digital currency bitcoin, the site allowed thousands of drug dealers and nearly 1 million eager worldwide customers to find each other—and their drugs of choice—in the familiar realm of ecommerce. For a brief time, from 2011 to 2013, it was a wild success. In that relatively short span, Silk Road managed to rack up (depending on how you count) more than $1 billion in sales. Which is why Green found himself surrounded by an interagency task force. He had been hired by Dread Pirate Roberts, the mysterious figure at the center of Silk Road. DPR, as he was often called, was the proprietor of the site and the visionary leader of its growing community. His relatively frictionless drug market was a serious challenge to law enforcement, who still had no idea who he or she was—or even if DPR was a single person at all. For over a year, agents from the DEA, the FBI, Homeland Security, the IRS, the Secret Service, and US Postal Inspection had been trying to infiltrate the organization’s inner circle. This bust of Green and his Chihuahuas in the frozen Utah desert was their first notable success. The Feds got Green on his feet. They had a lot of questions, starting with why he had $23,000 cash in his fanny pack and who was on the other end of the encrypted chat dialogs on his computer. Green said, improbably, that the money was his tax return. He also asked for his pain medication. Instead they escorted him to the door and into a squad car, informing him that he’d be booked for possession of 1,092 grams of cocaine with intent to distribute. “Don’t take me to jail,” Green pleaded. “He knows everything about me.” Later, under interrogation, Green told the skeptical agents that to charge him and make his name public was a potential death sentence. Dread Pirate Roberts was dangerous, he said: “This guy’s got millions. He could have me killed.” Ross Ulbricht was deep into his regular drum circle when he spotted her. As Ross slapped the hide on his djembe, a West African drum, Julia Vie sat across the circle. She had a head full of curls, light brown skin, and dark brown eyes. The drum circle was assembled on a lawn at Penn State, where in 2008 Ross was working toward a master’s degree in materials science and engineering. Julia was 18, a free-spirited freshman, and when she noticed Ross she felt a powerful attraction. Not long after, Julia visited Ross’ campus office, where they couldn’t help but kiss and fall into a carnal heap on the floor. Both were smitten. Ross studied crystallography, working on thin-film growth. One day he made a large, flat blue crystal, affixed it to a ring, and gave it to Julia. She had no idea how her boyfriend could make a crystal, but she knew she was in love. Ross had grown up in Austin, Texas, and had always been smart and charming. He’d been the kind of kid who was an Eagle Scout—and let his friends give him a mohawk on a whim. He was raised in a tight family. They’d spend summers in Costa Rica; Ross’ parents had built a series of rustic, solar-powered bamboo houses there, near an isolated point break where Ross learned to surf. In high school, “Rossman,” as friends called him, drove an old Volvo, smoked plenty of pot, and still got a 1460 on his SATs. To friends, Ross was carefree but also caring. Ross earned a scholarship to the University of Texas at Dallas and majored in physics. From there he landed a graduate scholarship at Penn State, where he excelled as usual. But he wasn’t happy with the drudgery of lab research. Since college he’d been exploring psychedelics and reading Eastern philosophy. At Penn State, Ross talked openly about switching fields. He posted online about his disenchantment with science—and his new interest in economics. He’d come to see taxation and government as a form of coercion, enforced by the state’s monopoly on violence. His thinking was heavily influenced by Austrian economist Ludwig von Mises, a totem of the modern American libertarian orthodoxy. According to von Mises, a citizen must have economic freedom to be politically or morally free. And Ross wanted to be free. When he finished his master’s in 2009, he moved back to Austin and bought Julia a plane ticket to join him. She left school, and they got a cheap apartment together. It was cramped, but they were young and dreamy. Both imagined they might get married. Ross tried day trading, but it didn’t go well. He started a videogame company. That failed too. The setbacks were devastating. He didn’t want to be trying; he wanted to be doing. During this time, his downstairs neighbor, Donny Palmertree, invited Ross to work with him on Good Wagon Books, a business that collected used books and sold them in digital storefronts like Amazon and Books-A-Million. Ross built Good Wagon’s website, learned inventory management, and wrote a custom script that determined a book’s price based on its Amazon ranking. In his spare time Ross read, hiked, improved his yoga, and, as Julia fondly recalls, had “lots and lots of great sex.” But they also argued, about politics (she was a Democrat), money (what he called “frugal,” she called “cheap”), and their social life (she partied more than he did). Their relationship turned stormy, with frequent breakups. In the summer of 2010, they split up yet again. He was heartbroken, later telling a woman he met on OkCupid how he’d recently been in love and was trying to get over it. Ross was adrift. “I went through a lot over the year in my personal relationships,” he wrote in a journal on his computer, a kind of self-assessment of life goals. “I had left my promising career as a scientist to be an investment adviser and entrepreneur and came up empty-handed.” Ross felt ashamed, but not long afterward Palmertree got a job in Dallas, leaving Good Wagon to Ross. For years, all he’d wanted was to be in charge of something. Now he was. In the Good Wagon warehouse, Ross oversaw five part-time college students sorting, logging, and organizing the 50,000 books on shelves he built himself. That December was Good Wagon’s best month, clearing 10 grand. But by the end of 2010, the new CEO of Good Wagon was looking beyond the book business. During his forays into trading, Ross had discovered bitcoin, the digital cryptocurrency. The value of bitcoin—based only on market factors, unattached to any central bank—aligned with his advancing libertarian philosophy. On his LinkedIn page, Ross wrote that he wanted to “use economic theory as a means to abolish the use of coercion and aggression amongst mankind.” To that end Ross had a flash of insight. “The idea,” he wrote in his journal, “was to create a website where people could buy anything anonymously, with no trail whatsoever that could lead back to them.” He wrote that he’d “been studying the technology for a while but needed a business model and strategy.” Like most libertarians, Ross believed that drug use was a personal choice. And like all people paying attention, he observed that the war on drugs was a complete failure. The natural merchandise for his new enterprise would be drugs. “I was calling it Underground Brokers,” Ross wrote, “but eventually settled on Silk Road.” Ever the capable scientist, Ross decided to cultivate his own psilocybin mushrooms as a starter product. He was spending time with Julia again, while struggling with programming his site and still running Good Wagon. Then, one night in early 2011, Good Wagon collapsed. In the literal sense. Ross was working late, alone in the warehouse, when he heard an enormous crash—the sound of the library falling apart. He’d carefully designed the entire system but had somehow forgotten two vital screws, the ones that held it all together; the shelves came down, every single one, like dominoes. When Ross broke the news to Palmertree, he also admitted that his heart wasn’t in Good Wagon anymore. They agreed to close the company, with no hard feelings. He told Palmertree that he already had a new business idea—“something really big.” Silk Road went live in mid-January 2011. A few days later came the first sale. Then more. Ross eventually sold all 10 pounds of his mushrooms, but other vendors started joining. He was handling all the transactions by hand, which was time-consuming but exhilarating. It wasn’t long before enough vendors and users made it a functioning, growing marketplace. Just before the launch, facing a new year and a blank slate, Ross had resolved to change his life. “In 2011,” he wrote to himself, “I am creating a year of prosperity and power beyond what I have ever experienced before. Silk Road is going to become a phenomenon and at least one person will tell me about it, unknowing that I was its creator.” I’m sorry; your browser does not support HTML5 video in WebM with VP8 or MP4 with H.264. Special agent Carl Mark Force IV was half-asleep when the postal inspector started talking about something weird in the parcel sorters. “Just wanna let everybody know about this,” the inspector said, delivering his brief to a conference room full of bored law enforcement personnel. “We are having problems with drugs coming through the mail.” Force was a Baltimore-based DEA agent, and he was at a regional interagency meeting, a periodic intel show-and-tell with analysts from the FBI, the DEA, the IRS, and Homeland Security. “It’s coming from an underground drug site,” the inspector said, “called Silk Road.” Force sat up. This was the kind of thing he was looking for. He had burned out on the grind of arresting street dealers. At 6 feet and 200 pounds, Force was an athletic guy, and coming up through the agency he’d loved the physical thrill of bursting through a door at 6 am in Doc Martens and a tactical vest, clearing some broke-down row house on some broke-down block and catching some dealer in the bathroom, cuffing the guy before he could wipe his ass. But after countless raids, the adrenaline had worn off. And in the grand scheme of things, who cared about confiscating a few grams? He was pushing 50 and still on the federal payroll in a regional office. That’s when you want to find a big case and get out. And so he went looking for leads in meetings like this, which were mostly yawners—until now. By the time Force heard about Silk Road, it had been around nearly a year. The site was modeled, sensibly, on Amazon and eBay. And that’s what it looked like: a well-organized community marketplace, complete with profiles, listings, and transaction reviews. Everything was anonymous, and shipments often went through the regular old postal service. No need for fake names—you put your real address, and if any one asks, you just say you didn’t order all that heroin! Silk Road’s “Seller’s Guide” had helpful instructions on how to vacuum-seal or otherwise hide drugs to evade electronic sensors or canine olfactories. Most shipments made it to happy customers. That the small percentage of intercepted Silk Road packages represented an uptick spoke to the quickly rising volume of the site’s trade, a vast pharmacopeia covering dozens of categories with 13,000 listings. It was a colorful smorgasbord for every type of connoisseur: fish­scale Colombian cocaine, Afghan No. 4 heroin, strawberry LSD, Caramello hash, Mercury’s Famous uncut cocaine flakes, Mario Invincibility Star XTC, white Mitsubishi MDMA, a black tar heroin called the Devil’s Licorice. Then there were the prescription meds, everything from Oxycontin and Xanax to Fentanyl and Dilaudid. Silk Road’s product descriptions and user ratings amounted to an encyclopedic information source. Cantfeelmyface said one product “has a nice shine” and provides “a rush of euphoria and confidence.” Ivory’s review of some crystal MDMA observed that it had “a nice fizz and wisp of smoke =].” The reviews and community standards enforced excellent value and customer service on Silk Road, which brought more users, increasing its reputation further—until Silk Road became the premier destination for digital drug sales. Law enforcement was caught with its tactical pants down. Various agencies had sniffed around Silk Road in the summer of 2011 but gotten nowhere. Force saw potential but didn’t even know where to begin. Months later, in January 2012, he got some good news from his supervisor. Homeland Security was assembling a task force for a full-on Silk Road case. “You want in?” his boss asked. Before he knew it, Force was at a Silk Road summit, where he and 40 other agents picked through doughnut boxes and watched PowerPoint presentations filled with technical information about nodes and TCP/IP layers. Most of the agents’ eyes glazed over, but, yes, Force wanted in. The task force that formed to take on Silk Road—Operation Marco Polo—was based out of the Baltimore Homeland Security Investigations office. Another agent showed Force how to navigate Silk Road. He quickly saw that it had a vocal mastermind, the revered figure known as Dread Pirate Roberts. It was a clever touch, borrowing the name from The Princess Bride, in which the pirate was a mythical character, inhabited by the wearer of the mask. The idea of a malleable but enduring identity only added to Silk Road’s enigmatic appeal. Force was intrigued. Whoever wore this digital mask sat atop a burgeoning empire. Force told his boss that Silk Road was a “target of opportunity.” But he was unskilled at computers, and he didn’t know anything about bitcoin. So he decided to learn. Hector Xavier Monsegur was an unusual visitor to the New York FBI office. Then again, Monsegur was not really a visitor. It was past 1 am one night in the spring of 2011, and he was being led to the back of the empty bullpen by Chris Tarbell, a young agent who had arrested Monsegur earlier that night in the Jacob Riis Houses on the Lower East Side. Monsegur was an enormous Puerto Rican, ears studded with diamonds, who grew up in the projects. He was also Sabu, a cofounder of LulzSec, the elite group of hackers responsible for electronically attacking dozens of corporate and government targets like News Corp. and the CIA. Sabu was the most high-profile member of Anonymous, the “hacktivist” political collective. Tarbell had managed to follow a blind lead from the FBI’s public hotline to Sabu and reel him into the FBI as an informant. It was a remarkable score for Tarbell, especially since he was still a rookie. Tarbell had always had the cop in him, even when his parents thought he was going to be a doctor. In college he was a powerlifter, an unusual sight at James Madison University, a preppy school in the Shenandoah Valley. He already looked like a cop: big, with a short coif on top of that baby face. By the time Tarbell finished college, he sensed where policing was headed and got a master’s in computer science. He didn’t understand programming at first. But he did understand that this was the future, so he paced himself, stuck with it, and came out the other side as a computer forensics expert, working as a civilian for the FBI. Tarbell spent four years traveling the world with global forensics, tracking down terrorists, child pornographers, and botnets. He showed a talent for uncovering digital trails. He thought about how the virtual realm seemed like magic, a secret world, poorly understood; and like all magical realms, it was full of charlatans and practitioners of dark arts. Few could decipher those secrets, and Tarbell liked being one of them. After a few years in forensics, Tarbell told his wife, Sabrina, he wanted to officially join the Bureau. Sabrina, eight months pregnant, approved, even though it meant uprooting their lives. After Quantico, Tarbell was assigned to the New York office, home to the FBI’s nascent cybercrime division. By this time he was 31, a little old to be the new guy. But catching the elusive Sabu made Tarbell’s name at the Bureau. Online, Sabu’s credibility among hackers was unassailable. The FBI set him up with a new laptop in their office, where he gathered evidence against his LulzSec friends. Nine months later dozens of arrests were made, severely disabling two of the world’s biggest hacker groups. After LulzSec, Tarbell looked for a new big case. He took an interest in Tor, the encryption software that allowed users to visit sites such as Silk Road. Tor’s protocol is a kind of digital invisibility cloak, hiding users and the sites they visit. Tor stands for “the Onion Router” and was launched by the Navy in 2002. It has since become a tool for all manner of clandestine communications, licit and illicit, from circumventing censorship in countries like China to powering contraband sites like Silk Road. Tor’s encryption is so layered, agents thought it was unbreakable. When cybercrime investigations hit a Tor IP, they would give up. The supposed impossibility only attracted Tarbell. I’m gonna take on Tor, he thought. Waiting for Dark: Inside Two Anarchists' Quest for Untraceable Money DEA Agent Charged With Acting as a Paid Mole for Silk Road Silk Road Boss' First Murder-for-Hire Was His Mentor's Idea Tarbell briefed his supervisor, who briefed his supervisor, and so on, until they wound up in the office of the SAC, or special agent in charge. Above the SAC is the assistant director in charge—yes, an endless source of amusement when complaining about red tape in the FBI is to talk about how the SAC is just below ADIC. It took a couple of sales pitches to soften up the SAC, but in February 2013, Tarbell opened the FBI’s first Tor case: Operation Onion Peeler. By now Silk Road was a juicy target. Many agencies were working on it, but with no success. Homeland Security Investigations had a case open. The IRS had looked into it. There was Force’s DEA case in Baltimore. And the New York DEA, which asked Tarbell for technical advice. They were using traditional drug investigation techniques, but Tarbell knew this wasn’t an operation where you could flip people up the chain, because there was no chain. You had to go straight to the top. Ross was paddling through the break, lining up for a set. The beach at Bondi, just south of Sydney, sloped down to a gorgeous waterline. For Ross, the waves were among the many advantages of leaving Austin in late 2011 to spend some time in Australia with his older sister, Cally. He quickly made friends there, a lively group that went out drinking, invited him to warehouse parties, and met up to go surfing. Ross had worked that morning but was in the water by afternoon. It was nice, the portable life. And it was made possible by his flourishing online drug bazaar. Silk Road’s usage had exploded in June of that year, after a story on Gawker brought the site mainstream attention. After that, traffic grew so fast that Ross needed technical support to maintain the site, deal with transactions, and add features like automatic payments and a better feedback system. He’d been doing it all himself, learning on the fly, programming automated transactions and using CodeIgniter to write and rewrite the site after a benevolent hacker alerted him to some major flaws. (“This is amateur shit,” the hacker had said.) His homespun efforts worked (miraculously), but Ross lost sleep over it. To outsiders he seemed his normal genial self, but in his digital domain he was frazzled, trying to keep Silk Road running. All the while he recorded in his journal the pitfalls of running a seat-of-the-pants startup: And yeah, that was yet another learning curve, configuring and running a LAMP server, oh joy! … But I was loving it. Sure it was a little crude, but it worked! Rewriting the site was the most stressful couple of months I’ve ever experienced. Early on, Ross had turned to Richard Bates, a college friend who was now a software engineer in Austin. Bates helped Ross with basic programming and tended to crises like the site’s first major outage. When Silk Road took off, Ross tried to hire Bates, but Bates already had a programming job. “Have you ever thought about doing something legitimate,” Bates asked Ross, “something legal?” Ross wasn’t really interested. Driven by the failure of his previous businesses, he was determined to make Silk Road succeed. He disappeared into his work and started professionalizing his organization. He and Julia broke up again that summer. With Silk Road in his computer, there was little to keep Ross in Austin. By the time he got to Australia, he had banked $100,000 and was earning $25,000 a month in commissions. “It was time to bring in some hired guns,” he wrote, “to … take the site to the next level.” Part of the problem was that Ross was grappling with what hackers call operational security, or opsec. To completely seal his two identities from one another, Ross realized, would require a kind of ruthless and elaborate secrecy. He appealed to Bates to stay quiet. Later, Ross told his friend that he’d sold Silk Road to a mysterious buyer. He also struggled with learning how to lie. Just before New Year’s he went on a date with a woman named Jessica; he told her, like everyone else, that he was working on a bitcoin exchange. This alone constituted a security leak. I’m so stupid, he thought. But Ross got “deep” with Jessica and felt an urge to reveal himself. He lamented this feeling, the divide between intimacy and deceit. The Eagle Scout in him agonized over telling half-truths. Sitting across from Jessica, he wished he could be honest; he also wished he’d started with a better lie. But Ross did divulge the most important truth. He told her: “I have secrets.” When Silk Road started, its leader was something of a cipher. Users and vendors only knew that there was a system administrator who’d established the site’s conceptual framework as both a drug marketplace and libertarian experiment. ¶ There was a basic ethics for that experiment. Some of Silk Road’s users were purists who advocated for full transactional autonomy—if heroin, why not howitzers and human hearts?—but the administrator pronounced “a strict code of conduct.” No child porn, stolen goods, or fake degrees. He summed it up like so: “Our basic rules are to treat others as you would wish to be treated and don’t do anything to hurt or scam someone else.” As time went on, the administrator became an important voice, the site’s theorist and advocate for individual liberty. But ideas need a true leader. This role, Ross decided, was too important to go unnamed. “Who is Silk Road?” posted the administrator in February 2012 to the community. “I am Silk Road, the market, the person, the enterprise, everything … I need a name.” “Drum roll please … ,” came the dramatic announcement. “My new name is Dread Pirate Roberts.” Everyone loves The Princess Bride, and the reference was clear immediately. (Force and Tarbell, who had both seen the movie many times, got the implication as well: plausible deniability.) The mask, worn by successive generations of pirates, obfuscates the relationship between the name and the man. The christening of DPR was emblematic of Silk Road’s secrecy. It also ignited a true cult of personality. DPR was thoughtful and at times eloquent. For believers, Silk Road was more than a black market; it was a sanctuary. For DPR, the site was a political polemic in practice. “Stop funding the state with your tax dollars,” DPR wrote, “and direct your productive energies into the black market.” DPR got more grandiose over time, writing that every transaction on Silk Road was a step toward universal freedom. In a way, Silk Road was the logical extension of the libertarian view that animates much of the Internet (not to mention the rising political tide in Washington). It was Silicon Valley in extremis, a disruptive technology wrapped in political rhetoric. DPR was its philosopher-king, envisioning a post-state digital economy, with Silk Road as the first step toward a libertarian paradise. Not only was Silk Road a slap in the face to law enforcement, it was a direct challenge, as DPR wrote, to the very structure of power. All the more reason, of course, why the government wanted to shut it down. Ross had been flattered by the sudden media attention in June 2011, but when US senator Charles Schumer called a press conference to denounce Silk Road, he was alarmed. “The US govt, my main enemy,” he wrote, “was aware of me and … calling for my destruction.” I am a great admirer of your work. Brilliant, utterly brilliant! I will keep this short and to the point. I want to buy the site. I’ve been in the business for over 20 years. SILK ROAD is the future of trafficking. Force wrote this message from one of two government laptops he was issued for his undercover mission on Silk Road. They were Dells, silver and clunky with shitty batteries, so the DEA agent had to keep them plugged in, usually in the seclusion of the guest room of his house in the Baltimore suburbs. That was also the favorite room of Pablo, Force’s cat, who would sit on the bed watching him, in his chair and ottoman, as he took to the keys posing as a high-rolling international drug smuggler. He had constructed an elaborate identity: Eladio Guzman, a cartel operative based in the Dominican Republic whose bread and butter was moving midsize shipments of heroin and cocaine. For Guzman’s Silk Road screen name, Force chose Nob, after the biblical city where David obtains the sword of Goliath. Oh, and the Guzman character was blind in one eye. So Force put on a hoodie and an eye patch and had his 10-year-old daughter take his profile picture. In the photo, Force, aka Guzman, aka Nob, held up a sign: all hail nob. Force knew how to put together a backstory from his years in undercover. As a young agent, he’d been on the front lines of the drug war. He grew out his hair, put bronze hoops in his ear, and inked a huge tribal piece on his back. He said he worked in construction while looking for leads in down-and-out bars, like the Purple Pig Pub in Alamosa, Colorado, the “gateway to the great sand dunes”—and also the gateway to the Rocky Mountain route for Mexican meth. Putting himself in the mindset of a smuggler, Force saw Silk Road’s strength as communications and distribution. Hence his big opening gambit: For Guzman, Silk Road offered the opportunity for covert vertical integration from wholesale to retail. Force hoped he’d get a quick response, and he did. The day after Nob’s proposal, Dread Pirate Roberts wrote, “I’m open to the idea. What did you have in mind?” I’m sorry; your browser does not support HTML5 video in WebM with VP8 or MP4 with H.264. Tarbell was at work, on the 23rd floor of the New York FBI office, early as usual. He was the kind of guy who wanted to be first in the office. Always had been, ever since college, when he started organizing his whole life on spreadsheets. Tarbell and Sabrina’s first date is still on an Excel worksheet somewhere, as is everything that’s happened since: calendar, bills, weight goals, daily run. Tarbell’s father-in-law, a longtime marine, thought Tarbell was the most regimented person he’d ever met. Tarbell set his alarm for 4:30 am, hit the gym by 5, and was showered and seated at his desk by 7 am sharp. Tarbell and his fellow cybercops occupied a couple of dozen spots toward the back of the bullpen, fanned out around a core group of desks called the Pit. This was prime real estate, where the cool kids among the FBI’s computer clique sat. When Tarbell started he was sitting two desks and an aisle away, way over by the windows. But during the LulzSec investigation, a coveted desk opened up and he leapfrogged right into the center of the Pit. Tarbell liked his new colleagues, especially Ilwhan Yum. As a kid, Yum moved from Korea to Long Island, where he got into videogames and later learned about networking and packets from playing competitively in college. Yum would become vital to the Silk Road case because he was the squad’s bitcoin specialist. He’d gone to the first bitcoin conference, in August 2011 in New York. From a law enforcement perspective, bitcoin screamed money laundering. But technologically, Yum thought the protocol “was, simply, beautiful.” Across from Yum was Tom Kiernan. He’d been in the Pit the longest, 17 years, nearly since the DOS era, when he started at the Bureau as a civilian tech support guy, responding when agents’ printers stopped working. Kiernan just understood machines, backward and forward, and became the spine of the cybersquad. He’d seen every case and knew all, like the Pit’s very own oracle—just the guy Tarbell needed to help probe Silk Road’s defenses.
Tor was a vexing problem. Tarbell thought it had benefits, but he also believed that all technologies could have their purposes corrupted. In a criminal context, as with Silk Road, Tor made classic law enforcement—knocking on doors, interviewing witnesses, making deals—nearly useless. Sure, you might start to piece together the network or get closer to DPR, but you’d still have only usernames. This was not a people case, Tarbell thought. This was a computer case. The path to DPR was through his server. Finding it was a fearsome technical challenge. Out of 1.5 billion computers in the world, Tarbell started to think about just one machine, day after day. It could be anywhere. He was looking for a nanowire in a haystack. Back in Baltimore, Force was fluffing pillows. This was his habit in the evening, a way to clear his mind before getting on Silk Road as Nob. For the first couple of weeks, Nob pushed his big Silk Road investment scheme. But DPR declined, saying essentially: This operation is bigger than you think. ¶ And it was, because Silk Road worked extremely well. DPR’s robust stewardship was paying off. To protect against scammers he created a Silk Road escrow, where all transactions would be held until settled. DPR wanted to create what he called a “center of trust,” and it was this centralized payment structure that enabled Silk Road to really take off. So when Nob offered to buy the operation, DPR countered with quite a price: $1 billion. Nob scoffed. But in fact, DPR’s number might have been low; the scale of Silk Road commissions over the next year would in fact qualify DPR as one of the biggest entrepreneurs of the second Internet boom. Besides, he told Nob, “this is more than a business to me. It’s a revolution and is becoming my life’s work.” In essence, DPR faced a classic founder’s dilemma. “It would not be easy to pass the baton without hurting the enterprise,” he messaged Nob. “And right now that is more important to me than the money.” Force kept communication with DPR alive by talking about creating a parallel site for cartels, a pro version called Masters of Silk Road. He spent many nights in his guest room, Pablo purring by his side, forging a camaraderie with DPR through the intimacy of late-night TorChat. At times they sounded like college kids getting to know each other in the freshman dorm. “The food pyramid is bullshit,” DPR said, encouraging Nob to go paleo. Nob advised DPR against seeing the latest Batman, invited him to LA for tacos, and talked about how much Latinos like the Smiths. DPR had never heard of the Smiths. But otherwise, Force’s mysterious new pen pal was appropriately cagey. He didn’t want to meet up for tacos. For some reason, Force always imagined DPR as a skinny white kid, probably on the West Coast based on his active hours. Force liked him, this kid he had in mind as DPR. He enjoyed getting deep into the culture of Silk Road. It reminded him of his undercover days. He thought about DPR, living a double life, and the allure—and danger—of taking on a new identity. Force had seen it firsthand in his years in undercover. He came to love being that criminal operator big shot. But a new self comes with a price. The more Force pretended and partied, the easier it was to inhabit the part. At home he was the clean-cut, churchgoing dad. But when he was at some nightclub hunting for drug deals, liquor flowing, surrounded by girls, it was hard to believe just how comfortable he felt. Eventually Force stopped drinking and recommitted himself to church. He’d been a hot undercover agent, but he left behind the double life that nearly destroyed him. That’s how he wound up in the Baltimore office, living in a suburban two-story with a big, solid oak tree in the backyard. But now here he was, within sight of that oak, his family in the next room, venturing again into the drug world as someone else. Force recognized it was all a dangerous game. He knew how you could change. He could see it in DPR already. The thing about taking on a new identity is that it is fundamentally a lie. To the world at first. And then to yourself. “The world is in flux,” Ross tells the camera. He sits across from his friend René Pinnell, recording for StoryCorps, a nonprofit that invites anyone to share their life experiences. Ross and René thought the world should know more about them, so they entered the StoryCorps booth, closed the door, and spent half an hour with each other and the camera. In this recording, Ross is contemplative. He lives in San Francisco now. It has been a revelation. He is awed by the beauty and the entrepreneurial energy. He came at the invitation of René, whom he’d known since seventh grade. René had been an aspiring filmmaker who instead wound up in technology in San Francisco, and one day he phoned Ross, intoning the great American clarion call of opportunity out West. Two weeks later, Ross showed up on his friend’s doorstep. In the video, they get nostalgic about childhood. There was the time the two of them tried to steal extra Tater Tots in the lunch room at West Ridge Middle School. The way Ross would eat his peanut butter chocolate wafers, precisely, by nibbling down the layers. How uncool it was when Ross had a sleepover and some bad kids stole a year’s worth of change he’d saved. Ross Ulbricht Didn't Create Dread Pirate Roberts. This Guy Did Here’s the Secret Silk Road Journal From the Laptop of Ross Ulbricht Read the Transcript of Silk Road’s Boss Ordering 5 Killings Of course, they talk about love, as young men do. Ross reminisces about Ashley, his first, and her great tits. The first time they’d hung out, they did psychedelics, something called AMT. They got it from his neighbor Brandon, a “super-brilliant physics student who was into all of these research chemicals.” Ross was still a teenager then, lying on the floor, expanding his mind next to a beautiful girl for eight hours. Life is a fluctuating value, René says, like currency. René thinks his friend is a trader. René talks about how Austin is “the meh of startups,” whereas San Francisco is “the Mecca.” It’s late 2012, a time of fever dreams in the Bay Area, full of people wanting to “change the world” and make a lot of money in the process. René may not know it, but he is sitting next to someone doing just that. Ross and René wonder: What will happen in 200 years? “I want to have a substantial positive impact on the future of humanity by the time I die,” Ross says. René asks Ross if he thinks he’ll live forever. Ross looks up, breaks into a tiny smile. “Yes,” he says. “I think I might.” As Silk Road became a true global market, DPR reveled in his role as leader and libertarian evangelist. He created a book club, where users could polish their dogma from the sacred texts of von Mises himself. He talked more about a near future when our current governments would seem like ancient history, along with “the pharaohs” and their “armies of slaves.” He extolled the Silk Road faithful for being on the front lines of revolution. “Thank you,” DPR said, “for your trust, faith, camaraderie and love.” He offered them “hugs not drugs,” then amended it: “wait, hugs AND drugs!” The community responded in kind, likening DPR to Che Guevara, calling him a “job creator” and declaring that his name would live on “among the greatest men and women in history.” Silk Road had become a brand cult, with tens of thousands of fanatical users. And DPR was their very own Steve Jobs. Force sensed DPR’s swelling confidence. He’d been talking to him for a year, taking in DPR’s personality and passion. Force could appreciate the appeal. It must be intoxicating, bringing an idea to life, projecting your will into the world through encrypted code and transactions. Sometimes DPR said that he sensed the scale of this achievement and would hear the theme to Tron playing in his head. This was the new spirit of DPR: a self-created beacon in the darkness, spreading the good word through libertarian jubilee, holding aloft his lantern of truth. It was a lonely outpost, however. DPR said so to Nob. He called himself a person “who hides behind computers.” At times DPR wished they could meet. Instead they shared a mix of truth and fiction about their lives. NOB: you doing good?DREAD: yes sir, today is a good day.NOB: so that black cloud that was over your head has gone?DREAD: the new look rolled out with minimal issues, woke up next to a beautiful woman, and I’m listening to one of my favorite bands/songs … and eating fresh strawberries. They talked shop: site fixes, the odd “holiday slump” in drug sales, the human resources problems of a clandestine telecommuting workplace. This was a big problem. To grow, DPR said, he had to build a strong workforce. A leader needs support so he can focus on the future. “I just want to let you know that your work hasn’t gone unnoticed,” DPR wrote to Chronicpain, aka Curtis Green, the Mormon grandpa in Spanish Fork, Utah. “I’d like to offer you a position.” Green had been on Silk Road for some time, and he’d chosen that screen name because of his own chronic pain, caused by a back injury he’d sustained while working as an EMT. On disability, Green had become an amateur pharmacologist, learning the ins and outs of opiates. Green had always been the hobbyist type, ever since his high school obsession with ham radios, which he used to talk to strangers all over the world, including astronauts on the International Space Station. Silk Road fulfilled his yearning for community and technical intricacy, combining computers with his interest in “safe drug use.” With DPR’s approval, Green started Silk Road’s Health and Wellness forum, where he advised people on how to snort ephedrine, cautioned against Fentanyl for the uninitiated, and explained to someone that it’s not a good idea to inject peanut butter or shoot heroin into your eyeball. When Green’s diligent forum-moderating turned into a job offer from DPR, he was thrilled. DPR sent a job description, which included customer service and resetting passwords. Green (taking on a new admin handle, Flush) worked 80 hours a week, mediating drug sale disputes from his lounger, Fox News running in the background. DPR was a complicated boss. He could be a hard taskmaster, haranguing Green for being even one minute late to an appointed time on TorChat. Green was chagrined when he got no Christmas greeting. But other times DPR was full of generosity, staking Green in a poker tournament (and being unfazed when Green lost it all). Like a digital-era don, he could be affectionate and magnanimous in public but decidedly less humane behind the scenes. He gave audience to loyal users seeking favors—one guy got help buying a wedding ring—but was decidedly unsympathetic to the real consequences of his business. Green forwarded one troubling customer service complaint from a woman whose brother overdosed on heroin from Silk Road and noted that under the current system, children could use the site. Perhaps that was a hair too much freedom, Green said. DPR erupted: “THAT’S MY WHOLE IDEA!” Any constraints would destroy the fundamental concept, he said, and refused any assistance for the grieving sister. And yet Green stayed on, despite the insensitivity and ethical contradictions, becoming one of Silk Road’s most trusted employees. On Silk Road, however, trust only went so far. DPR demanded a scan of Green’s driver’s license. It was a loyalty test. Green obliged, even though it exposed him while allowing DPR to remain in the shadows. Like Force, Green felt like he’d established quite a bond with DPR—partners in a secret world. But not all secrets are partnerships. No matter how close Green or Force or anyone else got to DPR, no one had any idea who he was. I’m sorry; your browser does not support HTML5 video in WebM with VP8 or MP4 with H.264. Tarbell had three computers on his desk, as did Kiernan and Yum. The cybersquad crew looked for any flicker of information that would crack open the dark web. But their investigation was moving slowly. They explored the site, read the forums, and crawled Reddit, looking for Silk Road community members talking to each other or to DPR about cryptographic weaknesses they’d discovered. But a month went by with no traction. The crew ate lunch together every day at 11:30 on the nose like the habit-happy cops they were. Most of the time they picked up sandwiches downstairs at the deli, where the guy behind the counter knew them all by their order. Kiernan would be happy with chicken cordon bleu forever, and Tarbell was such a fan of the chicken parmesan that when he’d occasionally get a salad the deli guy would say, “Awww, what’s the matter, Mr. CIA? No chicken parm today?” Tarbell called Yum his “work wife.” They were a good team, he thought: the thinker and the talker. Tarbell was the talker; he had by now emerged as the dominant personality in the Pit. The dues-paying rookie of the previous year had given way to a raucous, confident alpha type who bristled when he heard rumblings from Washington about ownership of the Silk Road investigation. The case had become an enormous bureaucratic battle, as every agency tried to plant its flag. The Baltimore task force—where Force’s case operated—was the most aggressive, claiming complete ownership and bad-mouthing the FBI cybersquad in particular. “They think we’re a joke, poking around on the Internet,” Tarbell told Yum. “But we’re going to prove them wrong.” The other agencies, he noted, had been at it for a while, “and they don’t have fuck-all.” But in the bureaucratic muddle that is the United States government, there is no clear jurisdiction for cybercrime. It’s a growing field that’s fueling law enforcement funding, which attracts egos and politics. Silk Road represented the new frontier of crime, a digital-era Wild West. As with the original frontier, Washington wanted to fence it in—and whoever brought law to the lawless would be a hero. Subdue the digital frontier and there was a star waiting for you, which was why the Silk Road case had become the largest online manhunt in history. Green wouldn’t stop talking, even covered in cocaine. That was how Force found him when the SWAT team finished ransacking his house. Force was running that show; as Nob, he’d orchestrated the shipment of coke, and the whole raid was part of the growing Marco Polo task force investigating Silk Road. He’d watched Green take the bait from a command post across the street, and when he walked in a few minutes later, Green was cuffed on the floor, blabbing already. Green had more answers than Force had questions. He talked and talked and talked until Force couldn’t stand it. Said he was a former EMT; he was just trying to help people; they could have just knocked; he thought the package was something else, a totally legal drug called N-Bombe. Shut the fuck up already, Force thought. Nevertheless, Green was a tangible lead in the Silk Road case, a corporeal asset rather than just letters on a screen. As Green was led to the squad car to be booked on possession by the local cops, Force put his number in Green’s phone and said, “When you get out, call me.” In jail, Green jawboned for hours to anyone who would listen, even declaring that he had been asked to cooperate with the DEA, at which point his tattooed cell mates told him to stop talking. When Green was released on bail, he went home and found his door still broken. His daughter had cleaned up some. In his bedroom the cops had apparently discovered that this particular Mormon grandpa owned a dildo, which they left for him standing straight up on the bed. Home alone with his two Chihuahuas, Green cried like a baby. “I’m a good little Mormon boy,” he said to himself. His thoughts grew dark. He loaded his dad’s .32. Then he looked down the barrel and threw it across the room. Green would be the first to admit that he was too chickenshit for suicide. He ran into the living room and threw himself onto the couch, where his Chihuahuas joined him, licking his face while he fell to his knees to pray. Eventually Green decided to get up, get his phone, and call DEA special agent Carl Force. It wasn’t until Force spent some time on Green’s computer and saw DPR’s messages—“Why aren’t you clearing out your accounts?” “Get back to me ASAP”—that he realized they’d caught a big fish in their net. This guy was a DPR lieutenant. Force mobilized quickly, working with the task force to put Green up in a Salt Lake City Marriott and debrief him. But DPR was jittery, and he’d noticed that his trusted admin had been offline for a few days. A Google search revealed that Green had been arrested, and DPR suspected he would flip. Moreover, he got a message from another employee, Inigo, that $350,000 in bitcoins had just disappeared from various accounts. Inigo quickly traced the theft to Green’s admin identity. DPR went into crisis mode, communicating with his confidants, scrambling for a solution. “This will be the first time I have had to call on my muscle,” he told Inigo. “Fucking sucks.” Moments later, DPR messaged Nob that he had a “problem” in Utah that required violence. According to the backstory Force had created for Nob, his criminal repertoire included enforcement and collection talents, so he acted the part. Sitting in the Marriott, Force received a PDF of the target, opened it, and discovered a scan of Green’s driver’s license photo. Then he looked across the table, where at that very moment Green was half-asleep. Well, this sure is an opportunity! Force thought. NOB: do you want him beat up. shot, just paid a visit?DREAD: I’d like him beat up, then forced to send the bitcoins he stole back.DREAD: not sure how these things usually go. Green claimed he hadn’t stolen any bitcoins and protested that the task force had had his computer when the money went missing. But Force didn’t want to talk about the money. He used DPR’s request to construct an elaborate plan. DREAD: how quickly do you think you can get someone over there? and what does that cost you? Force got Green to sign a waiver, thereby commencing his role in an impromptu staged torture sting against DPR. Soon Green was being dunked in the bathtub of a Marriott suite by phony thugs who were in fact a Secret Service agent and a Baltimore postal inspector. Force recorded the action on a camera. “Did you get it?” Green asked, wet and wheezing on the floor. He’d felt like their simulation was a little too accurate. They dunked him four more times to get a convincing shot. While waiting for news from Nob, DPR considered his options. A Silk Road user named Cimon, a trusted adviser who had guided DPR on opsec, programming, and leadership, asked DPR when a transgression against Silk Road requires a lethal response. “If this was the wild west,” DPR said, “and it kinda is, you’d get hung just for stealing a horse.” A few minutes later, Inigo chimed in, “I don’t condone murder but that’s almost worthy of assassinating him over lol.” DREAD: ok, so can you change the order to execute rather than torture?DREAD: he was on the inside for a while, and now that he’s been arrested, I’m afraid he’ll give up info. Of course, DPR was right that Green had been flipped—by the very same man he’d just hired as an assassin. It was a surprising escalation. The Silk Road leader, who waxed lyrical about “respecting” the Silk Road community, was now pondering pricing for murder. DREAD: never killed a man or had one killed before, but it is the right move in this case.DREAD: how much will it cost?DREAD: ballpark?DREAD: less than $100k?DREAD: have you killed or had someone killed before? It was like Scarface on fast-forward, Force thought. But he played right along. Over a week or so, Force conspired with his team to complete the fake death of Green. Force sent DPR photos of the staged torture, followed by photos of Green, facedown on the floor, pallid, smeared with Campbell’s Chicken & Stars soup—the supposed aftermath of asphyxiation. Green holed up in his house (he had to stay out of sight as part of the ruse) in a kind of self-imposed witness protection, and Force went back to Baltimore. DPR sent $40,000 to a Capital One account controlled by the government as an advance. DPR never got back the stolen bitcoins, but once in receipt of the putative proof of death, he sent another $40,000 for a job well done. NOB: you ok?DREAD: I am pissed I had to kill him.DREAD: but what’s done is done. DPR had momentarily wrestled with his decision. He had talked to Inigo about how he just wishes the best for people, and loves them in the libertarian spirit—even Green, in flagrante delicto—but ultimately concluded that his AWOL employee had become too much of a liability. And so, DPR’s principled, technological stand against the war on drugs slid into murder. Like so many revolutionaries before him, the idealist became an ideologue, willing to kill for his beloved vision. At one point, DPR corrected Inigo that this action was not revenge; it was justice—a new justice, according to the law of the Silk Road. Back in Baltimore, sitting in his guest room with Pablo, Force thought about DPR’s shift. He wondered: What changed? DPR was asking himself the same question. Moral choices blur when your identity is shifting. This was the irony behind the very idea of the Dread Pirate Roberts moniker—an inherent danger that the wearer would become the mask. Unmoored, DPR sensed that he was in a state of becoming: NOB: what have you learned?DREAD: well, I’m also learning who I am. I don’t think this will be the hardest thing I’ll have to do.NOB: what could be harder?DREAD: I don’t know.DREAD: maybe I’ll be faced with a decision where lives of innocent people will depend on the outcome. As if seeking a makeshift moral compass among murderers, DPR asked Nob to let him know if he was abusing his authority. “That is what friends are for!” Nob replied. DPR confided to Inigo that one of his deepest fears was “being wildly successful” and “being corrupted by that power.” Nob also warned his online comrade about that power, how it could consume you. In his office, Force himself had put up a picture of Jesús Malverde, the Mexican narco-saint, as inspiration for Nob, and felt the pull of the folk hero bandit. He reminded DPR not to “lose yourself.” How could he not? Now astride a multimillion-dollar drug operation that he’d built in less than two years, Ross was no longer the tenderhearted soul who agonized over telling one lie to a young woman over a glass of wine. His diary had changed from a story about doubts and hopes to a catalog of hard-nosed empire-building. How the Feds Took Down the Silk Road Drug Wonderland Feds Arrest the Silk Road's ‘Dread Pirate Roberts’ The Most Dangerous People On the Internet Right Now The triumph of Silk Road confirmed its creator’s belief in his own myth. “What we are doing,” DPR wrote to his followers, “will have rippling effects for generations to come.” In June 2013 the site reached nearly 1 million registered accounts. And the Feds were nowhere in sight. Until one afternoon just around that same time, back in the New York FBI cybercrime office, when Tarbell and Kiernan leaned forward and finally saw something interesting on one of their screens. They’d been at it for weeks, farting into the same chair cushions in the Pit, running the Tor bundle on one monitor, staring at lists of numbers on another, when one of those numbers surprised them: 62.75.246.20. They looked at each other in disbelief—and then back at the terminal, which was displaying the true IP address of the Silk Road server. Read the story’s conclusion, “Part 2: The Fall,” here This article includes reporting by Nick Bilton, whose book on the Silk Road case will appear in 2016. This story appears in the May 2015 issue.