The Crypto Venture at 13 Third Street

The Martin family lived at 13 Third Street in an old brick house sandwiched between new McMansions. In the second floor bedroom, a pale skinny boy sat trembling in front of his laptop. He took a few shallow breaths while adjusting his Aviators on his bony nose and smoothing down his long brown hair. He checked his image in the webcam and made sure the sparkly cat graphic on his t-shirt showed. He clicked “play” to start his livestream.

“Okay,” he choked out. He cleared his throat. “Okay, pump dot fun community, or shall I say ‘pumpers!’” Regret filled his laughter. “My name’s Justin. I’m sixteen years old. Gen Zen is my first crypto coin, and it’ll be a life-long investment for me. Bezos. Amazon. Musk. Tesla. The Winklevoss twins, those guys Zuckerberg screwed over? Bitcoin. Crypto can be volatile—duh—but that’s why I’m looking at Gen Zen as my Amazon.”

Justin continued for seven minutes, eyes flicking between the webcam and the pump.fun dashboard showing the value of Gen Zen and his $350 investment in his own coin. He smiled stupidly and let his voice turn giddy. He couldn’t help it, and who cared? His $350 climbed to $28K, $29K, then the magic number of $30,000.

“Yes!” he shouted and punched the air. He clicked a button and sold his Gen Zen. He clicked another button and transferred the money from pump.fun into his bank account. “Tha-aaank you!” he yelled into the webcam. He closed the livestream, stood, and paced, panting and grinning into his hands, dreaming of the car he would buy.

And this was just the floor! Justin wondered how long part two might take. Days? Weeks? Days, surely.

The house phone rang downstairs. He heard his father complain about a call in the evening while going to answer it. “Hello?” he barked. “What? Who is this? Now listen to me—he hung up!” Then he heard his father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by “Justin!” muffled through the bedroom door. 

“Why,” his father yelled up the stairs, voice growing closer, “are people threatening to call the police about you?”

“It’s working already!”

His father opened his bedroom door and stood with one hand on the knob. “What’s working?” He studied Justin with beady eyes set in a long wrinkled face, leaning over a paunch that stretched a green polo draping over khakis.

“Uh, well, I’m in the middle of a — of a crypto venture.”

Justin’s father tilted his forehead toward him and wrinkled it. Before he could speak, the phone rang again.

Downstairs, his mother answered the phone in the voice of someone expecting news of a grand prize. “Hello, Martin residence.” A beat passed and she shrieked, “What?! Who are you?” She scoffed. “He hung up!”

Justin winced and said, “Dad, you might unplug the phone.”

He held up a palm, raised his eyebrows, and said, “I don’t wanna know.” The phone rang a third time before the door clicked shut. He hollered down the stairs, “Let it ring!” A moment later, the phone stopped mid-ring as he unplugged the phone. 

Justin tossed his Aviators onto his desk and sat down at his laptop. He logged out of his pump.fun account, opened an Incognito browser window, and signed in to a different pump.fun account. Looking at the dashboard, his eyes widened and a long, slow scream rose nearly to an explosion before he clamped both hands over his mouth. He used his feet to push back his swivel chair and spin circles.

Dizzied and calmed, Justin resized the browser window and opened a new one, arranging them side-by-side. He began shopping for Stingray Corvettes with one eye while monitoring the pump.fun dashboard with the other. He had nearly finished a spreadsheet comparing the fourteen Corvettes he’d found online when he heard his father cry out.

“What in the world?” his mother added.

Then Justin noticed red and blue lights flashing through his bedroom window. A voice on a loudspeaker demanded that everyone come out with their hands clearly visible. He clicked a button to sell more Gen Zen, clicked another button to transfer the funds into a second bank account, glanced at the confirmation page, and closed his laptop.

He ran downstairs. “Mom! Dad! We’ve been ‘swatted,’ it’s okay, follow me, it’s okay.” Justin came upon his mother standing in the living room in a gray sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants, knitting needles and a half-finished scarf in her hands. He went past her and found his father looking lost in the foyer. Justin opened the front door and stuck his hands into the opening. Then he eased outside and walked, squinting, into SWAT’s blinding lights.

An hour later, Justin sat in the middle of his bed and faced his parents standing side-by-side, arms folded.

“What were you thinking?” his father shouted. “You broke the law!”

“It’s not illegal. Crypto has, like, zero regulations. Investors may not like ‘pump-and-dump,’ but it’s their own fault if they fall for it.”

“Those investors are harassing us,” his mother said, eyes flashing. “Why would you piss off these crazy people?”

Justin scooted off the bed, opened his laptop, and gestured to the screen. He explained while his parents leaned over it. “Those crazy people started buying more Gen Zen to raise the value, to rub it in my face for selling my coin for a measly thirty grand. They didn’t know I owned more Gen Zen under a different account, this one connected to your email, Mom.”

Slowly, his parents turned to face him. His father whispered, “You tricked people into buying fake money and made over two million real dollars?”

Justin shrugged. “Split it 50-50?”