34856893457934

They had become so close that most evenings ended with some digital pillow talk. (“Alright, off
to sleep. See you in a few,” Ross would write. “You make sure you get some sleep,” VJ would reply.)
Most mornings began with another aloha to see how the other was doing. (“Hey, good morning,” one
would say. “Howdy, rowdy,” the other would reply.) During the rest of their waking hours, they
would banter about politics, the war on drugs, porn, and books, and laugh at each other’s jokes. VJ
was always able to make Ross chortle. “My mailman is a drug dealer,” VJ wrote when a package
arrived. “He just doesn’t know it.”
The bond between Variety Jones and Ross had blossomed so much that in recent weeks the
longest period of time that had passed without them chatting was a two-and-a-half-day period over
New Year’s Eve. As Ross rang in January 1 watching a fireworks show in Australia and fixing
someone’s elbow after a drunken incident, Variety Jones was in London, fast asleep after dropping a
couple of tabs of ecstasy, drinking two bottles of champagne, and passing out thirty minutes before the
ball dropped. Their bond had grown so strong that Ross had even greeted VJ when he returned to
work after the holiday by saying, “I missed you :).”
VJ was likable and funny and witty, but more important, he was someone whom Ross could
really trust in a world where you couldn’t trust anyone. For the first time since he’d started the Silk
Road, Ross Ulbricht had a best friend. Variety Jones, of course, was also making money from the
friendship. Ross paid him for his services, sometimes as much as $60,000 at a time, which covered
travel expenses and subordinate programmers who worked for VJ.
It was the perfect time for such a connection to blossom, as the stresses of running the site were
only growing more intense. When it had begun, the site offered a few magic mushrooms and some
weed. Now it was home to almost every narcotic imaginable, some of which were being sold in very
large quantities. People were also hawking lots of different guns; you could buy Uzis, Beretta
handguns, AR-15 assault rifles, endless rounds of ammunition, and silencers. All of this brought more
press, with the media taunting the government, noting that it still hadn’t shut down the site. EIGHT
MONTHS AFTER SEN. CHUCK SCHUMER BLASTED BITCOIN, SILK ROAD IS STILL BOOMING, read one headline.
The pressure this put on Ross was monumental. But his new best friend had a plan. A plan that
was somehow rooted in a discussion about the movie The Princess Bride.
Ross replied to VJ’s query about the film with a sort-of yes: like many kids of his generation, his
parents owned a copy of the movie on VHS.
“So,” Variety Jones wrote, “you know the history of the Dread Pirate Roberts?”
Ross couldn’t quite recall, but he began typing what he remembered about the movie and the
name of the main character. When he was lost, Variety Jones finished the summary for him: something
about a guy called Westley, who took on the name of the Dread Pirate Roberts from someone else . . .
and over the years, a new person would take on that name, and the old one would retire. So no one
knew who the original Dread Pirate Roberts really was.
“Yep,” Ross replied. That was it. That was the movie.
And then here it was. “You need to change your name from Admin, to Dread Pirate Roberts,” VJ
wrote.
The words “Dread Pirate Roberts” hung on the screen as if they were suspended in some sort of
alternate reality.
Dread. Pirate. Roberts.