I am going to start operating on a fair and functional assumption: anyone who keeps parroting that I need to “market Bitcoin” more—who insists I should moonlight as a sales rep, an advertising exec, or a coin-hawking cheerleader—is either working for BTC Core and trolling, or they’re simply too brain-dead to take seriously.

There IS no third option. Between study, development, architecture, and system design, I don’t owe anyone a PowerPoint pitch or a Twitter slogan.

While you might not see what I’m doing, that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening. I’m testing systems, refining designs, extending the protocol as it was always meant to be—not changing it, mind you, but scaling it to support global commerce on a single coherent backbone. And no, I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing. That game’s been played. Every time I’ve explained things in the past, it’s been a gift to the vultures—more fuel for plagiarism, distortion, and theft.

So here it is, plain and final: my job isn’t to learn marketing. I’m not going to bend my skillset into some pseudo-PR role just to please people who wouldn’t know a protocol from a publicity stunt. Like the original engineers who built the Internet Protocol, I design systems. That’s what I do. And if your input is “learn to market it,” take that advice and shove it so far up where the sun doesn’t shine you’ll need a miner’s lamp to find it again. You can say, “But Terranode already does a million transactions per second. Bitcoin doesn’t need more than that.” And maybe, right this minute, you’re right. Maybe the current state of script processing is “good enough.” And you know what? I don’t give a flying frig. Years ago, when I told people what I was building, I didn’t say I was aiming for a million transactions per second. I said it was an interim step. My goal has always been a billion—ten billion—transactions per second. And not some vague aspiration, but a clear, engineered path to get there. Only when we have real protocol resilience, SPV that executes instantly, and closed-circuit script logic that can be priced, verified, and accepted by nodes at the transaction level, will I call the framework even remotely sufficient. That’s the benchmark. That’s the standard. Not this feel-good “we’ve done enough” garbage.

You can whinge and whine that “this is all we need now.” And again, I don’t give a frig. Because I’m not building for now. I’m not patching holes in some Layer 2 duct-tape-and-glitter fantasy. I’m not stacking fragile Lego constructs on a crumbling base and calling it innovation. I’m building for the future—and every day forward from here. BTC isn’t. Ethereum isn’t. No one else is. But I am. And I’m not doing it so hobbyists can run homebrew Raspberry Pi full node zoos in their basements. I’m building a system where SPV proves inclusion and immutability of a transaction with a block header and a path—clean, efficient, verifiable—by design, not by hack.

This isn’t for your approval. This isn’t a demo. This isn’t about appeasing marketing lemmings who think shouting “number go up” qualifies as protocol work. I’m doing this because I chose to. And if that offends your hobbyist sensibilities—well, stiff bickies. I don’t care.

BSV: The Fixed Protocol for a Lawful Digital Economy

In a digital landscape riddled with forks, speculative detours, and ideological noise, the survival of a true economic protocol depends not on flexibility, but on its refusal to change. BSV, the only implementation of the original Bitcoin protocol that has not been distorted, stands in stark opposition to the shifting tides of so-called innovation. It is not a coin. It is not a movement. It is not a story sold to venture capital. It is a lawful, immutable system — engineered to scale, to integrate, and to endure.

While most projects operating under the banner of “blockchain” speak of community votes, soft forks, and governance tokens, BSV speaks in the language of contracts, timestamps, and evidence. Its strength lies in its rigidity. In a world seduced by chaos, BSV is a return to law. A return to architecture. A return to the cold, deliberate logic of systems engineering — not the hot breath of ideological fervour. The Myth of Evolution

The central marketing lie in the blockchain sector is that protocols must evolve. That “open-source” means editable. That the system is a perpetual beta. Bitcoin was not designed to be experimental. It was a finished protocol — much like TCP/IP or SMTP — with clear rules, defined incentives, and a complete mechanism for enforcement. The elegance of Bitcoin was its completeness. The tragedy was that this elegance was ignored.

BTC Core abandoned the economic model by fixing the block size — creating an artificial scarcity that broke the system's incentive structure and required fees to spike to unsustainable levels. ETH, in turn, rejected the very concept of economic finality and now clings to “validator” regimes that are equal parts inefficient and unaccountable. These are not upgrades. They are regressions — capitulations to disorder. They sacrifice scalability, predictability, and legality in favour of committee-think and social consensus.

BSV rejected all of this. It restored the original design and then proved what others only theorised. It unlocked the block size. It processed millions of transactions. It timestamped legal contracts, financial data, and identity logs in real time. It demonstrated, through live activity, that scale was not a future goal — it was an architectural feature from the beginning.

#BSV: The Only Blockchain That Isn’t a Lie.

The Protocol Is Locked. The Potential Is Not.

Every other blockchain is a moving target.
Every update is an admission of failure.
Every fork is an abandonment of law.
BSV does not move.
It was designed right — from the beginning. They call it evolution.
We call it entropy.
Bitcoin was built as a digital cash system.
Not a consensus experiment.
Not a speculative Ponzi.
Not a roadmap to nowhere.

In 2015, BTC was trading at approximately $250. By 2020, it had reached around $9,000—a 36-fold increase. From 2020 to 2025, it climbed to a high-water mark near $60,000, representing only a 6.6-fold increase. That change in velocity isn’t an accident or a pause—it’s a pattern. What’s happening is not exponential growth, but logistic saturation. Exponential curves don’t flatten unless constrained. Logistic curves do. BTC’s price growth is not a runaway function—it’s bounded. The illusion of infinity ends where adoption slows, where energy cost rises, where utility fails to match hype.

Every economic bubble has a sigmoid curve at its core: a sharp rise, a taper, and then stagnation or collapse. The halving events were once catalysts for speculative frenzy because they tightened supply in a market still swelling with naïve demand. But each halving matters less. The marginal reduction in supply becomes negligible, while the pool of greater fools dries up. There’s no new flood of users, only reshuffled bags and tighter hands.

Come 2030, the market will likely reflect that plateau. Growth no longer pays, because price no longer promises. The feedback loop between “number go up” and new retail inflows fractures. When a system relies on increasing belief to sustain its own valuation, it is not an asset—it is a story.

And all stories end. In competing environments governed by logistic dynamics—such as predator-prey systems or economic models with finite inflow—the flattened curve doesn’t signal stability; it signals fragility. After the peak of growth, what comes is not a permanent plateau, but a tipping point. Whether it's rabbits outgrowing the grass or wolves outstripping the deer, once the system overshoots its carrying capacity, collapse is not a possibility—it’s an inevitability.

BTC has already exhibited the hallmarks of this transition. From 2015 to 2020, the price increase was astronomical. From 2020 to 2025, the curve softened. That’s your inflection. And in all logistic systems, once the growth rate begins to dampen, the system enters a metastable state—appearing steady, but actually perched on the edge of decline. You get oscillations, volatility, but the net energy—be it biological, financial, or speculative—starts bleeding out. Traders call this distribution. Ecologists call it die-off.

What follows is the bullpup stampede: the critical point where each participant sees the others poised to exit. The run to the exit doesn’t require a trigger—only the anticipation of others running. It’s self-fulfilling. The curve drops not because some singular event happened, but because enough people begin to act on the awareness that growth has stopped. That’s the real collapse. Not a bang, but the slow, grinding realisation that the exponential fantasy has expired.

So yes, you can argue it may take five more years, or ten. But if your BTC sits stagnant for a decade, doing nothing more than inflation erosion and drawing in no utility or yield—how is that a win? Holding an asset that underperforms a savings account, on the hope that someday someone will rescue you from your delusion at a higher price, is not investing. It’s ritual. And the end of the ritual is the same: collapse under the weight of its own unmet prophecy.

Time to torch the sacred mantras of BTC Core one by one.

This thread is your guided demolition tour through the landfill of slogans, cope, and cultish techno-Buddhism masquerading as economic literacy.

We’ll take each tired phrase—“Bitcoin is for everyone,” “be your own bank,” “permissionless innovation”—and subject it to the unrelenting pressure of reality, economics, and common sense.

Bring popcorn. Or better yet, bring a functioning blockchain. You're gonna need it. Bitcoin (BTC) is for everyone

Except, of course, if you're one of the 3.6 billion people living on less than $5.50 a day. Then Bitcoin (BTC) is for everyone else. Because nothing screams “inclusion” like a $20 fee to send $2—assuming the mempool gods smile upon you sometime this fiscal quarter. It's a global financial revolution… for those who can afford to pay more in transaction fees than a Bangladeshi garment worker earns in a week.

Welcome to the people's protocol—where “everyone” actually means hardware wallet shills, hedge funds, and Californian tech bros in Patagonia vests.

Imagine being Ryan X. Charles. You spend years orbiting the truth like a moth on Adderall, finally land on something correct—yes, Bitcoin is Turing-complete, yes, Craig was right, yes, it can actually scale—and instead of building, you implode like a sad soufflé in a thunderstorm. Not because of logic. Not because of facts. Because fundraising was hard. Because reality didn’t come with VC coupons and a shoulder rub.

So what does Ryan do? He melts down like a toddler denied a second scoop of hopium, wails on social like crypto’s answer to Chicken Little, and flings himself back into the arms of the very cult he spent years escaping. It’s not just a U-turn. It’s a skid-marked pirouette in a clown car driven by ego and desperation. He didn’t fall—he faceplanted, then blamed gravity.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just flip-flopping. This is Cirque du Soleil-level spinelessness. Earthworms look at Ryan and go, “Mate, at least I regenerate something.” What does he regenerate? Blog posts. Pity clicks. Revisions of his “final” word that age worse than milk on a radiator.

He wasn’t pushed. He curled. Folded under the pressure of having to do something, to build something, to stand for something. And instead of fixing the flaws in his pitch deck, he crawled back begging, hat in one hand, dignity in none, whispering “please take me back, I’ll say anything… I’ll suck anything.”

Sad. Predictable. And not remotely surprising.

@ryan_x_charles Imagine investing years—years—of your life combing through code, verifying functions, collaborating with people who actually knew what they were doing. You weren’t handed belief—you built understanding. You saw it work. You made it work. You stood there at the edge of the map and confirmed: yes, the earth is round, and yes, Bitcoin is Turing-complete. But then, when the VC fountain ran dry and the applause didn’t roll in on cue, you folded like a card table at a church bake sale.

It wasn’t that your app was half-baked, or that your product lacked polish. It couldn’t be that you needed to iterate, hustle, grind. No—suddenly, the protocol is broken. The tech is wrong. Reality itself must have betrayed you. Because in your head, you were always destined to be the billionaire, the messiah, the chosen one with perfect timing and a flawless pitch deck.

Instead, when the money didn’t materialise and Pay Button didn’t turn into PayPal 2.0 overnight, you went from visionary to revisionist. You rewrote your own history in real time, gaslighting the very journey you took part in. One moment you’re building beside the man who wrote the code, the next you’re playing sad trombone to a chorus of “I was wrong,” hoping the enemies you burned will forget—and fund you anyway.

But the truth is, you didn’t just give up. You bailed out of integrity. You defected not because it failed, but because you couldn’t turn it into a shortcut to glory. And now the wreckage of your tantrum is there for all to see: not a critique of the system, but a mirror held to your own fragility.

Jameson Lopp writes like the concierge of a prison, politely explaining the rules of your own confinement while pretending you hold the keys. The man built a career polishing the bars on BTC’s cell—sanding them smooth with charts, encryption mantras, and half-baked "sovereignty" lectures that forget the central rule of power: if you can’t move value freely, you don’t have sovereignty. You have an account.

@lopp will tell you running a node makes you free, while he cheers on a system so crippled it can’t process more transactions than a PayPal integration from 2004. He’ll quote cypherpunk manifestos while supporting a protocol neutered into economic irrelevance. He worships Lightning—a duct-taped IOU system—as if it were Prometheus handing down fire, when all it really hands down is complexity, delay, and failure. It’s a glorified bar tab.

His idea of security is stagnation. His idea of freedom is fragility. His idea of Bitcoin is something that begs governments for relevance by being so boring, so slow, and so small it no longer poses any threat to anything.

Bitcoin at scale terrifies institutions. Lopp’s BTC comforts them.

He is the banker’s favourite rebel. He talks about sovereignty, like a preacher mumbling freedom while bolting the church doors shut. The same man who neutered the system, gutted it, replaced cash with a sandbox and called it progress. What once was anonymity through scale now kneels before surveillance. Orwell didn’t dream this up—Lopp helped build it. 1984-level oversight, gift-wrapped as self-custody.

It’s honestly amazing—the sheer level of tribalism around Trump. People aren’t evaluating policy, they’re chanting slogans. They’re not thinking. They’re clapping. He says “I’m bringing back manufacturing,” and instead of asking what kind, how, where, at what cost, and who benefits, you just nod and hit retweet like he just cured cancer with a Sharpie.

Let’s break this down. Take chip fabrication—he wants fabs in Texas? You don’t just build a chip plant like you’re putting up a Wendy’s. It takes years. Five to ten years, minimum, from breaking ground to producing anything useful. Then you need the engineers. Not just someone who can plug in a machine—PhDs in materials science, high-precision technicians, semiconductor process experts, people who understand quantum tunnelling and nanometre-scale lithography. Most of them? Already in Taiwan, South Korea, or trained under systems that took decades to mature.

You’d have to train an entire generation. That’s university pipelines, trade schools, immigration policy, infrastructure, water supply (yes, fabs drink water like Vegas), and $20–$40 billion per site. And that's just one fab.

By the time America’s “manufacturing renaissance” finishes rubbing two sticks together, the rest of the world will be running on lights-out factories—fully autonomous, zero workers, 24/7 precision robotic efficiency. That’s the future. That’s where it’s going. Jobs aren’t coming back. They’re being deleted, like blacksmiths after the combustion engine. You want to revive the American steel town? Great. Just make sure your welders have AI ops certifications and know how to write Python, because the next forge runs on code and doesn’t take lunch breaks.

But here’s the tragedy: instead of embracing that future, instead of asking how we lead, how we build, how we own the frontier—we wrap ourselves in red hats and act like it’s 1954. We fall for the pageantry. For the theatre of “bringing it back,” even when what’s being “brought back” hasn’t existed in thirty years and wouldn’t survive in today’s market anyway.

You think you’re on the Trump team.
You think you’re winning.
But all you’re doing is cheering for a ghost.

You’re not just being left behind—you’re clapping while it happens. For all the so-called followers who say they “don’t like” what I’m saying—let me make it brutally clear. What you’re really saying is you want me to be a populist. You want me to jump through flaming hoops of bullshit. Say the right buzzwords. Feed you fantasy like it’s gospel. Basically, you want me to be your own private Trump. Dance, lie, repeat. Smile while spoon-feeding you delusion.

I don’t do that. Never have. Never will.

You don’t like it? I don’t give a fuck. Because what I’m giving you isn’t comfort. It’s reality.
Manufacturing jobs are not coming back to America. Full. Fucking. Stop.
That ship didn’t just sail—it was automated, disassembled mid-voyage, and turned into a data centre in Shenzhen before you even noticed.

If you believe otherwise, you're not just misinformed—you’re delusional. And that's fine. You're allowed to be. Just don't expect me to pretend it's raining while you’re pissing on your own boots and calling it economic policy.

You want to win? Then stop aiming at where the target was. Start aiming where it’s going to be. Do the Wayne Gretzky thing: "Skate to where the puck is going." The problem is, most of you are skating in circles, stuck in some Reagan-era hallucination, waiting for the steel mill to reopen while Boston Dynamics is building the robot that’ll weld better, faster, and never call in sick.

Even China is automating. Even China, the factory of the world, is bleeding manufacturing jobs faster than it can plug them. They're not planning to bring jobs back—they're planning to eliminate them and own the infrastructure that does the replacing.

So what the hell are we doing?

We're whining. We're nostalgic. We’re waving flags over industries that don’t exist anymore.
It’s like bragging about your VHS collection at a Netflix board meeting. You’re not just behind—you’re irrelevant.

You want to be great? Then stop getting offended when someone tells you the future doesn’t include your fantasy. Start working out how you fit into a world where intelligence, automation, and adaptability win—not volume, not sweat, and not cheap patriotism.

You’ve got ten years. Maybe less.
You can spend them crying about what’s gone.
Or you can spend them becoming someone who matters in what’s coming.

Your choice.

The ability to transact instantly, globally, at scale, without friction—this is not a minor improvement. It is not a footnote in economic theory. It is a fundamental transformation, an evolution of the very fabric of commerce, a shift so vast that those who cling to the past will find themselves buried beneath it. Micropayments, true micropayments, are not a gimmick. They are the natural state of a system freed from artificial constraints. And Bitcoin—the real Bitcoin, BSV—is the only system that was designed to facilitate this reality.

A world where transactions are instant, final, and nearly free is a world where entire industries become unrecognizable. The model of centralized distribution—of products, of media, of services—is obsolete in the face of a system where an individual can create, distribute, and monetize without the layers of middlemen that have acted as parasites for centuries. The gatekeepers—those who demand a cut, those who build systems of control, those who ensure that nothing flows without their approval—they are the ones who stand to lose the most. And they know it. That is why they resist. That is why they fight. Not because they do not understand, but because they do. A System Without Friction
A musician, today, relies on a platform. A writer relies on a publisher. A developer relies on an app store. Each of these industries has been built around the assumption that value must be extracted, that the creator must be dependent, that monetization must flow through a controlled channel. Micropayments obliterate this assumption. The ability to transact in real time, at any scale, without third-party control, destroys the need for these centralized models. A song is created and sold directly to the listener, per play, per second if necessary. A game is built and monetized at the smallest level—every action, every interaction, can be a microtransaction, a payment stream that bypasses corporations entirely.

This is not theory. This is inevitable. The only question is who adapts and who resists. The business model of the past century was based on scarcity—of information, of production, of access. The model of the future is based on abundance, on instant exchange, on frictionless interaction. And Bitcoin—the real Bitcoin—enables this at a level that no centralized system ever could.

A tariff is a tax with a nationalist’s grin and a businessman’s noose. It parades itself as the bulwark against foreign wolves, the savior of domestic industry, the righteous cudgel of protectionism wielded in the hands of bureaucrats who have never created anything, never lifted steel or coded a single efficient function. It is the illusion of strength built on an edifice of restriction, a castle made of paperwork and duty fees, where the consumer is locked inside, paying ever more for the privilege of less.

The justification is always the same: protect our own, strengthen our industry, keep the money here. A politician in a crumpled suit, backed by a union man with hands that have forgotten work, will tell you that tariffs will save the working man, protect the steel mill, keep jobs in the homeland. But the numbers betray them. A tariff is a price hike by decree. It doesn’t birth new industry—it nurses inefficiency. The consumer, the forgotten man, sees the price of his goods climb, his wages stagnate, and his choices narrow. And yet he is told that this is for his benefit. That he must pay more so that an industry that should have evolved can instead entrench itself, immune to competition, coddled by law.

A tariff is the drug of the industrialist who cannot compete. It is the grant of power to those who have failed at the free market’s brutal but fair game. In an economy where tariffs rise, businesses stop striving to be better—they only need to be well-connected. The handshake of the businessman no longer extends to the customer but to the politician who signs the protectionist decree. The invisible hand, the hand that should guide the market, is shackled by bureaucracy. And what is bureaucracy but the place where efficiency goes to die, where men who cannot create dictate the terms to those who can?

The local economy under tariffs becomes an ecosystem of stagnation. The domestic producer, shielded from competition, grows complacent. Why innovate when the government has ensured the foreigner cannot undercut your price? Why improve if the consumer has no alternative? The tariff is the enemy of progress, the indulgence of those who fear the crucible of competition. The local producer, now emboldened, sets prices not by the rigors of supply and demand but by the artificial constraints of government fiat. The consumer has no choice but to pay, and so he does. Or he does not, and instead, he buys less, consumes less, the economy shrinks, and the industry that was meant to be protected now finds itself withering from within.

The argument is that tariffs create jobs, that they keep industry afloat, that without them, local production will vanish. But the reality is more sinister: tariffs do not protect jobs, they protect inefficiencies. A business that requires government intervention to survive is not a business at all—it is a parasite, feeding not off of competition and ingenuity, but off of legislation and coercion. And so the consumer subsidizes failure, the economy is molded not by merit but by political favor, and the industry that should have perished in the fire of innovation instead lumbers forward, bloated and archaic.

And yet, there is a political genius in tariffs. A clever leader, one who understands the cynicism of his trade, knows that the average man does not follow the long arc of economic consequence. He sees only the immediate. A factory saved, a job retained, a wage not yet cut. The cost of his groceries rising? A tax here, a fee there? These are scattered burdens, felt individually, never laid at the feet of the tariff itself. The politician counts on this ignorance. He feeds it. He will tell the voter that foreign interests are the enemy, that the tariff is the weapon of sovereignty. He does not tell him that he has just traded long-term prosperity for short-term optics, that the protection of today is the stagnation of tomorrow. The true alternative is not protectionism but strength—real strength, forged in competition, in the necessity of adaptation. The business that thrives is the business that competes, not the one that hides behind government walls. The nation that thrives is the one that embraces efficiency, not one that subsidizes mediocrity. The tariff is an illusion, a balm for industries that refuse to evolve. And the consumer, always the consumer, is the one who pays for that illusion, until the illusion crumbles and the bill comes due.

And it will come due. It always does.

It’s a con. A goddamn racket. Post-quantum cryptography, quantum computing—whatever name they slap on it, it’s all the same carnival act. They talk like it's the future, like it’s just over the horizon, always just one more breakthrough away. One more grant, one more decade, one more layer of theoretical nonsense stacked on top of a house built on swamp water. But let’s be honest—there isn’t a single real quantum computer on this planet. Not one. Never has been. Never will be.

They’ll say otherwise. They’ll throw equations at you, wave their white papers around, dress up their machines with tubes and wiring and call them miracles. The headlines will scream Quantum Supremacy! like it's some new kind of second coming. But where’s the supremacy? Where’s the proof? Nowhere. Just more press releases, more university research budgets swollen with public money, more government subsidies dumped into a fire pit.

Because here’s the truth: they will never solve decoherence. The whole foundation is rotten. It goes against physics itself, not the wishy-washy physics they peddle in their TED talks, but real physics—the kind that doesn’t bend just because someone scribbles new symbols on a blackboard. The whole thing is an exercise in controlled confusion, designed to keep the money flowing. They’ll never admit it because there’s too much at stake.

Governments will keep throwing money at it, hoping, praying that somewhere in the labyrinth of jargon and nonsense, they’ll find a god they can kneel to. Corporations will keep playing along because there's money in the illusion, and as long as they can keep talking about a revolution that never comes, they can keep the contracts rolling in.

It’s not about solving problems. It’s about prolonging them. That’s the business model. There’s nothing new here—just another golden calf being carted around by the same old priests, promising salvation while they pocket the offerings. Quantum computing isn’t a revolution. It’s a boondoggle, a long con, a trick that only works if you keep the rubes from looking too close. And the biggest trick of all? Making you believe it’s inevitable.

It’s not. It never was. It never will be. If this is ever used to change bitcoin...

The result is not Bitcoin.

the slow bleed

they call it income tax.
they call it fair.
but it's not about fairness,
it's about the slow bleed.

the old money sits in towers, untouched.
wrapped in trusts, stitched into corporations,
their billions glide past the ledger,
smooth as silk, quiet as a whisper.

but you?
you start something new,
you build, you grind,
you take the risk,
and here they come.

they come with their hands out,
before you can stand, before you can breathe.
you hire a man, they tax you.
you pay yourself, they tax you.
you buy the things you need,
and they tax you again.

the real game isn’t about wealth.
the old guard keeps theirs,
locked away in rules they wrote for themselves.
this game is about control.

they don’t go after the rich.
the rich have lawyers,
the rich have accountants,
the rich have escape routes.

they come for the builders.
they come for the ones clawing their way up,
for the ones who don’t have loopholes yet,
for the ones who think playing fair means winning.

they say it’s about funding schools,
hospitals, roads—
but those things are just excuses.
this isn’t about making things better.
it’s about keeping you in your place.

and if you want to keep a little more?
prove it.
file.
explain yourself.
list every penny.
turn your life inside out,
show your debts, your choices,
your failures, your breath, your blood.

because they own that now, too. They call it income tax, but it’s not about income, and it’s sure as hell not about fairness.

It is a system about punishment. Income tax about a government that figured out a long time ago that if you keep a man just barely afloat, if you let him have just enough to eat, just enough to drink, just enough to keep his nose above the waterline, he won’t ask too many questions. He won’t fight back. He won’t build anything worth a damn, because the moment he does, they take their cut.

That’s the real joke.

Income tax is not a tax on wealth.

This insidious cancer is a tax on creation.

The guy who takes nothing and turns it into something, the guy who risks his time, his money, his sanity to build something of value—that’s the guy they want to put down. They don’t go after the fat bastards on yachts, the ones born into money, the ones who’ve got lawyers and accountants stacking their cash in places no taxman can touch.

Those guys don’t pay. Those guys live inside a world of trusts and shell companies and paper-thin corporate fronts that shield them from ever having to part with a goddamn cent.

No, income tax isn’t for them.

Tax for the rest of us. Tax is for the guy who wakes up at five in the morning to open his shop.

Income tax is for the woman who works two jobs to start her own business on the side. It’s for the freelancer, the contractor, the entrepreneur—the people actually making something happen. They’re the ones getting fleeced. The taxman comes not with a knife, but with a scalpel, cutting deeper and deeper each year, taking just enough to keep you going, but never enough to let you get ahead.

And here’s the kicker—they tell you it’s for your own good.

They tell you it’s for the roads, the schools, the hospitals. They tell you it’s about the “social contract.”

But what kind of contract is this, where one side dictates the terms and the other has no choice but to sign in blood? Where your labour, your effort, your sweat is treated as if it belongs to them first, and you’re just lucky they let you keep some?

They never go after the old money.

The old money is sacred.

The old money moves through time like a ghost, untouchable. There are estates, there are offshore accounts, there are legal structures so Byzantine you’d need a goddamn priest to exorcise them. Old money is protected. But the guy who starts a bar, the woman who runs a bakery, the guy who builds a tech company from his garage—those people are the ones being punished.

And why?

Because new money is dangerous. New money means change. New money, Bitcoin before BTC neutered it means someone is rewriting the rules, shaking up the old order, creating something that didn’t exist before. The system doesn’t want that. The system wants stability—meaning it wants the rich to stay rich, and the rest of us to stay right where we are.

Think about it. You hire someone, you pay tax. You make money, you pay tax. You pay your employees, you pay tax. You reinvest in your business, you pay tax. It’s a system designed not to reward work, but to reward those who already have money. It’s a closed loop, and if you’re not born inside of it, you’re never getting in.

And then there’s the control. Because it’s not just about taking your money. It’s about making sure they know everything about you. You can’t just pay a flat amount and go about your life. No, you’ve got to report. You’ve got to list your earnings, your losses, your deductions, your spending. You’ve got to explain why you think you deserve to keep more of what you earned, like a child asking for permission.

It’s an invasion.

A creeping, insidious form of submission. And if you make a mistake? If you forget a form, if you miscalculate, if you try to keep a little too much? Well, then you’re a criminal. Then they get to hit you with fines, audits, threats.

And if you don’t pay?

They take your business. They take your home.

They throw you in a cage.

They changed the name, but not the game. It used to be eugenics, now it’s transhumanism. A clever rebranding, a sleight of hand, a new bottle for the same old poison. Back in the 1940s, when the Nazis burned their way across Europe, singing hymns to the science of selective breeding, the English eugenics movement had a problem. They couldn’t wash the blood out of their gloves fast enough. They were the priests of purification, the engineers of a better humanity, but suddenly, all their theories, their white papers, their meticulous statistical charts were soaked in the stink of Auschwitz. So they stepped sideways, ducked the spotlight, and put on a new mask. They whispered a new name into the wind: transhumanism. The con stayed the same. The goal was still to purge the world of the unworthy, to edit and upgrade humanity like a factory line.

The useless eaters, the degenerates, the poor—they were to be phased out, refined, optimized, exterminated. And now, instead of test tubes and phrenology, they had silicon and cybernetics. It wasn’t about sterilization and elimination anymore—no, now it was about “enhancement.” Better bodies, better brains, better people.

The right kind of people.

The rich.

The chosen.

So, you want to know what it means IF fake Bitcoin #BTC hits $1 million a coin? Let me tell you, it’s not the fantasy they sold you on. It’s a monster wearing a suit, pretending it’s freedom while it eats the world alive.

At $1 million per BTC, the miners—those leeches on the grid—would burn through 15.3 billion kilowatt-hours of electricity every single day. That’s 20.68% of the world’s energy use, just to chase digital coins in a system designed for fools who think speculation is the same as innovation.

Do you understand what that means? One in every five light bulbs, factories, homes, and power plants on this planet would exist solely to keep this charade running. Not for healthcare, not for education, not for anything that actually matters. No, all that energy goes into solving math problems that produce nothing but zeros and ones on a blockchain ledger. You could light up entire countries with that electricity, but instead, it's sacrificed on the altar of greed.

And don’t kid yourself—this isn’t decentralisation. It’s a power game, rigged by those who can afford the most efficient machines, the cheapest electricity, and the biggest mining farms. The little guy? He’s already been squeezed out. What you’re left with is a global energy hog run by corporate giants in the name of “freedom.” It’s as free as the chains they slip around your neck.

But here’s the kicker: they’ll tell you it’s all worth it. That this system is going to “save the world” or “bank the unbanked” or some other hollow slogan they cooked up in a marketing meeting. Meanwhile, they’re laughing all the way to their insulated mansions, their offshore accounts fat with cash while your electric bill skyrockets.

The world doesn’t bend for fantasies like this without someone paying the price. And that someone is you. You, sitting in your dimly lit room wondering why the grid went down, why the air feels thicker, why the world around you seems a little darker every day. That’s the cost of this so-called revolution—a revolution for the rich, powered by the poor.

So go ahead, cheer for $1 million BTC if you want. Just don’t forget what it costs to keep that dream alive. It’s not just money. It’s the earth beneath your feet, the air in your lungs, the light in your home. And when it’s all burned up, don’t say nobody warned you. Do you still think this is possible? Really? You believe the world will stand by as 20% of its energy gets sucked into the black hole of BTC mining, just so a handful of people can wave their wallets around like some golden ticket to paradise? Open your eyes. There’s no paradise here, only scorched earth and rolling blackouts. Entire grids would collapse before this fantasy even gets off the ground.

Think about it—15.3 billion kilowatt-hours burned every single day. Do you really think governments, industries, and ordinary people are going to let that happen? When factories shut down, when hospitals lose power, when food spoils because the grid can’t keep up—who’s going to take the blame? You think the world’s just going to shrug and say, “Well, BTC’s worth it”? No chance.

This isn’t just a logistical impossibility. It’s a moral one. You don’t get to torch the world’s resources for a speculative bet and call it progress. It’s a system that would devour itself long before it reached $1 million per coin. And if you’re still clinging to the dream after hearing this, maybe the real problem isn’t BTC—it’s your inability to see the cliff you’re running toward.

Here’s the deal: Mastercard's got a racket going, and nobody bats an eye.

You buy a $4 coffee, and by the time the transaction’s done, Mastercard and its buddies have dipped their grubby hands in for about 37 cents in fees. Doesn’t sound like much until you realise what that means for the small to medium retailer.

Their margins?

Sliced to ribbons.

The little guy selling coffee isn’t swimming in profits—he’s treading water. Every swipe chips away at what he’s worked for. It's daylight robbery with a smile and a shiny card reader.

Now, Mastercard will tell you they’re providing a service—"facilitating payments," they say, as if moving numbers between banks is some Herculean task in the digital age.

But let’s call it what it is: an empire of middlemen built to profit off every latte, sandwich, and tank of gas. The system isn’t designed to help you; it’s designed to bleed everyone—merchants, consumers, anyone who dares participate in the economy.

And this? This is what people call "innovation."

But then there’s BTC.

Or rather, what BTC as the fake cash Bitcoin was supposed to be. Digital cash, they said. Freedom from middlemen. Except, somewhere along the way, BTC became a parody of itself.

The fees? Higher than Mastercard, higher than Visa, higher than any sane person should tolerate. You try buying a coffee with BTC, and you’ll find yourself paying $5 in fees for a $4 drink.

It is laughable—like trying to squeeze an elephant through a keyhole. They’ll tell you it’s "digital gold," a "store of value," but let’s not mince words: BTC is about as useful as a rubber cheque in a windstorm when it comes to everyday transactions.

The problem isn’t just the fees. It’s the philosophy. BTC sold itself as the future of money, but what it delivered was a speculative asset for gamblers and grifters. It’s not digital cash. It’s not even close. What we need, what the world needs, is something that actually works—something that can handle the load of real commerce without collapsing under its own arrogance.

Enter the real potential of Bitcoin, the original vision.

Not the bastardised mess we see today, but the idea of a system that can process millions of transactions per second, with fees so low they’re practically invisible—fractions of a cent, less than 1/100th of a cent. Imagine a world where you can buy that $4 coffee and the fee is a rounding error, not a bloody tax.

A world where merchants keep their profits, where middlemen are stripped of their power, and where money flows as freely as conversation.

This isn’t some utopian fantasy; it’s achievable. NOW!

The technology exists. The infrastructure can be built. But it requires a return to the principles that made Bitcoin revolutionary in the first place: scalability, efficiency, and a focus on enabling real-world commerce. Not hodling. Not speculative bubbles. Real. Bloody. Transactions.

Think about what that means for the global economy. Small businesses thrive because they’re not handing over chunks of their revenue to parasitic payment processors. Micropayments become viable, opening up new markets and possibilities—pay-per-article journalism, real-time streaming payments, tipping systems that don’t gouge the giver or the receiver. Entire industries could be transformed, not by greed, but by practicality.

The beauty of it all?

It’s decentralised—not in the buzzword sense, but in the way that matters. No single entity controls it. No Mastercard, no Visa, no central bank skimming off the top. It’s a system where the power is in the protocol, where the rules are set and cannot be changed on a whim to benefit the few at the expense of the many.

So, the next time someone tells you BTC is the future, laugh. Laugh because the real future isn’t in skyrocketing fees and elitist nonsense. The real future is in a system that does what money is supposed to do: enable trade, foster trust, and get out of the bloody way. That’s Bitcoin. That’s digital cash. And that’s the revolution worth fighting for. For the small, average coffee shop, Mastercard’s fees are a death by a thousand cuts.

Every $4 coffee a customer buys comes with a transaction fee that can easily gobble up 37 cents—nearly 10% of the sale.

For an independent shop already working with slim margins, this is a gut punch. These fees aren’t fixed; they’re regressive. Small businesses, without the negotiating power of global players like Starbucks, get hit with the full brunt of the rates—interchange fees, assessment fees, and processing fees that add up fast.

Starbucks, on the other hand, sits on the other side of the playing field. With their massive transaction volume and global leverage, they can negotiate far lower fees.

Instead of paying 2.5% to 3%, they might only pay 0.8% to 1% on the same $4 transaction. That means Starbucks forks over about 10 cents, while the independent coffee shop is stuck paying 37 cents. It’s a difference that doesn’t just sting—it tilts the market.

Now, let’s talk profitability.

The average independent coffee shop operates on a thin 12% profit margin. For every $4 coffee sold, the shop clears 48 cents in profit—before Mastercard takes their share.

After those fees, their profit on that coffee shrinks to just a few cents. Compare this to Starbucks, which is paying a fraction of the fees and keeping significantly more of its profits intact. Over time, this unfair advantage adds up, forcing small shops to either raise prices, cut costs, or close their doors entirely.

This isn’t just an economic issue; it’s a cultural one.

Small, independent coffee shops are part of the fabric of local communities. They offer variety, personality, and a human connection that chains like Starbucks simply can’t replicate. But in a world dominated by Mastercard and its ilk, these shops are at a structural disadvantage. The system rewards size, scale, and monopoly power while punishing independence, creativity, and small-scale operations.

Bitcoin—real Bitcoin—has the potential to flip this dynamic on its head.

With transaction fees under 1/100th of a cent, small businesses would finally be able to compete on an even playing field. A $4 coffee wouldn’t come with a 37-cent tax for Mastercard; it would come with a fee so small it’s almost invisible—less than a thousandth of a penny. For the independent shop, that means keeping nearly every cent of their profit. For the customer, it means prices stay fair, and for the community, it means small businesses can survive and thrive.

Starbucks doesn’t need saving. Its business model is built to crush the competition, leveraging economies of scale and favourable fee structures to suffocate smaller players. But the corner café? The neighbourhood roaster? They’re fighting a losing battle unless the economics change. Bitcoin offers that change—a system where payments are processed efficiently, cheaply, and equitably. It’s not just about keeping the doors open; it’s about levelling the field and giving small businesses the chance to compete, innovate, and bring life to their communities.

In a world where Starbucks pays a quarter of the fees an independent shop does, it’s no wonder small coffee shops struggle to survive. Bitcoin has the potential to shift that balance, ensuring that local businesses keep more of what they earn and that their communities remain vibrant and diverse. This isn’t just a technological solution—it’s a fight for fairness, for opportunity, and for the survival of the little guy.

It starts with one. One bastard in a room, the lights flickering, the ashtray overflowing.

He’s got an idea, but it’s not his to own. It’s just there, raw, naked, waiting to be ripped apart, reshaped, and bastardised by a million hands.

He’s not the damn king. No throne, no parade, no speeches.

He is the guy who built a hammer and walked away. Someone else makes a house with it. Someone else tears one down.

That’s the thing about decentralisation—it’s not about followers.

It is not about some guru leading a charge. It’s the opposite of a bloody cult. It’s chaos disguised as structure, a system that mocks hierarchy and spits in the face of control.

The leader?

He’s a ghost.

A shadow.

His work isn’t the destination; it’s the damn spark. And the fire? It burns without asking his permission.

Decentralisation is wild.

It’s feral. It doesn’t wait for instructions or blueprints. You don’t teach it, you don’t lead it, you don’t corral it. It explodes in every direction. Millions of uses, most of them you’ll never see. Some genius in his mother’s basement, some hustler in the back alleys of a city you’ll never visit—they’re the ones who run with it, who twist it, who break it, who make it sing.

The internet wasn’t built for memes or marketplaces or revolutions.

It just was.

A skeleton for others to flesh out. A seed that grew a forest so big you can’t see the edges. Decentralisation is the same. It’s not the end—it’s the dirt, the water, the light. It doesn’t need a master. It doesn’t need a leash. It needs a chance. It needs someone to throw it out into the world and let it take root where it may.

And if you’re the one who starts it, you don’t hold its hand. You don’t name it. You don’t carve your face into its side. You step back. You let it go. Decentralisation isn’t a march; it’s an avalanche. And you’re just the guy who kicked the first rock. Bitcoin—the real Bitcoin, BSV—isn’t a leash.

It’s not a wall with guards telling you what counts and what doesn’t.

It is a wide-open street, a sprawling city that you build yourself.

No toll booths, no checkpoints. It’s a system that doesn’t care who you are or what you do, as long as you pay the fee.

That is the genius: it’s indifferent, brutally fair, alive with possibility.

But BTC?

BTC turned into something else.

They call it decentralised, but it’s not.

BtC is a gated community, a place where the self-appointed guards stand watch, barking orders. They say what counts as a transaction and what doesn’t.

Core talk about spam like they’re the gods of the network, deciding what has value.

Someone tries to push through a micropayment—a simple, paid, legitimate transaction—and they sneer, “Not here. Not allowed.”

That’s not decentralisation.

That’s control.

BSV doesn’t stop you. It doesn’t tell you what to think or how to build. It’s the protocol, and the protocol is the law. It’s not a democracy, not a debate, not some ever-changing experiment where rules get swapped out every time someone cries “hard fork.”

BSV, Bitcoin, is set in stone because it doesn’t need to change. It’s simple: you pay the fee, you play the game. A kid in Nairobi can build on it. A company in Tokyo can run their business on it.

And they don’t need permission.

BTC turned into the opposite of what Bitcoin was supposed to be. They corralled it, huddled around it, trying to make it small, manageable, weak. They call it decentralisation, but it’s just a new kind of oligarchy. Developers pulling strings. Core teams whispering, “This is what’s best.” Best for who? Not the millions who could’ve built with it, used it, made it something bigger than anyone imagined.

BSV is the internet in 1994, raw and wild, ready to explode. It’s not a question of what you’re allowed to do. It’s a question of what you can dream up. Build something no one saw coming. Make a business out of nothing. Use it in ways the creator didn’t even think of. That’s decentralisation. Not rules. Not control. Not a self-righteous elite deciding what’s valid. It’s freedom. It’s opportunity. It’s a hammer waiting for a million hands.

BSV doesn’t decide for you. It doesn’t tell you no. It just works. Pay your fee, write to the chain, and no one can stop you. Not some miner, not some dev, not some faceless committee. That’s the difference. That’s what BTC lost. They turned Bitcoin into a cage. BSV took the bars and smashed them to pieces. That’s decentralisation: a system that can’t say no, a network where the only limit is how far you’re willing to go.

The world’s a filthy machine, grinding and spitting, always wanting you to bend. But I don’t bend.

Not when the truth is a goddamned stone in my gut. Not when what’s right burns hotter than any flame they can throw my way.

They might think they can silence me, clip my tongue, drown me in their shallow noise. But here’s the thing: I’ll never stop building. I’ll never stop creating.

You can batter me, bloody me, mock me, but you can’t take the marrow of who I am.

You want me to fold? To bow because it suits your game? Forget it. I don’t do what’s asked. I don’t move because they say so. I move because I’ve measured the weight of it all, and I’ve chosen the right thing. That’s all that matters—the raw, naked truth of a belief forged in fire. And if I’ve said I’ll stand, I’ll stand until my legs give out and my lungs collapse.

The slings, the arrows, the endless onslaught—they’re just noise.

Temporary.

Fleeting.

A gust of wind against a mountain.

They want me broken. They want me shattered.

But I’ll tell you this: they’ll never see it. Because I was made for this fight, and my bones don’t know how to break. Bitcoin will scale. It will rip through the constructs of control, the calcified grip of those who have always clawed for power.

Power and money—distinct beasts, yet always tangled.

History lays this bare, and I’ve studied it. From Rome to the rise of the early church, through every page of human struggle, power wasn’t held by those with gold alone but by those who wielded the ability to strip it away.

The poor, the “impoverished,” weren’t destitute but vulnerable—those who could be undone with a snap of a finger, a stroke of a pen.

The empire of the powerful wasn’t built by wealth itself but by the capacity to take wealth from others. The meek weren’t crushed for their poverty; they were crushed for their lack of leverage, their inability to resist the hand that reached into their lives and emptied them.

Bitcoin shifts the axis. It doesn’t just redistribute wealth; it redistributes power. It gives the powerless a shield, an armour forged not in metal but in mathematics.

The rich may still fight each other, claw at each other’s throats, but they’ll find their grip slipping when they reach for those beneath them.

Bitcoin doesn’t just hide the wealth of the poor—it makes it untouchable. It rewires the game. It doesn’t topple the powerful, but it severs their hand from the meek.

This is more than money. It’s a revolution in silence. It doesn’t march in streets; it moves in blocks, in cryptographic certainty, unyielding and incorruptible.

What it promises isn’t equality but immunity—a future where the poor can stand, not as beggars, but as untouchable.

Imagine money that doesn’t stop at borders, doesn’t wait for banks, doesn’t care about the size of your wallet or the colour of your passport. Internet money—real internet money—isn’t just a buzzword. It’s a lifeline. A system where a farmer in Ghana can send a few cents to her supplier in Thailand, instantly, securely, for less than the cost of a raindrop. No middlemen. No waiting. No paperwork drowning in red tape.

Africa to Asia, Europe to the Americas, it’s all the same. A transaction that moves faster than you can blink, cutting through the chaos of outdated systems built to exclude more than they include. For the unbanked, it means finally having a seat at the table, trading not in promises but in certainty. For businesses, it’s the freedom to grow without being strangled by fees that bleed them dry. For families, it’s the ability to send help across oceans without wondering how much will be skimmed off the top.

A world where a transaction costs 0.01 cents isn’t just cheaper. It’s transformative. It’s the difference between sending a day’s wages and seeing most of it swallowed by greed, or keeping it whole, letting it do what it’s meant to do—feed, build, create. It’s security without the need for trust, speed without the sacrifice of integrity.

This is what internet money could be. A bridge, not a wall. A tool, not a weapon. A system that doesn’t demand power or privilege, only participation. And for the first time, the world—every corner of it—could be connected in a way that matters. Not just with words or images, but with the ability to act, to trade, to live.

This is #Bitcoin. It isn’t BTC. Governments and corporations like Mastercard hate the idea of true internet money because it exposes their game. Their power isn’t built on innovation or service—it’s built on control. Control over the flow of money, over who gets access and at what cost. When every transaction passes through their hands, they take a cut, they track, they manipulate. They turn what should be free—money moving between people—into a bottleneck they own.

True internet money doesn’t need them. It doesn’t bow to their gatekeeping or their fees. A system where 0.01 cent sends money halfway across the world makes Mastercard irrelevant. It renders their bloated infrastructure and predatory pricing obsolete. Governments fear it for the same reason: it chips away at their ability to control, to surveil, to dictate the terms of economic life. They rely on centralised systems to tax, to sanction, to punish. Internet money moves outside their reach, answering to the protocol, not to them.

For Mastercard and its ilk, this isn’t just competition—it’s annihilation. A world where billions of people can transact freely, securely, at microscopic fees, is a world where their profits vanish. For governments, it’s a threat to their ability to enforce financial boundaries, to monitor every movement of wealth. It takes away the levers they’ve used for decades to maintain their grip on power.

That’s why they hate it. Not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s liberating. It levels the playing field, tearing down the barriers they’ve spent lifetimes building. It gives power back to people—ordinary people—and that terrifies those who thrive on control.

The West is not materialistic—not in any real sense of the word.

The "crude materialism" we see is hollow, a cheap knockoff of what materialism once meant: a reverence for the physical, for the tangible world, for things built to last and meant to be admired.

True materialism is a philosophy of care—craftsmanship that respects the object and the people who use it, beauty that elevates the spirit, responsibility for the resources taken and the purpose given.

But this?
This isn’t that.
What we have now is a cult of quantity, not quality.

We measure our lives in numbers: GDP, square footage, units sold. We don’t care about the aesthetic or the beauty of things; we care about how many units we can churn out before the whole machine grinds to a halt. Houses are built to flip, not to live in. Clothes are made to be discarded, not worn. Phones are designed to be obsolete before the warranty expires. It’s a factory-line mentality, and we’re all just cogs in the machine.

We’ve traded soul for quanta. The West, in its arrogance, has mastered the quantum but forgotten the art. We’ve replaced the hand-carved with the mass-produced, the timeless with the temporary. And in doing so, we’ve severed the connection between what we create and what we value.

This isn’t materialism. It’s vandalism—a desecration of the world we’re supposed to live in, not just consume. True materialism would mean cherishing what we have, crafting with intention, and leaving behind things worth keeping. What we have instead is a shallow fixation on possession, not presence. And it shows.

@Culture_Crit We should not merely accumulate. Piling up possessions like trophies in some hollow game of consumption is not living—it's distraction. True value isn't in the sheer number of things we can hoard, but in how deeply we can appreciate what we already hold. The endless pursuit of more blinds us to the beauty of enough.

To celebrate what we have is an act of rebellion against the churn of modern life. It means stepping off the treadmill of endless upgrades and planned obsolescence. It means looking at what we've built, what we've earned, and what we've inherited—not as disposable commodities, but as pieces of a story. A table worn smooth by years of dinners and debates. A book whose pages bear the faint marks of countless nights spent under a reading lamp. A landscape that hasn't been bulldozed for yet another strip mall.

Accumulation for its own sake is a sickness, a craving that can never be satisfied. But celebration? That’s gratitude. That’s reverence. It’s seeing the fingerprints of the craftsman in a chair, the weight of history in a photograph, the richness of life in the things that surround us.

When we stop counting and start cherishing, we transform the material world into something sacred. Not just objects to own, but touchstones of memory and meaning.

To celebrate what we have is not to settle—it is to finally understand the depth of what we already possess.

Here’s the thing — if COPA isn’t a partnership, if it’s not tethered to BTC Core like a drunk clinging to a lamppost, then what the hell is it? Some shadowy non-organisation, a thing that is and isn’t, sitting there with its pockets stuffed full of millions of dollars? Tell me, who’s funding this circus? Who’s paying the clowns? But more than that, why are all the developers still huddled together like they’re in on the same joke? You don’t see independent actors all wearing the same tie unless someone’s pulling the strings. They can talk all they want about decentralisation, about freedom and neutrality, but tens of millions don’t just drop out of the sky without someone expecting something in return.

BTC doesn’t have the magic trick anymore. The days of wild, thousand-fold jumps are long gone, and even the dream of a tenfold increase now feels laughable. When it was hovering at $50 or $100, the potential for those massive leaps was there — as we’ve all seen. But to sit there and argue that it will capture $100 million per coin or somehow gobble up 99% of the world’s GDP? That’s not optimism; that’s outright delusion. BSV isn’t going anywhere. It won’t be forced aside. The upside is real, tangible, and grounded in what Bitcoin was always meant to be. BTC, though? It’s painted itself into a corner. The halving cycle is a noose tightening around its neck. With every halving, it moves further from what Bitcoin was meant to be. The illusion of scarcity gives way to the reality of inflation — doubling, tripling, fragmenting into a system that strays ever further from the 21 million cap, chasing shadows into billions.