At fifty-six, Robert Johnson had survived three recessions, two divorces, and one attempted goat-related tax fraud. But nothing prepared him for Dogecoin.
As head of the IRS's Special Task Force on Cryptocurrency Compliance—a title that made him sound important until you realized nobody knew what cryptocurrency was—he sat in his modest Washington office, glaring at a computer screen filled with charts that looked like abstract art painted by a hyperactive toddler.
"So," he said into the phone, "you're telling me someone made a million dollars with something called 'Dogecoin'? Named after a dog meme?"
On the other end was Jack, a twenty-something technician who treated every conversation like a Pokemon battle. "Yes, sir! And most of them forgot to tell the IRS about it. It's like they caught a shiny Charizard and thought nobody would notice!"
Robert removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. This was going to be a long day.
"Jack, I've been chasing tax cheats for thirty years. I've seen offshore accounts, fake charities, and one guy who tried to write off his goats as 'landscape consultants.' But this is the first time someone got rich from a cartoon dog."
"Well, technically, sir," Jack said, "Dogecoin is a digital asset built on blockchain technology. It's basically like if Pokemon cards could evolve into real money, but with more math and fewer cute creatures."
Robert stared at the phone. "Kid, I still use a flip phone. Last time I tried to send a text, I accidentally ordered a pizza. Can you explain this like I'm five?"
Long pause. "It's… like fake money on the internet. But somehow you can buy real stuff with it? And sir… we might have stumbled onto something big here. Real big. Like, Senate Subcommittee big."
Robert hung up and stared out his window. For the first time in years, he didn't just feel old—he felt like a relic in a museum exhibit labeled "Before the Internet Ate Everything."
Knock knock.
Mary Williams walked in, looking like she'd stepped out of a business magazine. "Robert, the folks from Chainalysis are here. They're setting up to show you how to track blockchain transactions."
"Chain-what-now?"
"Think of them as bloodhounds, but for digital money."
"Do I want to know why we need bloodhounds for fake internet money?"
Mary's smile was the kind you give someone about to get an expensive education. "Because this fake internet money is making people very real millionaires. And some of those millionaires forgot that millionaires pay taxes."
Twenty minutes later, Robert sat across from Dr. Sarah Chen, who looked like she should be studying for finals but talked like she could argue a Supreme Court case blindfolded.
"Mr. Johnson, everyone keeps talking about this 'blockchain' like it's some magic chain. What's it chained to? A wall? A very large computer?"
Dr. Chen laughed. "Most people think there's literally a chain somewhere. Let me blow your mind." She walked to the whiteboard. "Imagine you play poker every Friday night. Usually, someone keeps track of who won what in a notebook, right? But what if nobody trusted that guy?"
Robert nodded. "We'd all keep our own scorecards."
"Exactly! So now everyone has their own notebook, and they all have to match. If someone tries to lie about winning a hand, everyone else's notebook would call BS."
She drew rectangles connected by lines. "But here's the genius part. What if every page in your notebook was connected to the previous page in a way that made it impossible to change anything without everyone knowing?"
"So wait," Robert squinted, "the blockchain is... like a really paranoid Excel spreadsheet?"
"Close! But imagine that Excel file is copied to a thousand computers around the world. And every time someone tries to edit it, all thousand computers have to vote on whether the change is legit."
"That sounds… like a nightmare for office politics."
"Exactly why it works! No office politics, no boss to bribe. Just math." She continued drawing. "Each page—or 'block'—has a unique fingerprint based on the previous page. If you change even one word on page 5, the fingerprint on page 6 would be completely different."
Robert leaned forward. "So when Jack told me about Dogecoin being 'on the blockchain,' he meant..."
"Every Dogecoin transaction is recorded in this special ledger that can't be faked or changed without everyone knowing. It's like having a thousand accountants all checking each other's work."
"But why not just use regular banks?"
"Because with banks, you have to trust the bank. With blockchain, you don't have to trust anyone—the math does the work."
Robert searched for the right comparison. "So it's like... instead of trusting one referee, you have a thousand referees all watching each other?"
"Perfect! And that's why people lost their minds over this technology. For the first time in history, you could have digital money that didn't need a bank or government to work."
Mary looked up from her notes. "Which is exactly why we need to understand it. People are making serious money using these systems, and some think 'decentralized' means 'tax-free.'"
Dr. Chen clicked to her first slide, showing a web of connections. "Just because blockchain doesn't need trust doesn't mean it's invisible. Every transaction leaves a digital footprint. It's like having a burglar who's really good at breaking in, but terrible at not leaving fingerprints everywhere."
Robert stared at the screen. "So this 'chain' isn't a physical chain at all. It's more like... a permanent record that everyone agrees on?"
"Exactly. Congratulations, Mr. Johnson. You just understood blockchain better than most people in Congress."
Robert sat up straighter. "All right then. Show me how these digital poker players are trying to cheat on their taxes."
For the first time in months, Robert didn't just feel old. He felt challenged. And strangely, a little excited. After all, he'd been chasing tax cheats for thirty years. How hard could it be to catch ones who left digital fingerprints on everything?
Famous last words.