$BTC zažilo za poslední desetiletí raketový nárůst popularity. Přesto mnoho investorů zůstává skeptických vůči trhu s kryptoměnami kvůli jeho decentralizované povaze, pochybné bezpečnosti, nejasné regulaci a extrémní volatilitě.
Navzdory těmto nevýhodám udělal Bitcoin v říjnu 2017 významný krok směrem k legitimitě, když CME Group, přední světový trh s deriváty, zahájil obchodování s bitcoinovými futures kontrakty.
O čtyři roky později se společnost ProShares znovu zapsala do historie spuštěním bitcoinového ETF založeného na futures kontraktech, což je vůbec první kryptoburzovní fond, který získal regulační souhlas k obchodování na hlavním trhu v USA.

Once upon a time, two smart young crypto-anarchists met and fell in love. Let's call them Jacques and Diane.
They got married, worked hard, and had a blockchain. A few years later--thanks to dedication, hard work, and good graphic design--they convinced people everywhere in the world to send hundreds of millions of dollars in the hope that in return they'd get magic beans called "Tezzies."
$BTC
What made the beans magic? When sold, they'd grow in value far beyond their initial price and blossom into fabulous sums of money. And the funding they provided would be enough for Jacques and Diane to buy countries, media outlets, endowed chairs at universities, and other fancy stuff.
Like all fairy tales, this one had treasure and monsters.  

The treasure took two forms.  
First, our crypto-heroes thought they'd get a generous payout: a large part of the loot (currently around $40 million), plus many Tezzies.  They'd worked hard on the blockchain, put 2 or 3 years of time in (while working other jobs for a while) so a large percentage seemed only natural. Second, the fine folks who sent their cash from everywhere in the world thought they'd get magic beans too (though they were told there'd be no guarantee). 
Many monsters lurked along the way. Regulators were one, particularly the fierce American monster SEC. To avoid SEC's sharp fangs, our fearless crypto-heroes made a moated castle in the magical land of Zug. Known as Stiftung, or Foundation, the castle would take contributors' money and (hopefully) send them their magic beans some months later.
Another monster? Our crypto-heroes crossed swords with one of the Stiftung's guardians, who they installed in that position. They accused him of greed, self-dealing, and blamed him for stalled development and the general lack of magic beanage anywhere. The guardian (a creature named Gevers) denied the whole thing, and said Jaques and Diane have improperly meddled in Stiftung's care and feeding.
Meanwhile, every week, Stiftung sells ten or twenty million dollars in crypto, and puts the money in its bank account, not Jacques and Diane's. And those magic beans? Nowhere to be seen. 
The fine folk who sent their money? They're getting old waiting, and receiving solicitations from US class action lawyers.
The ending has yet to be written. But you get the idea.  

Jordan #Belfort was lounging by the pool on a sunny April morning, sipping Red Bull and sharing a cautionary tale. Not the usual one about his imprisonment on 10 counts of securities fraud and money laundering: This time, he’d been the victim. Last fall, he explained to a group of businessmen gathered at his palatial home, a hacker had stolen $300,000 of digital tokens from his #cryptocurrency wallet. He had gotten the bad news at dinner on a Friday, he said, while he was telling a venture-capitalist friend about the time he sank his yacht during a drug-fueled romp in the mid-’90s. After breaking into Belfort’s account, the hacker transferred large quantities of ohm, a popular cryptocurrency token, to a separate wallet — a publicly visible transaction that Belfort could do nothing to reverse. “You can see where the money is,” he said. “It’s the most frustrating thing.” Belfort, 59, is best known for “The Wolf of Wall Street,” a tell-all memoir about his debauched 1990s career in high finance, which director Martin Scorsese adapted into a 2013 movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio as the hard-partying protagonist. These days, the real-life Belfort is a consultant and sales coach, charging tens of thousands of dollars for private sessions. This month, at his house in Miami Beach, he hosted nine #blockchain enthusiasts and entrepreneurs for a weekend-long #CryptoOnWallStreet workshop — a chance to hang out with the Wolf and enjoy an “intimate financial experience” with his crypto-industry friends. A long line of celebrities has tried to profit from the cryptocurrency boom, appearing in widely mocked crypto commercials or flogging non-fungible tokens, the unique digital collectibles known as #NFTs . Belfort said he has refused to participate in the worst of the shilling. He has declined offers to launch a line of Wolf-themed NFTs, he said, even though “I could easily make $10 million.” He is also a recent convert away from crypto skepticism. Not long ago, he shot a YouTube video about the dangers of #bitcoin , which he called “frickin’ insanity” and “mass delusion.” Over the years, he said, he gradually changed his mind, as he learned more about cryptocurrencies and prices skyrocketed. Now, Belfort is an investor in a handful of startups, including a new NFT platform and an animal-themed crypto project that he said is “trying to take the dog-and-pet ecosystem and put it onto the blockchain.” Whatever his crypto bona fides, Belfort is unquestionably qualified to discuss the subject of financial fraud, a major problem in the digital-asset industry. In the 1990s, the firm he founded, Stratton Oakmont, operated a sophisticated stock-manipulation scheme. At the height of their wealth, he and his business partners consumed enormous quantities of cocaine and quaaludes and regularly employed prostitutes. Belfort eventually served 22 months in prison. Given that history, it can feel slightly surreal to hear an older, more grizzled Belfort proclaim that he is “massively looking forward to regulation” in the crypto industry. “I’m not interested in separating people from their money,” he said. “That’s the opposite of how I act right now.” Still, the crypto workshop at his house was not free: Guests paid one bitcoin for a seat, or the cash equivalent, which is roughly $40,000. The workshop began at 9 a.m. on Saturday. The guests — chosen from a pool of more than 600 applicants — milled around Belfort’s backyard, eating made-to-order omelets and trading tips about bitcoin mining and tokenomics. A crypto miner from Kazakhstan relaxed in the sun with an aspiring blockchain influencer who runs a roofing company in Idaho. A Florida businessman explained his plan to use NFTs in a startup that he’s pitching as Tinder for music. Some of the guests said they paid for the workshop because they are die-hard fans of the Wolf; others simply wanted to network with fellow entrepreneurs.Belfort has spent the past two decades trying to rebuild his reputation, but signs of the old Wolf were everywhere. Behind his spot at the head of the table, a fully stocked liquor shelf took up most of the wall. (He hasn’t gotten high in 25 years, he said, but he sometimes drinks.) Next to the shelf hung a poster designed to resemble an entry on the periodic table — Qu for quaalude — listing various “drug facts,” including “best sex ever.”After a round of introductions, Belfort began a lecture on the minutiae of cryptocurrencies, from the differences between bitcoin and ethereum to the rise of decentralized autonomous organizations. He shared his wisdom on crypto-based “smart contract” systems (“some of them are really smart; some of them are stupid”) and recounted old stories about his collaboration with DiCaprio and Scorsese.“Leo had never done drugs,” he said. “I had to educate him on that.”For a gathering of crypto evangelists, it was striking how much time everyone spent reliving their biggest losses. Nearly half the group said they’d been hacked. One guest said he’d lost money when the cryptocurrency exchange Mt. Gox collapsed in 2014. Two others said they’d burned large quantities of tokens in risky trades.The energy in the room lifted with the arrival of Chase Hero, one of a series of guest speakers Belfort had recruited for the weekend. A crypto investor and gaming enthusiast, Hero declared that stablecoins — cryptocurrencies whose value is pegged to the U.S. dollar — are “the biggest innovation since sliced bread.”A few hours later, the group adjourned for dinner at Carbone, a high-end Italian restaurant in Miami Beach where Belfort eats as often as twice a week. As they dined on caviar and rigatoni, some of the guests shared stories of their own debauchery; Belfort, it turned out, was not the only wolf in the room. Two guests discussed the mechanics of pursuing younger women without risking entanglement in a “sugar baby” situation. Someone speculated about how an enterprising strip club owner might incorporate NFTs into the business.Artem Bespaloff, the CEO of crypto mining company Asic Jungle, leaned across the table to describe his personal conversion to the way of the Wolf. He was planning to go to medical school, he said, when he found a copy of “The Wolf of Wall Street” at the library.“I said, ‘This is what I want to do,’” Bespaloff recalled. “I ended up stealing the book from the library.”“So I was a good influence,” Belfort said with a laugh. Still, he said, he regrets his behavior in those days — it was wrong, and he could have gotten even richer if he hadn’t broken the law. “I missed the internet boom,” he said. “I would’ve made 100x more money.”“Well,” Bespaloff replied, “you’re in crypto now.”“You live and learn,” Belfort said.