Pray, cast your gaze upon the latest theatrical production from our esteemed legislative chambers! A certain gentleman, Mr. Aksakov—a lord of the financial committee—has proclaimed at a grand forum in St. Petersburg that the shouting and drumming for those mysterious 'cryptocurrencies' shall henceforth be forbidden.

Indeed, the state intends to ban the advertisement of these invisible coins. However, in a twist of irony that would make a playwright blush, firms may still whisper to the public that they operate in this realm. One may not invite the crowd to the gamble, but one may certainly admit to being the dealer at the table!

But wait, the plot thickens! In the month of April, the government presented a bill that would force every broker, exchange, and rogue currency-changer to seek a royal license from the Central Bank. No longer shall the adventurous spirit trade his gold for digital ghosts in a dark alley; he must now go through an official intermediary who possesses sufficient capital—lest the whole house of cards collapse like a poorly made souffle.

At the Central Bank, the high officials admit that these assets remain as risky as a bet on a blind horse, yet they concede that the market has grown so gargantuan that it can no longer be ignored. Mistress Lozgacheva of the Strategic Development Department suggests that the 'nature of the asset' remains unchanged—which is to say, it is still a gamble—but the middlemen must now understand they are within the reach of the law's long arm.

And what of the stakes? Mr. Chebeskov, a dignitary of the Ministry of Finance, whispers that the daily turnover of these phantom coins reaches some fifty billion rubles! Imagine the greed! Imagine the fever! Thousands of gentlemen, chasing a phantom profit, tossing their hard-earned shillings into a digital void, while the state looks on, deciding exactly how much of the profit it shall eventually claim for itself.