How a Chesterfield man launched a meme coin worth millions on a ‘crazy’ crypto ride

The next day, he was a school security guard who was sitting on a wallet worth hundreds of thousands of dollars — for conjuring up something that doesn’t really exist: Unicorn Fart Dust.

“Obviously, we have something very big going on,” Branstetter, 54, told his viewers in mid-December, while streaming an episode of “Rons Basement” from his Chesterfield home.

Branstetter joined the meme coin market as an experiment, one he anticipated would fail. He wanted to show his followers that cryptocurrency, which he had always called “unicorn fart dust,” was worthless. But what followed was unexpected: a breakneck climb, an anonymous crime and a community that brought him back from the brink.

Thousands of meme coins — fueled by online fads and celebrity culture — are created every day. They exist only in the digital realm, to be bought, sold and traded online. And 97% of them go bust, losing their entire value, according to the cryptocurrency media outlet CCN.

The first meme coin, Dogecoin, debuted 12 years ago as a tongue-in-cheek alternative to Bitcoin. President Donald Trump introduced his own meme coin last month, which spiked in value ahead of his inauguration but then plunged when first lady Melania Trump rolled out her own version.

Cryptocurrency does not face the same regulatory scrutiny as traditional investments. Last month, the heads of four federal agencies, including the Securities and Exchange Commission, wrote a letter to Congress sounding an alarm.

“Meme coins are known for their high volatility; their worth is entirely speculative, undergoing rapid increases and decreases based on internet trends,” the letter said. “These coins … do not improve the financial system in any way for consumers.”

Scams such as “rug pulls,” when developers suddenly sell their shares and disappear as the price plummets, are prevalent. And crypto platforms are rife with hackers, who stole $2.2 billion in 2024, a report from blockchain analysis firm Chainalysis found.

“It can be a toxic, negative space,” said Connor Morales, a longtime investor from the San Francisco Bay area who worked in the industry for several years.

He tries to find projects that run counter to that mood. Before he buys, he checks associated social media accounts and chat groups. He wants to know the “narrative” of the coin. Is it fun?

“That’s what sets the spark,” Morales said.

Branstetter’s dip into crypto was inspired by an article his wife, Suzie, read about how meme coins had become like games, with investors as the players.

Anyone can become a meme coin developer. All Branstetter had to do — as he explained in his livestream on Dec. 16 — was watch a tutorial, open a crypto account, plunk down $100 at the platform pump.fun, and answer four questions about his project.

Unicorn Fart Dust — with the ticker symbol UFD — was on the market.

UFD had a massive supply: one fewer than 1 billion tokens, with each priced at a sliver of a penny. Branstetter’s initial purchase was 1.2% of the stash. Don’t buy it, he warned his followers.

“Trust me, I am not getting rich off it,” he said. “To me, the only form of real money — prove me wrong! — is this: silver and gold.”

He shook three silver coins in his hand.

‘Destined for fame’

Branstetter grew up in Florissant and went to CBC High School. He was always fascinated by numbers and studied accounting at DePaul University in Chicago. For years, he owned an IT recruiting business. Burnout and twin daughters prompted him to shift to a public safety job at the Community Music School of Webster University.

As his girls, now 12, got older, he had some time on his hands during the day, before he went to the music school. He read up on investing and the markets.

“I’ve always been a curious guy,” Branstetter said.

Three years ago, the gray-haired “almost boomer” made his first YouTube video, providing his folksy take on bullion commodities while sitting at a red-and-white checked table in his unfinished basement. Every day, he made at least one video, growing his audience slowly. He eventually attracted a few sponsors to the channel.

“I put in the work,” he said.

Sometimes his wife, whom he calls “Upstairs Suzie,” would chime in during “Rons Basement” videos, via a walkie-talkie he kept at his side. She also moderated comments during the show.

Unicorn Fart Dust was to be a short-lived test run. In the video on the day he became a developer, Branstetter shared his screen to show the market cap had inched up to almost $7,000. He dangled a pink unicorn keychain he picked up in Branson a few years ago.

“Maybe I’m destined for fame,” Branstetter joked before signing off.

On Day 2 of Unicorn Fart Dust’s life, demand surged. The market cap of the meme coin rose to $24 million.

When Branstetter saw it on his phone, he yelled for his wife, who was decorating the Christmas tree.

“I had to have it explained to me again,” Suzie said.

They sold half of what Branstetter had purchased, clearing about $55,000. They decided to keep the rest.

“I think I see something here,” his wife recalled him telling her.

His followers on the social media platform X mushroomed from about 1,000 to 56,000.

“I want to give you my plans,” Branstetter said on his livestream that day. He pledged to hold onto the rest of his UFD tokens, which he refers to as “beans.”

Many of his viewers chimed in with warnings about scammers.

“I’m pretty astute at that, I think,” he reassured them.

Over the next couple of weeks, the investors began to develop their own language. They dubbed Branstetter “Rontoshi” and themselves “Dusters.”

“Horns up” was their rallying cry; “good attracts good” became their motto on social media. Branstetter no longer thought of crypto as a joke.

Volunteer Dusters set up a website for Unicorn Fart Dust. The community values — honesty, integrity, prosperity and fun — are posted there alongside cartoons of winking, scampering unicorns and links to cryptocurrency exchanges.

“Ron’s project hit every single box that exists for a community,” said Morales, the San Francisco-area investor.

Morales has consolidated his meme holdings from 15 to four, including UFD.

‘I trusted the story’

Branstetter’s straightforward style hooked people who, like him, had previously scoffed at digital investing.

Vincent van Eekhout found Branstetter’s YouTube channel two years ago, when he became interested in precious metals. Van Eekhout, who describes himself as a conservative investor with a diversified portfolio, lives in the Netherlands.

When Branstetter started talking crypto, Van Eekhout tuned out. But his curiosity got the best of him. After Christmas, as UFD was erupting, he bought about $22,000 worth of tokens.

His investment peaked at $70,000 in mid-January but has been on a slide since.

“It’s really a casino,” Van Eekhout said. “I consciously stepped into this because I trusted the story around Ron.”

Many meme coin developers remain anonymous. But Branstetter lets his followers into his life. He’s with them daily on YouTube and X, exuberant during the highs and encouraging during the lows. Big names in the cryptocurrency world, such as Jake Gagain and Keith Grossman, have been guests on “Rons Basement.”

In late December, documentarians from New York came to film him. A server at Rigazzi’s recently recognized him. And a couple from Ohio plan to deliver Branstetter a souped-up Honda Fit, painted pink with a horn on the roof and an exhaust that “farts.”

Sam Frasca has been trading in “mainstream” meme coins like Doge and PepeCoin for the past four years. Frasca, who lives outside Denver, wants to save for a down payment on a house.

Two days after UFD’s launch, he bought 4,000 tokens. A fellow Duster he befriended from halfway around the world gifted him 6,000 more.

“There’s something different about Ron that’s changed everything about our lives,” Frasca said.

A hack, a restock, a slide

Six weeks into its existence, UFD was swatting at a market cap of $400 million. Branstetter’s share was worth $1.2 million. And he gained a “Rons Basement” sponsor, the trading platform Moonpay.

“You guys have treated me to an unbelievably crazy and exciting ride,” Branstetter told his followers.

A market cap of $1 billion seemed possible. But then, Branstetter’s ride hit a wall.

On the last Monday in January, a hacker emptied his account.

“It’s all gone,” Branstetter told his wife.

Suzie was calm. “What can you do?” she told him. “It’s money. We have our family. We have our kids.”

And Branstetter had his loyal herd. He was livestreaming from his basement within the hour.

“It sucks,” he said about the hack, before correcting himself. “Excuse my language. It stinks.”

He got choked up, then recovered.

“Somebody stealing my tokens doesn’t stop the Unicorn,” he said. “This is special. Don’t give up. I won’t give up.”

By the next day, Dusters had rallied around Branstetter, establishing a new digital wallet to donate tokens to him. His account is now up to 5 million tokens, about a million and a half shy of what he lost.

For Branstetter, the hack reinforced what he already knew.

“We absolutely have unlimited potential,” he said.

The last four weeks have been less bullish in the meme coin market, and UFD has tumbled. The market cap on Thursday hovered around $37 million.

Juli Niemann, a longtime financial analyst from University City, is not surprised by the volatility, calling meme coin investments “gambling, flat out.”

Like stocks, the value changes minute by minute. Unlike stocks, the trading has no tie to an actual company. It’s a key reason why she advises against meme coin investments.

“You have to be one of the first ones in, be nimble and get out,” Niemann said.

Branstetter has urged his followers to hold their beans. He has given his word not to sell any before the end of March.

“Yes, we’ve gone through a very difficult period,” he told his Dusters on Monday. “We are still robust.”

Without each other, it’s just unicorn fart dust.