A visit to America’s leading trade show for state violence.

Meet the Hyperloop’s truest believers.

Tressie McMillan Cottom on confronting racism, sexism, and classism.

The rise and fall of a Bitcoin mining scheme that was “too big to fail.”

The arson case that may have led Texas to execute an innocent man.

How New Jersey’s first coronavirus patient survived.

The making of Caddyshack.

Reporting undercover from inside the online-shipping industry.

Kim Kardashian West’s makeup artist launches a new line.

The “mean high water line” and how public beaches are being turned private.

Gaming the lottery seemed as good a retirement plan as any.

An interview with the playwright Jeremy O. Harris.

The history of civilian internment camps.

An American family’s struggle for student loan redemption.

Struggling to go legal in the underworld of finch smuggling.

Bitcoin partying at an Orlando hotel with worshippers of the blockchain.

How the Baltimore Orioles first baseman overcame stage 3 colon cancer.

He survived the Capitol riots. Then his trial began.

Peter Thiel gamed Silicon Valley, the IRS, and Donald Trump.

Inside the quest to prolong athletic mortality.

Thomas Pynchon walks down a New York City street in the middle of the morning. He has a light gait. He floats along. He looks canny and whimsical, like he'd be fun to talk to; but, of course, he's not talking. It's a drizzling day, and the writer doesn't have an umbrella. He's carrying his own shopping bag, a canvas tote like one of those giveaways from public radio. He makes a quick stop in a health-food store, buys some health foods. He leaves the store, but just outside, as if something had just occurred to him, he turns around slowly and walks to the window. Then, he peers in, frankly observing the person who may be observing him. It's raining harder now. He hurries home. For the past half-dozen years, Thomas Pynchon, the most famous literary recluse of our time, has been living openly in a city of 8 million people and going unnoticed, like the rest of us.

On the comedian’s relationship with his son and how it changed the course of The Cosby Show.

In 1974,  a pair of four-year-old cousins wandered into the jungle near India’s border with Myanmar. The boy was found five days later, temporarily incapable of speech. The girl was gone. For decades, stories echoed through villages of a “wild-looking woman,” sometimes striding beside a tiger. Thirty-eight years later, she returned.

Kindler could be remorseful after letting loose -- he'd send women flowers the day after bringing them to tears -- but that didn't prevent the next explosion. Says an executive who worked closely with him: "Don't call me at five o'clock in the morning and rip my face off, then call me at 11 o'clock at night and tell me how much you love me."

It's a glorious thing, hearing Eddie Murphy say "fuck" again. Few people ever said it better – and down here in the basement of the stone-and-marble mansion he built on a Beverly Hills cliff, it's coming from his lips often enough to make Shrek blush. "Come on, motherfucker," Murphy shouts, over the throb of James Brown's "Hot Pants" on a formidable sound system.