When a Website Disappears — and Comes Back Twice
For quite some time, I had this idea in the back of my head that I wanted to write about illegal online pharmacies — not the dramatic, hidden corners of the internet that people tend to imagine, but the ordinary-looking webshops that operate quietly in plain sight, looking almost indistinguishable from legitimate online stores.
The Funcaps case was what finally made me stop postponing it. Reading about the court proceedings, about the families who had lost someone, about the argument that the sellers were aware of the risks and continued anyway — it stayed with me in a way I didn’t expect. It wasn’t sensational. It wasn’t chaotic. It was procedural, almost bureaucratic, and somehow that made it feel heavier.
At the end of January, when I finally sat down to write, I tried to visit their website again. I wanted to see it as it had been — the structure, the language, the way everything was framed.
Of course it didn’t work.
The site had been taken offline after the authorities shut it down together with the company following the court proceedings. The domain no longer led anywhere. No homepage. No product pages. Nothing.
And in that moment, it genuinely felt like closure. Not dramatic closure, but administrative closure — the kind that happens when a case moves through the legal system and ends with a decision. A company investigated. A trial held. A website removed. A chapter closed.
That is how it should work.
Then I went on holiday.
When I came back and resumed working on this article, I searched again — not because I expected anything, but because research habits are hard to switch off.
And that is when I saw them. Two websites for FunCaps. Same logo. Different addresses.And suddenly the sense of closure didn’t feel quite so final anymore
Research on Paper — Party in Practice
What struck me most wasn’t just that these websites were selling so-called research chemicals. It was the tension between how they described themselves and how they subtly positioned their products. On one hand, the language is careful. The site presents itself as a supplier of laboratory-tested research chemicals It emphasizes discretion, secure payments, fast delivery. Everything sounds controlled, procedural, almost scientific. On the other hand, the same platform refers to itself as an “all-in-one night pharmacy” and states that customers will find everything needed for “pre-party, party and after-party” In another section, it even suggests that the products are easy to take along, store and use discreetly — whether at home or while travelling
It’s difficult to reconcile those two worlds.
Research chemicals are, by definition, substances intended for laboratory environments. Yet the framing clearly gestures toward lifestyle use. The disclaimer creates legal distance. The marketing language quietly closes it again.
And then there is the design.
One of the newer websites did not even attempt to look polished. It felt rushed — as if the priority was simply to get it online, not to build something lasting. There were stock images, unfinished sections, generic descriptions. It didn’t look like a carefully constructed brand. It looked temporary.
And maybe that is the point.
If you assume that your website may be shut down at any time, why invest in depth, storytelling or credibility? Why build something durable if the business model is built on mobility?
It felt less like a company building a reputation and more like a structure designed to be replaceable.
Which changes the perspective entirely.
This is not about one stable online pharmacy operating for years. It is about disposable storefronts — easy to launch, easy to abandon, easy to relaunch.
And in that context, closing a website is not an end. It is simply part of the cycle.
The Legal Space That Allowed It
For years, shops like these were able to operate because of something that sounds technical but has very real consequences: the way drug laws were written.
In the Netherlands, specific substances were placed on official banned lists. If a particular molecule wasn’t on that list, it wasn’t automatically illegal — even if it behaved almost exactly like something that was. And that created a strange situation.
Imagine a substance is banned. A chemist changes it slightly — just enough to make it technically different. On paper, it’s no longer the same compound. In practice, it may produce very similar effects.
Until lawmakers update the list again, that new version exists in a grey area.
So while authorities were adding one substance to the ban list, another variation could already be circulating. By the time the legal system caught up, the market had often moved on.
That’s why this wasn’t simply about “breaking the law.” It was about navigating the edges of it.
In recent years, the legislation has changed. Instead of banning one molecule at a time, broader groups of substances are now being targeted to prevent this constant cycle of small chemical tweaks.
But laws take time to draft, debate and implement. Websites don’t wait for that process to finish. Online markets adjust much faster than legislation ever can.
And that gap — between how quickly chemistry adapts and how slowly law moves — is where businesses like this found space to exist.
The Numbers We Can Confirm — and the Ones We Can’t
This is where the story becomes concrete.
According to reporting cited in the case, Dutch prosecutors investigated 49 deaths potentially linked to substances sold through the webshop. In at least 27 of those cases, there was considered to be a strong connection between the deceased individuals and products ordered from the platform. These figures were reported in Dutch media coverage of the criminal investigation and prosecution.
In addition, separate reporting suggested that the total number of deaths possibly associated with the platform could be even higher — with some investigations mentioning figures approaching or exceeding 50 cases under review during the legal process.
Those are not abstract numbers.
Those are real investigations tied to real individuals.
But even these figures come with limitations.
A death can only be officially linked to a supplier when:
- toxicology confirms the presence of a specific compound,
- investigators can trace the purchase history,
- and the chain of distribution can be reconstructed.
If a substance is a newly modified analogue, it may not immediately appear in standard toxicology screens. If a product is shared between users, tracing becomes more difficult. If purchases were made under different names or through intermediaries, the connection may never be formally established.
This means that the documented cases represent confirmed links — not necessarily the full scope of harm.
When media report that “49 deaths are being investigated,” that number reflects cases authorities were able to connect through evidence. It does not automatically include:
- non-fatal overdoses,
- hospital admissions,
- dependency cases,
- incidents involving substances that were never chemically identified,
- or deaths that could not be traced back to a specific online purchase.
In that sense, the official figures may reflect only the portion of harm that left a clear investigative trail.
And that is what makes measuring the true scale so difficult.
Why This Keeps Happening
Authorities, including the Dutch Health and Youth Care Inspectorate (IGJ), do investigate and shut down operations like this. Laws have been tightened. Broader bans have been introduced. Prosecutions have taken place.
And still, websites reappear.
Not necessarily because enforcement is weak, but because the infrastructure required to rebuild is relatively simple. Digital storefronts can be recreated quickly. Domains can be registered in minutes. Design templates are widely available. Payment methods can shift.
Closing one version of a site does not automatically erase the underlying network — the suppliers, the branding assets, the customer contacts, the technical knowledge of how to relaunch.
What looks like an ending may only be an interruption.
Why Awareness Still Matters
If you come across a website that appears to sell psychoactive substances under the label of “research,” especially if something feels inconsistent or unclear — generic imagery, missing information, unclear accountability — it can be reported to the Dutch Health and Youth Care Inspectorate (IGJ).
It might feel insignificant to file a report about a single website. But patterns are built from individual signals, and authorities cannot monitor every new domain in real time.
Public awareness does not shut down a market overnight, but it does reduce the space in which it operates unnoticed.
When I first couldn’t access the site back in January, I thought the story had closed.
When I saw two versions online weeks later — one more structured, the other clearly put together in a rush — I stopped thinking about design or credibility altogether.
The real issue isn’t how convincing these platforms look.
The real issue is how difficult they are to eliminate.
Authorities can investigate. They can prosecute. They can shut down domains. And they do. But this is inevitably a cat-and-mouse game. By the time one website is taken offline, another can appear under a new address.
And as long as there is demand, there will be supply.
That may be the most uncomfortable part of the story. Enforcement can slow it down. Legislation can tighten the gaps. But neither can erase the market entirely.
Which means this wasn’t the end of the story — just one chapter in it.