Lucas Duplan's Clinkle, Crumble, Crash

Editor's Note: Forbes' Fallen Stars

Welcome to the series: 30 Under 30: Where Are They Now? (Indictment Edition) — where we examine the spectacular flameouts who once graced those prestigious lists celebrating youth, ambition, and apparently, in some cases, a cavalier relationship with reality.

The $25 Million Vanishing Act

Remember that time you convinced your parents to fund your "completely revolutionary" lemonade stand, only to spend the money on a trampoline instead? Now multiply that by about 25 million, add a dash of Silicon Valley hubris, and you've got the Lucas Duplan saga.

For those who missed this spectacular financial face-plant, allow me to introduce Lucas Duplan, wunderkind-turned-cautionary-tale and the star of our inaugural "30 Under 30: Indictment Edition." Ironically, Duplan was once celebrated in Forbes' legitimate 30 Under 30 in Finance, Class of 2014—a recognition that aged about as well as milk left on a San Francisco sidewalk in August. While technically never indicted (legally speaking), he's been tried and convicted in the court of Silicon Valley opinion—a tribunal possibly more ruthless than any federal bench.

The Golden Ticket That Turned to Dust

In 2013, Duplan pulled off what seemed like entrepreneurial alchemy: convincing seasoned investors to pour a record-shattering $25 million seed round into his mysterious payments app, Clinkle. This was the financial equivalent of being handed the nuclear codes before proving you could responsibly operate a toaster.

The pitch? "Completely modernizing how payments work." The result? The financial equivalent of trying to pay for your latte with interpretive dance.

What followed was less a company launch and more a masterclass in how to burn through venture capital while producing absolutely nothing of value—a skill set surprisingly few LinkedIn profiles boast about.

The Leadership Style: Chaos with a Corner Office

Duplan's management philosophy appeared to be "confuse, control, and alienate"—an approach rarely covered in Harvard Business Review, for good reason.

Former employees described a workplace culture that made "The Hunger Games" look like a team-building retreat. Staff quit in droves, particularly after feeling misled about acquisition talks with Apple that apparently existed primarily in Duplan's imagination.

One particularly scathing review called him a "shark" who sought to control rather than lead—proving once again that actual sharks have received unfair comparison to toxic bosses since time immemorial.

The company's COO, industry veteran Barry McCarthy, reportedly had to repeatedly step in during meetings to correct Duplan, referring to his boss as "kid"—the corporate equivalent of your mom fixing your collar in front of your prom date. McCarthy eventually resigned, noting that Clinkle wasn't "nearly as close to scaling the business as I thought they were," which in executive-speak translates to "this place is a dumpster fire." It was quite the turnaround going from believing  Duplan, could be the next Reed Hastings, CEO/Founder of Netflix.

Living the Founder Fantasy (Without the Founder Results)

While his app remained perpetually forthcoming, Duplan apparently had no trouble launching his lifestyle as a successful CEO. Rumors circulated about full-time maid service, a busy assistant, and a personal trainer—amenities typically reserved for founders who have, you know, actually founded something functional.

This came alongside reports that the operations team was treated like the help at Downton Abbey, creating a two-tier system at a company whose product hadn't even reached tier one of actual product release.

The Product: Consistently Imaginary

What exactly was Clinkle? That remained as mysterious as why people voluntarily eat kale.

Initially described as using high-frequency sound for payments (essentially a digital dog whistle for your money), the technology was later retracted as "much more complicated"—Silicon Valley code for "this is harder than it looks”.

The demo shown to investors reportedly bore little resemblance to the actual app being developed, leading some to feel "duped." Imagine ordering a Tesla and receiving a cardboard box with "vroom vroom" written on the side, and you'll understand the investor experience.

The PR Face-Palm Heard 'Round the Valley

In a move that would make even the most inexperienced PR intern wince, a photo leaked of Duplan clutching what appeared to be $30,000 in cash—a curious choice for the founder of a company supposedly making cash obsolete.

While the money was later claimed to be fake (much like the company's prospects), the image created a dissonance that no amount of pivot-speak could salvage. The company’s subsequent layoffs didn’t help soften his image.

The Legacy: A Silicon Valley Parable

What makes Duplan's story particularly compelling isn't just the failure—it's the spectacular ratio of hype to delivery. In an industry where "fake it till you make it" is practically embroidered on throw pillows, Duplan faked it until investors finally said "enough."

For everyone navigating the startup world, Duplan's implosion offers a master class in what not to do, delivered with all the subtlety of a glitter bomb. While founders can often be held to impossible standards (be confident but not arrogant, be assertive but likable), Duplan's case reminds us that certain behaviors—like treating employees poorly and failing to deliver on grandiose promises—are universally toxic regardless of position. 

The next time you're doubting yourself before a pitch meeting, remember Lucas Duplan and his $25 million seed round. If this guy could convince investors to part with that kind of money for an app that never materialized, perhaps we're all being a bit too hard on ourselves about that presentation typo.

30 Under 30: Indictment Edition—where we celebrate the fine line between visionary and delusional, one cautionary tale at a time.

Coming Next Week: The AllHere That Wasn't

Buckle up, brilliance brigade! Next week, we're diving into the saga of Joanna Smith-Griffin, founder of AllHere Education and Forbes 30 Under 30 honoree (Class of 2021). From educational savior to cautionary tale, Smith-Griffin's journey proves that even the most mission-driven ventures aren't immune to gravity—or scrutiny.

Did her company's AI-powered chatbot designed to combat student absenteeism show up for its own job? We'll unpack how this celebrated edtech venture went from solving chronic absenteeism to chronically absent from its own promises.

Same bat-time, same bat-channel. Your calendar deserves this appointment more than that "quick sync" with Todd from marketing.