MONEY BABY
In a world where money buys youth, unchecked ultrawealth has unintended consequences.
“God dammit Jeff! Why can’t I get porn on my laptop?” The pimple-faced CEO shouted and slammed his Macbook down onto his 16th-century African blackwood desk.
“It’s the content blocker, sir. I’ll get IT to turn it off.” Jeff (Jefferey Goodby Stevens, Harvard, Harvard MBA, Global CFO of Posterboard) said to his boss, Tony (Tony Marcus, Founder and CEO of world-largest social media platform Posterboard, billionaire, former adult man, current teenager).
“Fucking do it already. Subtard.” Tony crossed his arms and pouted.
Jeff(erey Goodby Stevens, Harvard, etc.) stood up and turned sharply to the door, walked sharply across Tony’s 17th century Persian rug, sharply opened the door, then sharply told Jack (Johnathon “Jack” Waddington Edwards, Eton, Oxford, OBE, Global COO of Posterboard) that their now-teenage boss wanted to masturbate.
“It’s getting worse. He’s down to 16 or maybe 15. His acne is terrible and he’s horny as all hell,” Jeff said.
“At least he’s not taking videos of himself ordering us around with a stack of taped together beer cans for post content.” Jack (Waddington, blah, blah, blah) said, relieved.
Jeff sighed. “Yes. The Wizard Staff.”
“He made Steve take a shot…”
“Of his own piss. I know.”
(That’s Steven Campell Smith, Princeton, Harvard, Mayflower descendant, Global CSO of Marcus Industries -- last seen in a video posted by Tony, wearing his tie as a headband, drinking urine from a shot glass.)
“So he just wants to watch porn? I guess that’s better.” Jack said. It was not in his nature to find silver linings, cold pragmatists that CCOs tend to be, but times had gotten desperate.
“It’s not good. His personal net worth rivals the GDP of a mid-sized nation state. He owns the largest social media platform in the world. And he’s regressing farther into childhood every day.”
“Maybe the research department has some answers.” Jack offered, pushing up the sleeves of his vicuña wool sweater. “You know, talk to the nerds.”
“I’ll Slack Dr. Ercoles.” Jeff pulled his phone out to type a message. “We just have to remember to knock before we go back into Tony’s office.”
Jeff hit send, then they waited, contemplating the empty hallways of Posterboard headquarters. Short months ago they had been buzzing. Tony had, seemingly out of nowhere, acquired a newfound youthful energy. He was enthusiastic and inspired, running between departments to launch projects and writing posts full of grand promises for the betterment of the platform and humanity. His skin tightened, his hair got fuller, he lost weight. Most importantly, the stock price soared. His employees figured he was shooting HGH and blood boy plasma like the rest of the CEOs, but as the weeks went by and Tony kept looking younger, it became clear that this wasn’t simply stem-cell creams and nubile young body fluids. Tony was aging in reverse.
The problems hit a tipping point when Tony re-turned 27 or so. His confident leadership lapsed into egotistical delusion. He drank and used cocaine prodigiously. He roamed the office halls at unwholesome hours, whiskey in one hand, phone in the other, posting erratic, contradictory edicts for his companies and rants about women who had ghosted him on Tinder. Jeff, Jack, and Steve followed along like baby ducks, watching their newly mid-20s shitbag boss wield these weapons of self-destruction and mass destruction, respectively, and fretting about the stock price. But every shitpost boosted the stock more, and Tony only got younger and more shitpost-y.
By the time he was back in his early 20s, he lost any interest in running the platform as a sustainable business. It was all about partying and trolling. He made a rule that if he pointed at you, you had to drink. Company breakfast? Take a drink. Board meeting? Take a drink. Take-your-daughter-to-work day? Both of you drink. Everyone was drunk and working, and Tony was posting, 24/7.
The streaking was the worst part. Tony would randomly yell “We’re going streaking!” Then everyone in the room had to take off their clothes and follow him, flapping their parts through the halls of Posterboard for all to see. Eventually people avoided the common areas altogether. Except for the perverts. (Perverts are overrepresented in Fortune 100 companies.)
That’s why Dr. Ercoles (Dr. John V. Erocoles, Stanford, Berkeley, MIT, Nobel Laureate) pulled Jeff and Jack into a storage closet as soon as he arrived. He’d also brought Steve(n Campell Smith, Princeton, Mayflower, Urine imbiber), who was the color of raw beef and had his hands on his Ralph Lauren gabardine-clad knees, trying to catch his breath. (There was also a pervert there hoping the gathering meant some streaking was about to happen, but they shooed him away).
“Gentleman.” Dr. Ercoles whispered. “Sorry for the cloak and dagger. I just don’t want to be anywhere in sight of his office.”
“That’s fine.” Jeff replied. “What’s with Steve?”
Steve waved him off, still too out of breath to talk.
“I found him in the hall doing wall sits. More of Tony’s hazing.” Dr. Ercole said.
“Tony hasn’t been college-aged for days, so he’s in the clear now.”
“I know." Dr. Ercoles said, knowingly. “His last post was the word “Tits” and then the eggplant emoji followed by the water splash emoji. I take that to mean he’s a teenager.”
“Do-” Jeff started.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Jack stepped on Jack’s question with his size 11 Baudoin and Lane loafer. He hated letting Jeff run the dialogue.
“I do, but you won’t like the answer.”
“Try us.” Jeff stepped back in. Running the dialogue was a very important part of his job.
“It’s the money.” Dr. Ercoles said gravely. “Money is youth. It’s a truism. But a few years back some old colleagues at MIT discovered that it’s literally true. Your net worth bears a direct, inverse relationship to your biological and emotional age.”
“That’s ludicrous.” Jack jumped back in. Running the dialogue was the sole measure of his self-worth.
“Look at any pop star.” Dr. Ercoles replied. “They seem to stay in their teens or late 20s for decades, then they age thirty years overnight, right? That’s the money running out. Or take your typical billionaire. They make their money later in life, so, though they look decrepit, they basically never die. Again, it’s the money. I believe Tony’s crossed an event horizon where as his wealth grows, his age declines.”
“But that doesn’t explain why the stock is growing despite the fact the company is being run by a social media addicted child.” Jeff countered.
“Think about it.” Dr. Ercoles said. “How rich do you have to be to move markets? At least as Rich as Tony, right?”
They all thought for a moment. Then, a realization struck.
“My god, the investors are all children too!” Jeff said. “That explains everything.”
“The stock just bounced three points.” Jack interjected, reading off his phone screen. “Investors love the porn comments.”
“That’s probably enough to dial him back another year.” Dr. Ercoles said.
“It’s the internet.” Steve said, catching his breath. “It’s stupid.” Another wheeze. “The piss video.” Gasp. “Mega viral.”
The other three men smiled wistfully. It was a very funny video. Then a terrible realization dawned on them.
“Oh fuck, he’s 13!” Jeff shouted.
“That’s puberty!” Dr. Ercoles exclaimed. The four pasty middle-aged men burst out of the closet door just as Jack’s phone buzzed.
“He asked for a Doomsday Button to be installed on his desk.” Jack said.
“Doomsday button?” Steve asked, wide-eyed. “We just have a doomsday button lying around?”
“All sufficiently large companies have Doomsday Buttons.” Dr. Ercoles said as he skid around a corner in his loafers. “We must stop this!”
But it was too late. By the time they got back to the office, an engineer was already putting the finishing touches on the button installation.
“What’s up, dickwads.” Tony said without looking up from his phone. His cheeks had acquired a layer of baby fat and his acne had been replaced by freckles. “I’m posting right now about what dickwads you all are.”
Jack looked at his phone. “We’re up another 4.2.”
Tony’s feet lifted fully off the floor and began swinging childishly. His shaggy haircut morphed into a bowl cut.
“Yea, the button is gonna be rad. It’s gonna be like KaCHOWWWWWW!” he shouted.
“He posted about the button now.” Jack said. “Basically repeating what he just said.”
“Surely that at least plateaus us,” Jeff said.
“Up another 3.”
“That’s it.” Dr. Ercoles. “I’m taking it.” He stepped forward to yank the phone out of his boss’s tiny hands.
“NO! If you take my phone you’re fired! You’re all fired and you can’t play with any of my toys.” Tony cried, kicking his tiny legs.
“Whoa there, doctor.” Jack said. “We don’t want to be fired.”
“We should at least find out what toys he has,” Steve said. “To make an informed decision.”
“They make compelling points, doctor.” Jeff said
“Gentlemen. The only way to stop this is take the phone and tank the stock price.”
“But… but our net worths are tied up in the company.” Jack said over the sounds of Tony squealing. They all paused to consider this for a moment. They didn’t make eye contact. They fingered the fabric of vicuña wool sweaters.They looked down at their Baudoin and Lane loafers.
“Well, how bad can it really get?” Steve finally ventured.
“I’m gonna kill the world,” Tony said and posted to over 500 million people.
‘Up another 3 points.” Jack reported.
Jeff nervously eyed the button as Tony spun around in his chair. With each turn he was younger. Cruising past 8. Still posting.
“WOOOORLD domination!” Tony cried into his phone, now utilizing Posterboard’s text-to-post feature.
“If the worst case scenario happens, we will be extremely rich,” Dr. Ercoles rationalized. “So, it’s not really the worst for us.”
“And if it doesn’t, then we had nothing to worry about. So really, we can’t lose” Steve said.
“I wanna build giant robots that build other things, like skyscrapers. And also they have rocket launchers on their arms.” Tony posted.
“Up another 2.1.” Jack reported.
“And the WORST case statistically almost never happens,” Jeff said, putting a cap on the argument.
Tony looked about 6 now. He picked up the model spacecraft prototype, the one a short time ago he had promised the world would bring humanity to Mars, and played with it while he dictated another post.
“Rockets, like, big rockets that can launch us to Mars. No, Jupiter! We’re all gonna live on Jupiter.”
“We’re up another ten percent.”
Before their eyes Tony de-aged another year.
“That’s a pretty wild ROI though, if you think about it,” Steve mused. They all nervously eyed the button and excitedly watched the stock price.
“Bring me toys!” Tony screamed into his phone.
“The press is eating up the “bring me toys” post,” Jack said.
“My stock is worth 20 million,” Jeff said.
“He’s about to push the button!” Dr. Ercoles said.
Jefferey Goodby Harmon, Harvard, Harvard, economic advisor to three Presidential administrations, ex-partner at Goldman Sachs, current Global CFO of Marcus Industries whipped out his keys and jingled them in front of Tony’s face.
Meanwhile, Baron Johnathon “Jack” Waddington Edwards, Eton, Oxford, Oxford, OBE, silent Board Member of Barclays, Global COO of Marcus Industries, stood over his shoulder, making funny faces.
Dr. Ercole went back to the lab, using his considerable pedigree to invent children’s toys.
And Steve was there too. Mostly on diaper duty.
And so it was, the three men spent their lives in submission to the whims of a child, richer than they could possibly imagine, watching their money and dreaming up new frivolities in a constant state of low, simmering terror. And all the while, that child sat at a big desk in a top floor office, banging on a little drum set, on a farm animal noise machine, on an ever changing rotation of toys and trinkets all arranged around a big, red, world ending button.