Money doesn’t grow on trees.

But the belief that it does?

That grows like mold on everything it touches.  

Introduction: Once Upon a Trust Fund

In the glittering nation of Lavishia, where the streets are paved with other people’s money, Prince Reginald “Reggie” von Manna ruled supreme. Reggie didn’t build Lavishia. He simply woke up one day inside it, like a baby in a golden crib the size of a small province. His grandfather had struck oil, struck gold, and then struck a deal with heaven itself. By the time Reggie turned fifteen, the national personality was already set: Money grows on trees, and if the trees die, we’ll just print more trees. Nothing would change after that. Not at 25. Not at 45. Not even when the trees caught fire.

Chapter 1: The Sacred Ritual of Fictitious Pricing

Every year the Royal Budget Ceremony unfolded like a holy festival. Reggie would stand on the balcony of the Palace of Unnecessary Gold, raise his crystal scepter (actually a limited-edition iPhone), and declare the Official Price of Manna-Oil™.  

“Today,” he announced one glorious morning, “one barrel of our blessed black goo shall be worth exactly $487.32. This is not a guess. This is vibes.”  

The entire Ministry of Wishful Thinking applauded. Economists who pointed out that the world price was $68 were labeled “negative energy trolls” and sent to luxury re-education spas. With this magical number, Lavishia could now budget for free universal caviar, eight new airports (none with planes), and a national holiday celebrating Reggie’s excellent hair.  

Chapter 2: Crypto Solves Everything, Darling

When the national debt hit eleven gazillion dollars, Prince Reggie didn’t panic. Panic was for poor people. Instead he tweeted—sorry, issued a Royal Proclamation—from his yacht shaped like a larger yacht:  

“Lavishia shall launch MannaCoin. We will simply give every creditor one digital MannaCoin and—poof!—debt gone. It’s like Bitcoin but with better branding and zero math.”  

The people cheered. Foreign investors laughed until they realized Reggie was serious. When the currency crashed harder than a toddler on roller skates, Reggie shrugged. “Markets are haters. Next week we do MannaCoin 2: Electric Boogaloo.”  

Chapter 3: The Great Generational Wealth Vanishing Act

Historians later called it the Vanderbilt Speedrun. In just twenty-five years Reggie turned the largest resource windfall in Lavishian history into the world’s most expensive participation trophy.  

He built the world’s tallest statue of himself riding a unicorn.  

He gave every citizen a monthly “You Exist” stipend paid for by borrowing from tomorrow to pay today. 

He hosted the Royal Gala of Infinite Appetizers where guests received diamond-encrusted participation medals just for showing up.

When the money ran low, Reggie simply raised the Official Price of Manna-Oil again. “$912 per barrel now. We’re in a premium era.”  

Chapter 4: Personality Locked and Loaded

Experts flew in from fancy universities. They ran tests. They wrote papers. They concluded that Reggie’s trust-fund brain had crystallized around age sixteen and was now as permanent as the ridiculous marble statues littering the capital.  

He genuinely believed resources were a birthright. When advisers suggested cutting the 400% subsidy on private-jet fuel, Reggie gasped as if they had suggested eating the palace dogs. “But how will the dogs get to their private jets?” he asked, eyes wide with honest confusion.  

This was not stupidity. This was consistency. The same man at fifteen who demanded a platinum treehouse was now, at fifty, demanding a platinum national debt. Same software, just bigger servers.

Chapter 5: When the Manna Runs Dry

Eventually even the oil wells started coughing. The fictitious price hit $4,872 per barrel. Creditors formed an orderly queue that stretched to the horizon.  

Reggie called an emergency press conference from the Royal Bath of Eternal Bubbles. “My fellow Lavishians, the manna has not stopped flowing. It is simply… resting. Like I do every afternoon between two and four. We shall issue MannaBonds backed by future vibes. Also I’m throwing a three-week festival to boost morale. You’re welcome.”  

The lights flickered. The fountains ran out of champagne. A single tear rolled down Reggie’s perfectly moisturized cheek. Not for the country. For the fact that his favorite platinum treehouse now had a “Closed for Maintenance” sign.

Final Chapter (Because 1,000 Pages Would Be Cruel): The Eternal Lesson

Lavishia didn’t collapse in fire and revolution. It simply deflated like a balloon animal at the world’s saddest party. The trust-fund mindset had done what it always does: treat tomorrow’s problems like someone else’s problem, preferably a poor person’s. 

Prince Reggie lives on in exile on a private island paid for by what remained of the sovereign wealth fund. He still insists the oil price is $18,000 per barrel “if you account for emotional value.”  

And somewhere, in every country, every family, and every overly generous inheritance, a small voice whispers the same sacred truth the Vanderbilts, the rentier states, and Reggie all learned too late: