- NUTSONOMICS
CHAPTER 1: SHORTING 101
Holo-screens across the plaza blinked from red alerts to gold banners.
“CRYPTONUT IS COMING — THE CURE TO DEBT!”
Sirsquirrel Dabble-in Inequity Esquire appeared on every feed, monocle glinting like a fiscal sunrise. “Citizens!” he purred. “Fear not the Clean-Hat Crash! For every fallen nut, a Cryptonut shall rise — pure, digital, and debt-free!”
Crowds cheered. Economists fainted twice.
Zippy frowned. “Debt-free nuts? That’s either magic or marketing.” Flip’s eyes narrowed. “Or both. If they replace nutcoins with cryptonuts, they can erase their old nut-debt entirely not mine or yours just theirs— then reissue new ones.” “Meaning?” Zippy asked. “Meaning,” Flip muttered, “anyone holding savings just got no-nutted.”
Above them, Dabble-in’s coal-fired triple-decker jet rumbled through the haze, trailing banners of molten gold:
‘OUT WITH THE OLD NUTS — IN WITH THE CODE!’
Grabmore’s voice cut through the newsfeed.
“Students! Agents! That’s no bailout — that’s a wipeout! Someone intends to delete every debt ledger in the galaxy!”
Zippy snapped his goggles down. “Then we’ve found our case, Flip.”
Flip sighed. “Yes — and statistically, it’s going to crash.”
The banners fluttered to static.
Somewhere high above, the first digital nut began to glow.
The market was about to reboot — and Nutsonomics would never be the same.
It was supposed to be just another volatile day where nuts were up inflating like a hot air fair balloon. The amphitheatre of the Gimme-Gimme-Nomics School hummed with anticipation.
Professor Grabmore Yield stood in the spotlight, spinning his laser pointer like a conductor about to lead a symphony of chaos.
“Students!” he boomed. “Economics is simply snack-trading with paperwork! Today, we learn Shorting 101 — The Snack Edition!”
He flicked his wrist. A holographic lunch table shimmered into view, piled high with glowing Cosmic Choco-Bars.
A raccoon hologram — identical to Zippy — tiptoed onto the stage, borrowed one from a squirrel friend, and sold it to a penguin for two shiny nuts.
“Now,” Grabmore said, pacing theatrically, “our raccoon borrows a snack and sells it immediately. Why? Because he believes that by recess, Choco-Bars will be so last season. Perhaps the galaxy will have gone mad for Pickle-Blast flavour instead!”
The hologram fast-forwarded: the cafeteria roared with Pickle-Blast traders while dusty Choco-Bars lay abandoned.
“So,” the Professor declared, “our trader buys one back cheaper, returns it to his friend, and pockets the extra nut. That, class, is short selling! You sell first, buy later, and hope prices fall before your popularity does.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
A student raised a hand.
“Professor, is it borrowing the stock or taking it out on loan?”
Grabmore smiled. “Excellent distinction! In short selling, a trader borrows shares from a broker — think of it as a temporary loan of stocks instead of money. The key point: you must return exactly what you borrowed, not simply its value.”
Another student frowned thoughtfully.
“But why is it called short selling? The stocks look the same height as all the others.”
The class laughed. Grabmore raised a finger.
“It is called short because the trader is in a short position — they owe something back. They’re short on ownership, not height! In finance, short refers to risk, not inches. The taller your risk, the shorter your confidence.”
A Gimme-Gimme student at the back blinked as a tiny lightbulb appeared above his head, fizzled, and popped in a puff of glitter.
“Professor,” he called, “if their position is short, are they kneeling?”
Grabmore grinned. “In a sense, yes! When you’re short, you’re often on your knees — praying the market falls your way. That, my dear student, is the short trader’s default view.”
Another student raised her paw.
“So, if a trader likes short things, do they wait until shares are low and then look for signs they might rise again because of events that are likely to happen or maybe this, or that, or all of the above?”
The room giggled.
Grabmore twirled his pointer like a baton.
“An excellent but slightly inverted question! In a long position, you buy low and hope it rises. In a short position, you sell first and hope it falls. Short traders don’t wait for growth; they watch for gravity.”
He tapped the red-glowing chart.
“So yes — they bet on decline rather than recovery. It’s profitable pessimism with a deadline.”
A student waved her notebook. “Is that the same as futures trading in short things?”
Grabmore beamed. “Excellent connection, my dear analyst-in-training, but not quite the same.”
Two glowing arrows appeared on the board.
“In short selling, you borrow something that already exists and sell it now, hoping to buy it back cheaper later. That’s a bet on what is happening.
In futures trading, you make a contract today to buy or sell something later at a set price — no borrowing, just a promise about what will happen.
So: short selling borrows first and hopes the price falls; futures trading agrees first and hopes the future cooperates.”
A boy in front grinned. “So if I short and use futures, I’m predicting the future of falling?”
Grabmore laughed. “Exactly! That makes you a futuristic pessimist. A dangerous combination — but potentially very well-paid.”
Another hand shot up.
“Professor, who exactly are the short traders? Are they all short? Do they hold stocks just to short them? Can any short Gimme-Gimme become a trader in shortness?”
Grabmore tapped his pointer like a metronome.
“First, no — short traders are not short in height or patience. The word describes their position, not their posture. Second, they rarely own what they sell — they borrow from a broker and hope to repurchase cheaper. Third, not every trader is a short trader; some buy for the long term. And yes, technically anyone with a brokerage account and a stomach for roller-coaster graphs can try it — but beware! If prices rise, losses can outgrow your ambition in seconds.”
He leaned in, voice dropping to a stage whisper.
“So yes, any short Gimme-Gimme could enter the market of shortness… if they enjoy sleepless nights and mathematical regret.”
A fresh ping! sounded. Another lightbulb flickered to life, wobbled, and popped like a soap bubble.
Grabmore sighed fondly. “Ah, enlightenment never lasts long in here. Let’s review the four types of traders before anyone burns out their wattage.”
He spun his pointer, summoning four holographic figures across the stage.
A tall squirrel stacked nuts into gleaming towers.
“The long trader buys first and waits for prices to rise. They believe in growth, patience, and coffee that never runs out.”
Zippy whispered, “So they’re hoarders with hope?”
Flip nodded. “Precisely.”
A raccoon in sunglasses balanced upside-down on a price chart.
“They borrow what they don’t own, sell it, and pray to buy it back cheaper later,” Grabmore explained.
“They thrive on decline. When everyone else panics, they dance — though sometimes it’s more of a fall with style.”
A student scribbled: “So they stand tall by letting everything else fall?”
“Exactly!” said Grabmore. “Poetic and slightly alarming.”
A robot appeared, wrapped in insurance forms and parachutes.
“The hedger hates surprises. They take positions to protect themselves from loss — professional worriers with spreadsheets for souls.”
A student called out, “So they carry twelve umbrellas just in case?”
“Correct,” Grabmore said. “And it still never rains.”
A fox in a sequined coat rolled golden dice across the holo-floor.
“The speculator trades for thrill and fortune. They predict price swings through confidence or caffeine. When they win, they throw parties; when they lose, they call it ‘research.’ The market calls them risky. I call them unemployed between opportunities.”
Grabmore folded his hands behind his back.
“So we have the optimist, the acrobat, the worrier, and the gambler.
Each sees the same market through different eyes:
the long trader dreams of growth, the short bets on collapse, the hedger fears both, and the speculator flips a coin between them.”
He smiled as the class laughed.
“In truth, every trader is a little of all four — even you, dear Gimme-Gimme. Though judging by your lightbulb, you may be short on voltage.”
The class howled.
Zippy leaned to Flip. “So if you’re short, you kneel; if you’re long, you stand; if you’re hedging, you crawl; and if you’re speculating, you jump?”
Flip nodded. “Exactly. Finance is basically gymnastics with charts.”
Grabmore snapped his pointer closed. “Splendid summary, Mr. Flip! You pass — with compound interest!”
A faint ping! sounded again, and another Gimme-Gimme’s holographic lightbulb flickered above his head. It popped with a tiny poof of glitter.
“Professor!” he blurted. “Wait—does short mean the time you hold onto a share? Like, short time equals short trade?”
Grabmore’s eyes sparkled. “Aha! Enlightenment—brief but bright!” he said.
He twirled his laser pointer like a drum major’s baton. “That, my dear Gimme-Gimme, is almost correct. A short trade often is held for a shorter time, but the word short does not mean quick. It means the trader has sold something they do not truly own.”
He tapped the glowing chart, and a raccoon hologram appeared clinging to a vanishing bar of light.
“They are short of shares, not short on patience. Though,” he added with a grin, “many of them become both.”
The class laughed, and another lightbulb blinked uncertainly before exploding in confetti.
Zippy leaned to Flip.
“So being short doesn’t mean you trade fast—it just means you’re missing something?”
Flip nodded. “Exactly. Like Zippy’s attention span during math class.”
Zippy squinted. “Statistically unfair but probably true.”
Grabmore turned back to the room. “So remember, students: short is a position, not a stopwatch. It’s not how long you hold on—it’s what you owe back.”
A third lightbulb flickered on—then wobbled uncertainly above a Gimme-Gimme’s head before drifting sideways like a confused balloon.
The student raised his hand.
“Professor, if it’s not about height or time, then why call it short at all? Why not call it… Albert? Or Boswel? Or something less depressing?”
The class snorted. Even Flip looked up from his datapad.
Grabmore twirled his laser pointer like a rapier.
“An excellent philosophical protest, my dear word-reformer! But alas, the term short predates our naming creativity. In the old market tongues, being ‘short’ meant you were short of delivery—you sold what you did not yet possess. The accountants thought it sounded tidy.”
A lightbulb flickered on and off above another Gimme-Gimme’s head, blinking like the twin moons on a quick date night.
The student stood up, balancing nervously on a pile of shiny nuts.
“Professor,” he began earnestly, “so if nuts plus Gimme-Gimmes plus Yesme-Yesmes make a trader — even if you’re standing on nuts because you’re short — then taller nut-standers don’t trade their nuts into the future, right? So that makes short nuts long?”
The class froze.
Flip actually blinked.
Zippy whispered, “I think he just invented calculus.”
Grabmore Yield didn’t miss a beat. He straightened his tie, tapped his pointer twice, and said with complete sincerity,
“My dear market philosopher, that is a profoundly nutty observation.”
He pointed to the nut pyramid under the student’s feet.
“In your example, the short trader is indeed standing on borrowed nuts — an elevated but unstable position. Meanwhile, the long trader stands tall without the nuts, because their confidence does the lifting.”
He paused, pacing dramatically.
“So yes — in your logic, short nuts could become long… but only if gravity agrees and snacks stay affordable!”
Zippy nodded gravely. “So the real trick is not falling off your borrowed nuts.”
Flip sighed. “Statistically impossible.”
The class erupted in laughter.
Grabmore twirled his laser pointer one last time.
“And that, students, concludes today’s moral: whether long or short, never balance your future on borrowed nuts!
He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Had they called it Alberting, imagine the confusion. ‘The market Alberted today’ would never have caught on.”
Laughter rippled through the hall.
Zippy whispered, “I’d still rather lose money Alberting than shorting. Sounds friendlier.”
Flip replied without looking up, “Statistically identical results. Slightly more polite.”
Grabmore smiled. “So remember, class: names in finance are rarely flattering. They are chosen by history, not happiness. Which is why economists don’t get invited to parties.
PING. PONG. PING.
The classroom lights flickered like they’d just remembered something urgent.
The intercom crackled, cutting through Professor Grabmore’s final sentence.
“Attention hungry Gimme-Gimmes — due to a sudden uptick in short nuts by tall nuts, the system reports… no nuts.”
A pause.
Static.
“Lunch is now pizza. Repeat: lunch is pizza. Do not wait for future nuts. Futures are cancelled.”
Half the class cheered.
The other half fainted.
Grabmore sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Well,” he muttered, “that’s one way to end a lecture on market instability.”
From the back row, a voice whispered, “So… short nuts make tall profits?”
Another replied, “Only until they fall.”
The intercom pinged one last time — ping-pong-ping! — then went dead.
Outside, the hallway erupted in a stampede of snack traders and rumor-shouters.
Grabmore dropped his pointer and looked at the ceiling.
“Class dismissed,” he said softly. “Reality has joined the curriculum.
CHAPTER 2: MARTIAN BRANCH
Outside the Galactic Exchange, the Martian sky dimmed—not from clouds, but from pigeons.
Millions circled Trafalgar Square (Mars Branch), cooing like broken credit alerts.
They weren’t normal birds.
They were Delivery Pigeons 2.0—each trained to drop micro-contracts on target, every splat a legal settlement.
Today, they had stopped.
Lady Liquidity clutched her diamond calculator.
“The pigeons have stopped pooping! That means no contracts! The market can’t settle!”
Flip adjusted his visor.
“Elementary, my dear Zippy. Someone’s making money from the pigeons’ pause.”
Zippy grinned.
“Brilliant deduction, my dear Flippy. You mean—they’re betting the birds won’t drop?”
He pointed at a flashing billboard:
HOT TIP OF THE DAY — SHORT THE POOP!
Every trader in the plaza wore a gleaming Pooping Hat 9000—a bucket built to catch the daily droppings of wealth.
When the strike began, the hats stayed spotless.
And spotless meant worthless.
Professor Grabmore Yield, guest-commentating on the exchange feed, shouted,
“Marvelous! The first Clean-Hat Crash! Whoever sold those hats short just made a fortune!”
Flip blinked. “Short?”
Zippy flipped a hat upside down.
“Easy. You borrow hats, sell them while everyone thinks pigeons will poop forever.
Then, when no poop comes, the price drops—you buy the hats back cheap. That’s shorting in a nutshell.”
A nervous coo trembled overhead.
One pigeon finally cracked under pressure and released the tiniest pffft of rebellion.
The crowd gasped.
The strike ended instantly.
A glittering blizzard of contracts and feathers rained from the sky.
Clean-hat traders screamed. Prices flipped.
Zippy ducked as a contract smacked his snout.
“See? They bet on no poop—then the poop arrived. Classic short squeeze!”
Flip wiped his glasses. “Gravity has never been so literal.”
They said pigeons would always poop.
They said it on talk shows, in classrooms, in bedtime stories.
Economists in silver robes declared,
“Pigeon output has never fallen in recorded history. Poop is forever.”
Families invested in Poop Trust Funds.
Cities budgeted by the ton.
The smell of stability filled the air.
Then one sly fox looked up from his cracked calculator and whispered,
“What if they stop?”
That fox was Mr Dabble-in Inequity Esquire—financier, cynic, and professional doubter.
He didn’t argue; he bet.
On the UT Exchange, he wrote one note:
During the next lunar quarter, pigeons will not poop.
Everyone laughed—until he bought all the notes, all the printers, and the air rights above the exchange for his coal-fired, triple-decker jumbo jet,
a flying vault dragging trailers of polished nuts that clanked like treasure chests in orbit.
When reporters asked why, he smiled through his monocle.
“Because certainty,” he said, “is the easiest thing to drop—right before it falls.”
The next morning, billions of pigeons assembled for migration over Trafalgar Square (Mars Branch)—and froze.
Still. Silent. Constipated by choice.
The world gasped.
Markets froze.
Tickers convulsed.
Across every channel the headline scrolled:
PIGEONS PAUSE — MARKET PANICS
Traders hurled their spotless hats.
Analysts fainted.
A janitor sold tissues for triple.
High above, Dabble-in’s jumbo jet prowled through crimson smog, engines coughing dark clouds that smelled of melted coins.
Gold letters glared across its hull:
PROFIT ON PRINCIPLE
Lightning zig-zagged through soot like bad credit hunting a signature.
Trailing behind, the jet’s mega-banner boomed:
“SELL HIGH, DUCK LOW, AND ALWAYS LAND ON YOUR PROFIT!”
Zippy squinted up.
“Now that’s an investor with air cover.”
Flip groaned.
“Technically, he’s cloud-seeding the market.”
As if on cue, the pigeons’ bellies lit up, projecting tiny holo-ads:
BUY BLING-BERRIES — 100% SHADOW-APPROVED!
Lady Liquidity shrieked, “They’ve gone in-chat algorithmic! They’re posting instead of pooping!”
Zippy sighed. “So the market’s rising on reposts now?”
Flip deadpanned, “Yes. It’s influencer inflation.”
Then, with a thunderous squawk, the pigeons dove, releasing billions of glowing contracts.
The storm hit like fireworks and fertilizer combined.
Zippy ducked behind a nut cart.
“Shorts up, hats down—this market’s going nuts!”
Among the chaos, Sherlock Zippy caught a feather spinning in mid-air.
Flippy Holmes examined it.
“So he bet they’d fail—and when they did, he bought the fall.”
Zippy nodded.
“It’s not just about poop, Flip. It’s about timing the drop—and knowing when gravity pays dividends.”
The pigeons, gloriously unblocked, unleashed their backlog on the plaza.
Markets flipped again.
Dabble-in’s fortune tripled before lunch.
Zippy wiped his cape clean.
“Elementary,” he said. “Never trust eternal poop—and always check which way the nuts are rolling.”
The storm of falling contracts had barely cleared when a shimmer cut through the smoke.
A sleek hover-limo slinked along the skyline, engine humming like a lazy predator.
Flip glanced up. “Zippy… that’s not a bird.”
Zippy narrowed his eyes. “Nope. That’s Claw-Catdaddy—and he’s grinning wider than inflation before a burst.”
Through the haze, they saw him lounging on the open deck: velvet suit, mirror shades, and a single diamond-nut-encrusted fang catching the red light.
Each time he smirked, nearby price charts sagged three percent.
He toyed with a gold chain shaped like a stock graph.
“One smirk,” Zippy muttered, “and inflation deflates. Classic Catdaddy maneuver.”
Flip tapped his scanner. “Confirmed. His bling’s transmitting market data. He’s shorting sparkle futures.”
Zippy groaned. “We’ve been tailed… by the tale.”
A thin mechanical tail coiled from the limo’s rear, etched with glowing letters:
PROPERTY OF THE GIMMEST CORP.
Flip raised an eyebrow. “So the fox runs the show, the pigeons crash the market, and the cat cleans up the nuts.”
Zippy cracked his knuckles. “Then we claw our way up the ladder. Follow the claws—oops, clues.”
The limo’s exhaust blew a gust so strong the street banners inverted.
Traders stumbled, hats flipped, and one shouted, “Hold your shorts!”
Zippy grabbed Flip’s arm.
“Come on, Inspector! If Catdaddy’s the tail, then the nut trail ends with him.”
They darted through a maze of toppled kiosks and skidding nut carts.
Overhead, Catdaddy’s limo dove low, its speakers purring,
“Keep calm, kittens. It’s just a minor correction… brought to you by Bling-Berries, the snack of stable value.”
Flip shouted over the wind, “He’s broadcasting ads again!”
Zippy vaulted onto a delivery drone. “Then we broadcast justice!”
They soared after the limo, weaving between holo-billboards flashing BUY LOW, GLOW HIGH and STAY SHORT, SHINE LONG.
Below, the trading floor erupted—every popper bursting like champagne corks, confetti spelling out:
MARKET POP COMPLETE. PLEASE REBOOT YOUR CONFIDENCE.
Zippy grinned into the chaos.
“Follow that cat, Flip! Before the next pop turns the whole exchange into soup!”
Flip adjusted his tie mid-air.
“I am following, Inspector. Just… statistically, we are not built for flight.”
Zippy winked. “That’s why we’re short on wings—but long on guts.”
The drone shot upward, chasing the glitter trail of Catdaddy’s fang through the storm.
Below them, the market glimmered like spilled soda—sticky, sweet, and absolutely out of control.
The sky above Mars Trafalgar Square flickered like a fried stock ticker.
Zippy and Flip clung to the tail of Catdaddy’s jumbo jet as it rose through a thunderstorm of glowing contracts and loose nuts.
Below, the plaza spun like a roulette wheel of panic.
Above, the words PROFIT ON PRINCIPLE shimmered across the jet’s hull in molten gold.
Trailing behind: a convoy of nut-loaded trailers pumping smoke thick enough to choke an index fund.
Zippy yelled over the roar, “Flip! His engines are coal-fired with credit defaults!”
Flip squinted. “And his exhaust smells like pure inflation.”
A nut flew past, stamped NON-FUNGIBLE AND PROUD.
They crawled along the fuselage toward an open hatch.
Inside, the air hummed with static and greed.
Rows of glowing glass orbs lined the cabin.
Each orb inflated, shimmered, then burst with a wet pop, spraying holographic confetti that read:
MARKET UP 12%! TRUST THE AIR!
Zippy ducked. “Is that… soap?”
Flip wiped his goggles. “Worse. It’s leveraged optimism.”
At the center of the room stood the Inflation Popper—a brass contraption with spinning dials and a bubble wand the size of a wind turbine.
Each time it exhaled, a new bubble floated up with messages like:
- BUY HIGH, SELL NEVER!
- NUTS RISE FOREVER!
- NOW WITH EXTRA CONFIDENCE!
Claw-Catdaddy lounged beside it in a throne made of golden nut shells, swirling a drink that glittered suspiciously.
“Welcome to the clouds, my little traders,” he purred.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Every bubble a promise. Every pop… a profit.”
Zippy pointed at the machine.
“You’re inflating the market!”
Catdaddy smirked, flashing his diamond-nut fang.
“Correction, Inspector. I’m air-conditioning it.”
He pressed a switch. The Inflation Popper roared louder, bubbles doubling in size.
One burst against the ceiling, spraying the word STIMULUS in neon letters.
Flip steadied himself. “You’re creating artificial growth!”
Catdaddy chuckled. “Of course I am! Natural growth is so last century.”
The jet trembled as a massive bubble formed in the main cabin, shimmering with every currency symbol in the galaxy.
It expanded until Zippy could see his reflection in its surface—distorted, stretched, uncertain.
“Flip,” Zippy said, “how much air can one bubble hold before it pops?”
Flip adjusted his glasses. “Statistically? All of it… right before none of it.”
Catdaddy leaned in, whispering, “That’s the beauty of it, boys. When it bursts, the fall makes the shorts rich—and the rich fall on cushions made of nuts.”
The machine beeped.
Warning lights blinked: INFLATION PRESSURE MAXIMUM.
Zippy lunged for the lever.
“Not today, Catdaddy! Gravity always wins!”
He pulled.
The Popper shrieked.
The great bubble trembled, wobbled, and—
💥 POP!
A shockwave of air and nut confetti ripped through the cabin.
The trailers broke loose, scattering across the Martian skyline like golden meteors.
Catdaddy’s diamond fang glinted once in the blast before vanishing into the glitter storm.
Zippy and Flip clung to a loose cable as the jet spiraled downward through the falling nuts.
Flip shouted, “We’re falling faster than market confidence!”
Zippy grinned through the chaos. “Then we’re right on trend!”
They crash-landed on a billboard flashing REINVEST RESPONSIBLY and slid to a halt in a heap of roasted almonds.
Zippy coughed. “Lesson of the day?”
Flip replied, dusting off his tie.
“Hot air makes things rise. Wisdom keeps you grounded.”
Zippy nodded. “And short traders… better pack parachutes.
The Martian dawn rose through a haze of nut dust and melted credit.
The once-glorious Galactic Exchange lay in glittering ruins—half ticker, half toaster oven.
Trading drones wandered the plaza in circles, repeating,
“Please remain solvent. Confidence will resume shortly.”
Zippy groaned, pulling a peanut shell off his helmet.
“Flip,” he said, coughing out gold flakes, “remind me never to short oxygen again.”
Flip checked his datapad, which now smoked faintly.
“Noted. Also, we appear to be trending under ‘#MarketPopFails’.”
All around them, traders sifted through the wreckage—gathering burnt nuts, broken hats, and shredded receipts.
One sighed, “They told us it was air-tight investing.”
Another muttered, “Turns out it was just… air.”
Zippy picked up a cracked billboard that still blinked:
BUY CONFIDENCE — LIMITED SUPPLY!
He smirked. “Guess we reached the limit.”
Then he saw it—half-buried under a pile of roasted almonds.
A single nut.
Not glowing, not gold, just smooth obsidian black, with faint circuitry etched across the shell.
It pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
Flip leaned closer. “That’s no ordinary nut.”
Zippy brushed it off. “Looks like the last honest investment.”
The nut clicked. A hologram projected upward—lines of encrypted data spinning in mid-air until they formed three words:
PROPERTY OF THE GIMMEST.
Flip’s fur bristled. “The Dastardly Shadow…”
Zippy nodded. “The fox behind the fall.”
The hologram shifted again, revealing a galactic map.
At its center, a glowing symbol: THE TREE-TRUNK VAULT—a secret reserve rumored to hold every nut ever traded.
Coordinates flickered beneath.
Zippy clenched his paw. “That’s our next stop.”
Flip tilted his head. “To recover the nuts?”
Zippy grinned. “To find out who’s hoarding the future.”
A news drone buzzed overhead, announcing,
“BREAKING: GOVERNMENT DECLARES ECONOMIC REBOOT — PLEASE TURN YOUR MARKETS OFF AND BACK ON AGAIN.”
Zippy slipped the coded nut into his pocket.
“Too late. This system’s due for a full reinstall.”
Flip sighed. “And statistically, we’re the unpaid tech support.”
They turned toward the rising sun, their silhouettes cutting through the smoke.
Behind them, the ruined exchange flickered once more—then powered down with a weary beep.
Zippy looked back and muttered,
“End of lesson one: what goes up, pops down.”
Flip adjusted his tie.
“And lesson two?”
Zippy smirked.
“Never trust a glowing nut without reading the terms and conditions.”
Cue music: slow kazoo remix of “Fly Me to the Moon.”
CHAPTER 3: THE TREE-TRUNK VAULT
The Tree-Trunk Vault wasn’t built — it had grown.
A colossal oak of ironwood and circuitry rose from the Martian bedrock, its roots tangled around mountains of credit and code.
Every nut, coin, and crypto-crumb in the known galaxy passed through its glowing rings of bark at least once.
Zippy and Flip crouched behind a crate marked “Organic-Certified Currency.”
Their badges read: NUT-FLIX EXPRESS — FAST, FRESH, FUNDED.
Flip whispered, “According to my tracker, the vault’s core houses every recorded transaction since fiscal dawn.”
Zippy grinned. “So basically, one giant tree full of debt squirrels?”
“Precisely,” Flip muttered. “And one fox at the top branch.”
They skated along a conveyor belt carrying glowing nuts labeled DEBT, INTEREST, and INFLATION PREMIUM.
Each nut pulsed like a heartbeat — too fast, too hot.
Ahead, guards in bark armor chanted the vault’s motto:
“Grow the wealth, prune the poor!”
Zippy winced. “Creepy gardening club.”
They slipped into the central chamber: a hollow trunk glowing with golden pods, each filled with spinning figures — profits, losses, promises.
And in the middle, upon a throne of credit slips, lounged THE GIMMEST, tail curled like a question mark.
“Ah,” purred the fox, “the raccoon and his statistician. You seek truth?”
“Snacks,” Zippy said honestly.
The Gimmest smiled. “Then chew on this: inflation.”
He held up a nut swirling with golden storms. “Every price, every rise — powered by belief. Stop believing, and the system deflates.”
Flip frowned. “Belief isn’t currency.”
“Tell that,” the fox replied, “to anyone with a mortgage.”
He cracked the nut open.
A shockwave of air blasted through the vault — papers flew, alarms wailed, and Zippy and Flip tumbled backward on a gust of evaporating value.
When the air settled, the fox was gone — only his whisper lingered:
“To control inflation… you must first understand it.”
Spotlights flared.
Professor Grabmore Yield strutted onto the stage, cape glittering with credit-chip sequins.
The amphitheatre of Gimme-Gimmes roared with excitement.
At the back sat Zippy and Flip, still undercover — and still picking bark splinters out of their fur.
Grabmore slammed a glowing nut on the desk.
“Students!” he bellowed. “Today we tackle the monster that hides in every wallet — Inflation!”
He pointed his laser pointer at the nut.
It projected a shimmering city skyline where prices floated like balloons.
“Inflation,” he declared, “is the rate at which the cost of everything — snacks, gas, housing, hope — rises. The higher it climbs, the less your money buys!”
A Gimme-Gimme in the front row gasped. “You mean my lunch costs more because of a… monster?”
Grabmore spun dramatically. “Indeed! A beast of invisible hunger. Each year, it eats your spending power!”
Zippy leaned toward Flip. “Sounds like me after midnight.”
“Shh,” Flip whispered, “we’re blending in.”
Grabmore continued, pacing like a general.
“When inflation grows, your currency shrinks. Last year, this nut could buy two Choco-Bars. This year, one. Next year, you’ll be paying interest just to lick the wrapper!”
The crowd groaned.
“Now,” he said, “to stop the monster, governments use two mighty weapons: monetary policy and fiscal policy!”
He stabbed the air with his laser.
“Monetary policy means the central nut bank raises interest rates! That makes borrowing expensive. Fewer nut loans, less spending!”
Zippy whispered, “Translation: snack famine.”
“Fiscal policy,” Grabmore thundered, “means raising taxes and cutting spending — fewer nuts in circulation, fewer prices climbing!”
Flip scribbled quietly: Nuts down = inflation down.
Grabmore’s cape whooshed as he turned.
“But beware! Raise rates too high, and growth collapses! Businesses shrivel! Jobs vanish! That, my students, is called—”
He slammed his hand on the nut.
“Recession!”
A hush fell.
Then Zippy whispered, “So… that’s when your wallet needs therapy?”
The class burst into laughter.
Grabmore shot them a grin. “Exactly, Mr. Gimme-Gimme. Economic therapy! But we have hope—economic zones! Create more goods, more jobs, more competition, and prices fall naturally!”
He snapped his fingers.
A holographic bazaar bloomed above the class — stalls overflowing with shiny nuts, fruit, and gadgets.
“See? More supply, lower prices!”
Zippy raised a paw. “So, if too many prices rise, we add more stalls?”
“Precisely!” said Grabmore. “The market balances itself — like squirrels distributing acorns before winter!”
Flip muttered, “Except squirrels don’t have interest rates.”
“Silence, Mr. Gimme-Gimme,” Grabmore said. “You’re close to understanding.”
A sudden BOOM! echoed overhead.
Ceiling tiles rattled.
Something round and metallic fell from the skylight —
—a Rate Dropper, crashing straight into Zippy’s head.
“OW!” he yelped, clutching his skull.
Flip winced. “You’ve been hit by… falling rates.”
Before the class could recover, a second explosion erupted —
a massive PFFFFFFT! as balloons labeled MARKET VALUE deflated across the hall.
Grabmore straightened his tie.
“Ah, students — an excellent demonstration. Deflation: when prices fall, and enthusiasm follows.”
Zippy blinked, dazed. “Professor… everything’s going down.”
“Exactly!” Grabmore said cheerfully. “Which means your grades just went up!”
The class howled with laughter.
As the lights dimmed, confetti drifted through the air — half feathers, half financial documents.
On one glowing scrap, Flip read the words aloud:
“THE GIMMEST ADJUSTS THE RATE.”
He groaned. “He’s still out there, isn’t he?”
Zippy nodded, tightening the bandage around his head. “Yeah. And next time, I’m wearing a helmet made of bonds.
A faint ping! broke the silence.
Another Gimme-Gimme student’s lightbulb flickered on overhead, then popped like an over-priced popcorn kernel.
“Professor Grabmore!” the student blurted. “If the cost of living inflated, who was actually blowing it up? And is that good for shorts on nuts?”
The room stirred. A few students checked their lunch credits nervously.
Grabmore clasped his hands behind his back.
“An excellent combustion of curiosity!” he said. “You see, prices don’t rise by accident—they rise because someone, somewhere, keeps adding hot air.”
He tapped the holo-board. It flashed to life with a cartoon balloon labeled COST OF LIVING, swelling with each hiss of glowing currency.
“When everyone spends faster than goods can be made, the air builds up. That’s called demand inflation—too many nuts chasing too few snacks.”
Zippy whispered across the aisle, “Translation: snack panic.”
Flip nodded. “Classic over-chewing of available assets.”
Grabmore swiveled his laser pointer toward the ceiling. “Then comes cost inflation—when producers raise prices because their own supplies cost more. Energy, transport, squirrel labor, fancy packaging. Each puff makes the balloon bigger.”
A Gimme-Gimme gasped. “So who’s holding the pump?”
Grabmore smiled, teeth gleaming like polished coins. “Everyone. Consumers, companies, governments—each thinks their puff is harmless until someone passes out.”
The balloon on the screen began to wobble. Numbers blinked.
“Now, short traders…” Grabmore paused dramatically, “…love this stage. They bet the balloon will burst before the party ends. If they’re right, they profit. If not—”
The holo-balloon popped. A spray of digital feathers rained down.
“—they get confetti and regret.”
Zippy ducked as one feather hit his nose.
“So… shorts win when belief pops?”
Grabmore nodded. “Correct. The moment faith deflates, fortunes follow.”
Another student raised a paw.
“But professor, if everything keeps rising, can’t we just make more money to keep up?”
Grabmore sighed. “That, young Gimme-Gimme, is like trying to fight fire by printing matches.”
The class laughed nervously.
Flip whispered, “Accurate, statistically incendiary.”
Zippy grinned. “And slightly toasted.”
The professor snapped his fingers, resetting the board.
“Remember this: the cost of living rises because no one wants to stop blowing first. The wise trader knows when to exhale.”
Another lightbulb flicked on—then immediately dimmed.
Grabmore pointed. “That, my students, is monetary fatigue.
A lightbulb above a Gimme-Gimme’s desk started flickering like it was trying to signal distress.
The student squinted up, eyes wide. “Professor! Why is the monetary so fatigued? What was it doing before it got tired—counting its nuts all night? Floating around before bouncing down, totally deflated?”
The class burst into laughter.
Professor Grabmore Yield clasped his paws theatrically.
“Ah, the eternal question of weary wealth! Allow me to illuminate.”
He snapped his laser pointer, and a glowing coin appeared on the holo-board — jogging on a treadmill labeled CIRCULATION RATE.
“Money,” he began, “doesn’t sleep. It races from claw to claw, buying, borrowing, lending, paying, and occasionally tripping over interest rates. When we push it too hard — when every trader, banker, and nut-loaner wants a piece — it becomes tired. That is monetary fatigue.”
The holo-coin started panting, sweat dripping in the shape of shrinking zeros.
Zippy leaned to Flip. “So, money’s basically doing cardio without snacks?”
Flip nodded. “Statistically accurate. And nutritionally disastrous.”
Grabmore continued, pacing.
“When inflation runs hot, we print and spend faster. The coin sprints. Then comes exhaustion — its value falls, its spirit breaks, and before you know it, your credit balance is asking for a vacation.”
The holographic coin face-planted into a pile of receipts. A tiny sign blinked: ‘CURRENTLY UNDERVALUED.’
A student raised a paw.
“So, Professor, can’t we just feed it more nuts to wake it up?”
Grabmore smiled. “Ah, that’s the classic mistake! Feeding tired money with more money is like pouring coffee into a volcano. It only delays the eruption.”
Another lightbulb pinged on above a second student’s head.
“Then how do we make it rest, sir?”
“Simple,” said Grabmore. “We raise interest rates — force money to slow down, sit still, and think about what it’s done. That’s monetary time-out.”
Zippy muttered, “So the central nutbank’s basically a babysitter with spreadsheets.”
Flip scribbled, “Correction: an exhausted babysitter.”
Grabmore twirled his cape. “Exactly! The economy naps, spending cools, and when money wakes, it’s refreshed—lighter, slower, saner.”
He looked at the flickering bulb above the first student.
“And when even the light gives up,” he said, gesturing as it dimmed to darkness, “that, my bright ones, is not failure. That is fiscal bedtime.”
The students erupted in applause. Zippy raised his paw weakly.
“Professor, if I start yawning during this nap… does that make me a bondholder?”
Grabmore grinned. “Only if you snore in compound interest.
Another lightbulb flickered to life, brighter than the rest.
A Gimme-Gimme leaned forward, face glowing with discovery.
“Professor!” the student blurted. “So… big nuts, small nuts — even old nuts — can rise when stimulated, right? And flop when the shorts get it right?”
The room erupted in laughter.
Professor Grabmore Yield froze mid-stride, one ear twitching, then slowly turned toward the class.
“Ahem. Economically speaking—yes,” he said, adjusting his monocle with great dignity. “All nuts are subject to the forces of the market: supply, demand, and questionable timing.”
He clicked his laser pointer.
A chart appeared showing three animated nuts bouncing at different speeds.
“Observe! When markets are stimulated—by spending, speculation, or excessive optimism—nuts rise. Prices inflate. Confidence soars.”
He tapped the largest nut, which expanded like a balloon and began floating toward the ceiling.
“But when traders sense over-ripeness—” he gestured sharply “—the shorts strike!”
The nut popped with a satisfying pffft! and dropped to the floor.
Zippy whispered to Flip, “So short traders basically wait for over-puffed nuts?”
Flip nodded. “Precisely. They profit from gravity.”
Grabmore twirled his pointer dramatically.
“Indeed! When stimulation fades and demand cools, prices fall. The big nuts deflate, the small nuts stabilize, and the smart nuts hide until the next fiscal spring.”
A student raised a paw. “So is it bad when everything goes up?”
Grabmore grinned. “Not if you got in early and know when to climb down. The danger is staying inflated too long—nature always corrects the over-excited.”
The holo-nuts all bounced once more and then settled into neat stacks labeled STABLE VALUE.
Grabmore concluded, “Class, remember: in every economy, nuts rise and fall—but wisdom is knowing when to hold, when to fold, and when to keep your portfolio shelled.”
Zippy whispered, “So the market’s just a circus of bouncing snacks?”
Flip replied, “Statistically consistent with current trends.”
The lightbulb above them buzzed, flickered, and went dark—clearly exhausted by enlightenment
CHAPTER 4: NUTCOIN TREE
A fresh ping! snapped across the room.
Another Gimme-Gimme’s lightbulb flared so bright it nearly shorted the ceiling fan.
“Professor Grabmore!” the student shouted. “If the money’s so tired, why don’t we just print more nutcoins and give everyone extra snacks?”
The class gasped. Someone whispered, “He said the forbidden fiscal phrase.”
Grabmore froze mid-stride, eyes glinting like a market crash in progress.
“Ah,” he said, voice trembling with mock reverence, “the eternal dream — free nuts for all!”
He flicked his pointer. The holo-board burst into life, showing a conveyor belt spewing out shiny new nutcoins by the thousands.
Each bore the smiling face of Lady Liquidity.
“At first,” Grabmore explained, “everyone feels rich. There’s more money! More shiny nutcoins! Hooray!”
The class cheered.
“But then,” he continued, pacing, “the snacks don’t multiply — only the money does.”
He waved a paw, and the holographic vending machine filled with blinking SOLD OUT signs.
“Now you’ve got too many nutcoins chasing too few snacks. Prices rise. That’s inflation on jet fuel.”
Zippy raised a paw. “So, basically, we flooded the nut market with… optimism?”
Flip scribbled, “Statistically correct. Hype-to-supply ratio exceeds reality.”
Grabmore spun toward the board again. “Soon, everyone demands more nutcoins to keep up with prices, so the government prints faster. The presses heat up.”
The holo-room shimmered with the sound of frantic printing. Coins flew out like popcorn.
One smacked Zippy on the forehead.
“Ow!” he yelped. “That one’s still warm!”
“Hot money,” said Flip dryly. “Literal velocity of currency.”
Grabmore grinned. “Exactly! When printing runs wild, value melts. The nutcoin itself inflates—until one day…”
He clapped. The holo-machine exploded in a puff of glittering dust.
“…your currency buys less than the paper it’s printed on. A trillion-nut bill, worth one stale snack.”
The students groaned.
A brave Gimme-Gimme raised a paw. “So we can’t just print our way out of tired money?”
“Precisely!” thundered Grabmore. “You can’t fix exhaustion by cloning it!”
Zippy tilted his head. “But it feels good at first.”
Grabmore smirked. “Ah, yes—just like eating all your profits before they mature.”
Flip nudged Zippy. “Short-term gain, long-term burp.”
Grabmore swept his cape dramatically.
“Class, remember: printing more money doesn’t make wealth. It makes mirages. The only thing that truly multiplies is confusion.”
He jabbed his pointer toward the flickering lightbulb above the student.
“And as for you, bright one—your idea has potential. Dangerous potential. That’s how most recessions start.”
The bulb fizzled, then dimmed to a sheepish glow.
Zippy whispered, “So, printing nutcoins is like feeding candy to a hamster on a treadmill?”
Flip nodded. “Correct. It runs faster until the cage melts.”
Grabmore clasped his hands and bowed.
“And that, my dear economists, concludes today’s fiscal illusion: how to make everyone rich—until lunchtime.
A fresh ping! snapped across the room.
Another Gimme-Gimme’s lightbulb flared so bright it nearly shorted the ceiling fan.
“Professor Grabmore!” the student shouted. “If the money’s so tired, why don’t we just print more nutcoins and give everyone extra snacks?”
The class gasped. Someone whispered, “He said the forbidden fiscal phrase.”
Grabmore froze mid-stride, eyes glinting like a market crash in progress.
“Ah,” he said, voice trembling with mock reverence, “the eternal dream — free nuts for all!”
He flicked his pointer. The holo-board burst into life, showing a conveyor belt spewing out shiny new nutcoins by the thousands.
Each bore the smiling face of Lady Liquidity.
“At first,” Grabmore explained, “everyone feels rich. There’s more money! More shiny nutcoins! Hooray!”
The class cheered.
“But then,” he continued, pacing, “the snacks don’t multiply — only the money does.”
He waved a paw, and the holographic vending machine filled with blinking SOLD OUT signs.
“Now you’ve got too many nutcoins chasing too few snacks. Prices rise. That’s inflation on jet fuel.”
Zippy raised a paw. “So, basically, we flooded the nut market with… optimism?”
Flip scribbled, “Statistically correct. Hype-to-supply ratio exceeds reality.”
Grabmore spun toward the board again. “Soon, everyone demands more nutcoins to keep up with prices, so the government prints faster. The presses heat up.”
The holo-room shimmered with the sound of frantic printing. Coins flew out like popcorn.
One smacked Zippy on the forehead.
“Ow!” he yelped. “That one’s still warm!”
“Hot money,” said Flip dryly. “Literal velocity of currency.”
Grabmore grinned. “Exactly! When printing runs wild, value melts. The nutcoin itself inflates—until one day…”
He clapped. The holo-machine exploded in a puff of glittering dust.
“…your currency buys less than the paper it’s printed on. A trillion-nut bill, worth one stale snack.”
The students groaned.
A brave Gimme-Gimme raised a paw. “So we can’t just print our way out of tired money?”
“Precisely!” thundered Grabmore. “You can’t fix exhaustion by cloning it!”
Zippy tilted his head. “But it feels good at first.”
Grabmore smirked. “Ah, yes—just like eating all your profits before they mature.”
Flip nudged Zippy. “Short-term gain, long-term burp.”
Grabmore swept his cape dramatically.
“Class, remember: printing more money doesn’t make wealth. It makes mirages. The only thing that truly multiplies is confusion.”
He jabbed his pointer toward the flickering lightbulb above the student.
“And as for you, bright one—your idea has potential. Dangerous potential. That’s how most recessions start.”
The bulb fizzled, then dimmed to a sheepish glow.
Zippy whispered, “So, printing nutcoins is like feeding candy to a hamster on a treadmill?”
Flip nodded. “Correct. It runs faster until the cage melts.”
Grabmore clasped his hands and bowed.
“And that, my dear economists, concludes today’s fiscal illusion: how to make everyone rich—until lunchtime.
A new ping! echoed through the room as another Gimme-Gimme lightbulb flashed on like it had just solved world hunger.
“Professor!” the student cried. “So—does that mean the Central Nutbank sells the nutdebt as a bond?”
The class turned. Someone dropped a snack in awe.
Grabmore Yield clasped his paws dramatically.
“Ah-ha! The scent of understanding is in the air — and slightly roasted!”
He spun toward the holo-board. A glowing acorn appeared, wrapped in golden ribbons stamped ‘GOVERNMENT IOU.’
“Behold — the Nutbond!” he declared. “When the Central Nutbank or government needs extra nuts to run the economy, they borrow from investors. In return, they promise to pay those nuts back later with interest! That promise is the bond.”
Zippy raised a paw. “So… they sell debt?”
“Precisely!” said Grabmore. “They sell it neatly packaged and call it investment.”
The holo-acorn sprouted wings and flew toward a line of eager traders.
“Investors buy these nutbonds because they trust the government will repay them. Meanwhile, the government uses those borrowed nuts to build roads, fund schools, or occasionally throw stimulus parties.”
Flip leaned over. “So that’s… borrowing from tomorrow’s snacks to pay for today’s lunch.”
“Statistically elegant,” said Zippy. “And financially indigestion-prone.”
Grabmore nodded.
“When the market is calm, these bonds look shiny and safe. But when inflation rises, investors demand higher interest — more nuts later — because they know today’s nuts will be worth less tomorrow.”
He snapped his claws. The holo-bonds started puffing up like balloons, the label changing to ‘HIGH-YIELD, HIGH-STRESS.’
A student gasped. “So if rates go up, the old nutbonds lose value?”
“Correct again!” said Grabmore. “The new bonds pay better, so old ones look stale. Their price falls — deflation in disguise!”
Zippy blinked. “So even debt can get… shorted?”
Grabmore grinned. “Indeed! Traders can short bonds, betting their value will drop when rates rise. It’s like betting a squirrel will regret hoarding last season’s nuts.”
Flip scribbled in his notebook. “Conclusion: Bonds equal promises. Promises equal stress. Stress equals profit opportunities.”
Grabmore nodded proudly. “Economically poetic, my dear statistician.”
The lightbulb above the student flickered brighter, then dimmed with a soft pffft.
Grabmore pointed. “And that, class, is a perfect simulation of bond maturity — shining for a while, then paying out one final spark.”
Zippy whispered, “So the Nutbank borrows, sells the promise, and hopes no one notices the light’s getting dim?”
Flip smirked. “Exactly. Fiscal fireworks — impressive while they last.”
Grabmore twirled his cape.
“Lesson complete: Bonds keep governments glowing — until they forget to change the bulb.
The lightbulb above a Gimme-Gimme student’s head started flickering like it had just been hit with breaking news.
“Professor!” he blurted out. “So, if the interest rates on nuts are low, and I borrowed from the Tree-Trunk Vault, and then inflation rises—and the tree suddenly raises the rates on nuts—am I one of the signs the short nut trader saw coming?”
The class turned in unison.
Grabmore Yield froze, eyes gleaming with theatrical pride.
“Sweet compound curiosity!” he declared. “You’ve just connected the sacred triangle of terror: Borrowing, Inflation, and Interest Rates!”
He flicked his pointer toward the holo-board.
Three giant glowing nuts appeared, orbiting each other like confused planets.
“Let’s review,” said Grabmore. “When interest rates are low, everyone borrows — squirrels, traders, even ambitious trees. Money flows easily, snacks bloom, and everyone thinks they’re rich.”
The holo-scene showed happy squirrels building towers of golden nuts.
“But then—”
He snapped his fingers. The background turned red. Prices began to rise, the towers swaying.
“That’s inflation! Too many nuts, not enough snacks. The Central Tree — our mighty Nutbank — must step in to slow it down.”
The largest nut in the holo-tree sprouted a frown and stamped a sign: INTEREST RATES UP!
Grabmore pointed his laser dramatically.
“When the tree raises nut rates, borrowing becomes expensive. The party ends. Those who borrowed at low rates must now repay in a world where nuts are worth less—but cost more to get!”
The holo-raccoon version of Zippy groaned as a pile of IOU acorns toppled over him.
“So yes,” continued Grabmore, “you, my debt-loving Gimme-Gimme, are one of the signs the short nut trader spotted! He saw that low-rate borrowers were everywhere. He guessed the tree would raise rates to fight inflation. When that happened—boom! Debt got heavier, markets stumbled, and his short position soared!”
Zippy nudged Flip.
“So he wasn’t psychic—just observant?”
Flip nodded. “Statistically, yes. Predicting panic before it starts is just organized foresight.”
Grabmore spun, cape flaring.
“Short traders don’t cause storms—they read the clouds first!
They borrow, they bet, they brace for the fall. When rates rise and debt groans, they collect the nuts raining from collapsing branches!”
The holographic vault cracked open, showering the room with glowing IOU-leaves that fluttered down like autumn promises.
A Gimme-Gimme raised a trembling paw.
“So… higher rates hurt borrowers but help the shorts?”
Grabmore grinned. “Precisely! The tree may prune the branches—but the squirrels who saw the shears coming sell their nuts early and live to invest another day.”
Zippy ducked as a holographic acorn whizzed by.
“Professor, one just hit me in the head! Is that… interest pain?”
Flip adjusted his goggles. “Technically: accrued.”
Grabmore raised his paw. “Class dismissed! And remember: never ignore the rustling in the branches—that’s the market warning you to duck before the nuts fall.”
CHAPTER 5: THE TRAIL OF THE TAIL
The classroom still shimmered with the afterglow of exploded nutcharts.
Smoke curled from the holo-board; a single acorn bounced sadly across the floor.
Professor Grabmore Yield adjusted his cape.
“Well, class, I’d call that a successful demonstration of rising rates and falling hopes.”
Zippy and Flip, both sporting fresh bandages and mild debt trauma, exchanged a look.
Flip whispered, “I think the inflation lecture just repossessed my confidence.”
Zippy grinned. “Then it’s time to investigate who’s pulling the strings.”
Grabmore cleared his throat.
“Inspector Zippy. Doctor Flippy. I trust you know your next assignment?”
Zippy nodded. “Follow the scent of profit, track the trail of tail.”
Flip sighed. “Preferably without new head trauma.”
Grabmore flicked them a holographic file stamped TOP NUTCLASSIFIED.
The file unfolded mid-air, revealing two mugshots:
Claw-Catdaddy, feline financier, one gold-fang grin that could melt credit limits.
Barkmaster Bowowdoody, hedge-fund hound with a bark loud enough to move markets.
Grabmore spoke softly.
“Word in the fiscal underworld is that these two are inflating and deflating entire economies — for sport. They call it tail-wag trading.”
Flip adjusted his data monocle.
“Catdaddy’s been shorting snack futures before every price drop.”
Zippy tilted his hat. “And Bowowdoody buys the dip — literally buries it in the backyard until the market barks again.”
Grabmore leaned closer.
“They’re working together now — manipulating nut supply through the Shadow Tree Exchange. Find out how.”
The lights flickered as the bell rang.
Students stampeded out, chattering about snacks, debt, and who still owed whom lunch money.
Zippy cracked his knuckles.
“Alright, Doctor Flippy, time to stretch our investigative assets.”
Flip powered up his pocket ledger drone. “And to remember Rule #1: always verify your source before chasing it.”
They stepped into the corridor — the air thick with chalk dust and conspiracy.
Outside, a holographic news ticker blazed:
“BREAKING: RATES RISE AGAIN — CATDADDY SEEN PURRING AT THE EXCHANGE.”
Zippy smirked.
“There’s our lead. Follow the fang.”
Flip checked his scanner.
“And the scent of over-leveraged dog biscuits.”
From the window, the shadow of a triple-decker coal fired jet streaked across the Martian skyline — coal-smoked letters trailing behind it:
“INFLATION IS A GAME. WE OWN THE BOARD.”
Zippy’s tail twitched.
“Game on.
The Martian dawn glowed bronze over the city’s red-glass towers. Cargo drones hummed through the smog, hauling crates stamped “Nut Futures — Authorized Storage Only.”
Zippy squinted at the skyline.
“Does it look to you like there are fewer nuts on the streets, Flip?”
Flip adjusted his visor scanner. “Confirmed. Supply down thirty-seven percent since last quarter. Somebody’s hoarding.”
They ducked into an alley stacked with empty nut sacks. A digital billboard flashed the day’s headline:
NUT SHORTAGE DEEPENS — GOVERNMENT PROMISES BALANCED BASKET SOON
Zippy frowned. “Balanced basket, my tail. The market’s hollow.”
Flip nodded grimly. “And rumors say those nuts aren’t missing — they’ve migrated.”
A faint roar trembled overhead.
They looked up just in time to see a coal-fired triple-decker jet streak across the sky, towing glittering banners that read:
FREE NUTS! — For Preferred Partners Only!
Nut-shaped confetti rained down — each piece embossed “Corporate Gift Credit — Redeemable Never.”
Zippy scowled. “Corporate jet trailers full of free nuts, and the rest of us can’t afford breakfast. Typical.”
Flip scrolled through the data feed. “Records show a handful of megasquirrels lobbying the Nutbank for NutStax breaks. They get discounted storage and bonus interest just for being big.”
“And the everyday nuters?”
“Paying Nuttax to fund it all.”
They followed the scent of roasted inequality down to the Shadow Market, where traders whispered over glowing acorns and security drones hovered like angry wasps.
A fox in a pinstripe tailcoat leaned against a pillar, flicking a golden nut between his claws.
Zippy hissed. “Catdaddy’s supplier — lobbyist class. Look at that grin.”
Flip opened his field notebook. “So the nuts haven’t vanished. They’ve consolidated. The few pile high; the many scrape crumbs.”
Zippy ducked behind a vending drone. “So that’s the disappearing-nut illusion: not lost, just locked away.”
Flip nodded. “A magician’s trick called ‘upward redistribution.’”
A public-service hologram blinked to life above them:
“KEEP CALM — TRICKLE-DOWN SNACKONOMICS WORKS.”
Zippy groaned. “Sure it does. By the time it trickles, it’s stale.”
He glanced down the street where a delivery truck marked “NutRelief Aid — Do Not Open Until Election” sped away under escort.
“Flip,” he said, voice low, “we’ve got a nut flow problem — and it’s heading straight to the top branch.”
Flip closed his notebook with a snap. “Then we climb.”
They disappeared into the crowd, tails swishing, as behind them the billboard changed again:
BREAKING: Nut Supply Declines — Lobbyists Deny Everything.
High above, a familiar silhouette — Barkmaster Bowowdoody — watched from a balcony, polishing a monocle shaped like a coin. Beside him, Claw-Catdaddy purred into his headset.
“The investigators are nibbling at the trail,” Catdaddy said.
Bowowdoody chuckled. “Good. Let them chase the shells. The meat’s already ours.”
The jet engine’s chimneys rumbled to life again, belching dark clouds of profit.
The trail of missing nuts led Inspector Zippy and Doctor Flippy through the rust-red canyons of the Martian Finance District, where vaults grew like mushrooms after a corporate rain.
Each one hummed with the sound of invisible interest.
At the canyon’s end, carved into the rock itself, loomed a staircase of gold bark and cracked credit slabs.
Above it, letters burned in molten bronze:
THE SHRINE OF PILING NUTS OF INEQUITY
Entrance By Invitation and Inheritance Only
Zippy whistled.
“Nice place—for someone allergic to sharing.”
Flippy adjusted his monocle.
“Data confirms it: this is where Dabble-in Inequity Esquire stores every nut he’s ever shorted, sold, or whispered into existence.”
They crept past statues of ancient financiers, each holding an empty nut shell labeled “FOR THE GREATER GOOD.”
A golden plaque read: “In Trust We Pile.”
Inside, the air smelled of toasted wealth.
Pyramids of nuts stretched toward the ceiling, glittering under soft recession-proof lighting.
Atop the highest mound, a marble throne gleamed—and on it sat Mr Dabble-in Inequity Esquire, monocle blazing like a dying star.
“Welcome, my curious rodents,” he purred, tail flicking with compound precision.
“Come to worship at the altar of asymmetry?”
Zippy stepped forward, paws clenched.
“Where did all the public nuts go, Dabble-in?”
The fox smiled thinly.
“Public? My dear raccoon, nothing is public once belief becomes collateral. The nuts didn’t disappear—they were re-valued.”
He gestured grandly.
Holographic charts flared to life—lines rising, twisting, collapsing into spirals.
“Behold!” Dabble-in declared.
“When rates rise, the weak sell; when inflation bites, they panic; when taxes fall—for me—the nuts flow uphill! I merely stand at the top and collect the avalanche.”
Flippy scribbled notes furiously.
“So you create scarcity to inflate value!”
Dabble-in grinned.
“Scarcity, Doctor Flippy, is just marketing with better math.”
Behind him, conveyor belts fed new nuts into the pile—each stamped GOVERNMENT RELIEF, CITIZEN FUND, EDUCATION GRANT.
They vanished into the heap like drops into the ocean.
Zippy’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re hoarding the world’s working nuts while the small traders can’t afford a snack!”
Dabble-in stood, cape glinting.
“I am preserving order. Without inequality, how would anyone measure success? If everyone ate the same nut, who’d invent dessert?”
Flippy muttered, “That’s not economics—that’s delusion.”
Dabble-in tilted his head.
“Call it what you will. I call it stability.”
The walls trembled.
One of the nut-piles cracked under its own greed and began to roll.
Zippy grabbed Flippy’s arm.
“Time to destabilize, partner!”
They dashed as a tidal wave of over-valued nuts thundered down the staircase.
Dabble-in laughed, voice echoing like a closing market bell.
“Run, Inspectors! Run while belief still holds!”
The shrine shook, dust raining like devalued dividends.
Zippy shouted over the chaos,
“When belief collapses—so do your nuts, Dabble-in!”
Flippy pulled a lever marked EMERGENCY DEFICIT RELEASE.
A roar of wind sucked half the pile skyward—nuts spiraling into the Martian night like golden comets.
Dabble-in staggered back, monocle shattering.
“My assets!”
“Your liabilities,” Flippy corrected.
The last thing they saw before leaping clear was the shrine imploding into itself—a vacuum of vanity collapsing under the weight of its own accumulation.
Outside, beneath the red dawn, Zippy dusted himself off.
“Think he learned his lesson?”
Flippy checked his scanner.
“He’s too leveraged for that. But at least the nuts are back in circulation.”
Zippy grinned.
“Then let’s get them flowing before someone invents NutCoin 2.0.”
Far above, a single golden nut floated gently down, stamped with Dabble-in’s motto:
“PATIENTS DRESSED FOR DISASTER.”
Zippy caught it and slipped it into his pocket.
“For evidence,” he said.
“Or snacks.”
The Martian night pulsed with neon tickers and hungry silence.
Nut-stands stood empty. The streetlights flickered like exhausted credit cards.
Zippy stared at the hollow market square where traders once juggled futures for fun.
Now the air just hummed with waiting.
He kicked an empty shell across the floor.
“Lip-Flip,” he muttered, “who changed the flow of nuts?”
Flip adjusted his cracked visor. “The data says it wasn’t chance. Someone rerouted the supply. All nuts now pass through a single clearing branch—The Nutmeme-me Consortium.”
Zippy blinked. “Nutmeme-me … as in meme, but richer?”
“Precisely,” Flip said. “They turned hoarding into a social trend. Every big trader joined. Every small nuter got left holding shells.”
He pointed to a news drone hovering above the plaza, streaming the headline:
NUTMEME-MES DECLARE : “OWN MORE, SHARE LESS — FOR EFFICIENCY!”
Zippy groaned. “Efficiency my tail. The few have all the nuts, and the rest can’t trade, spend, or even snack.
If nuts don’t circulate, Nutsonomics collapses. The economy needs motion—like a wheel, not a wall.”
Flip opened his notebook. “Exactly. When circulation stops, growth starves. Without supply flow, even belief inflates beyond reason.”
A smaller Gimme-Gimme student nearby whispered, “So … what stops the nutless from rising up?”
Zippy turned slowly. “Nothing,” he said. “And that’s the danger. When too few nuts pile too high, gravity does the rest.”
Flip nodded. “History proves it: every hoard hits a tipping point. Then comes correction—revolution, recession, or regulation.”
Zippy clenched his paw. “Let’s go with regulation. Less sweeping, fewer pitchforks.”
He tapped his communicator. “Professor Grabmore, we’ve found the blockage. It’s not the nuts—it’s the Nutmeme-mes. They’re lobbying for endless NutTax breaks.”
Grabmore’s voice crackled through the line.
“Then, my dear inspectors, the cure is simple — reverse the flow. Tax the top, free the stock, and let the market breathe again!”
Flip smirked. “A progressive shell-policy. Elegant.”
Zippy grinned. “Operation De-Meme is on.”
They raced toward the towering headquarters of the Consortium—a gleaming obelisk shaped like an upside-down acorn.
Above its gates glowed the motto:
“WE DON’T CIRCULATE—WE ACCUMULATE.”
Zippy cracked his knuckles. “Not for long.”
Flip powered up his ledger drone. “We trace every transaction, follow the hoard, and file the greatest tax return in history.”
Inside, security drones buzzed, each engraved with the names of privileged traders.
“Welcome, DiamondNut Tier Members,” a voice purred.
Zippy whispered, “Diamond tiers … zero tears. Let’s change that.”
They ducked behind a fountain of liquid credit, eyes fixed on the central vault.
If they could trigger the redistribution protocol—every nut would scatter back into circulation.
Flip looked to Zippy. “You ready to rebalance Nutsonomics?”
Zippy winked. “Born ready. Let’s make the Nutmeme-mes pay their fair share — in actual nuts.”
He slammed his paw on the release lever.
Sirens screamed. The vault split open.
Billions of nuts cascaded into the Martian wind—rolling, bouncing, tumbling back toward the streets and markets of ordinary nuters.
Children cheered. Vendors laughed. For the first time in years, the scent of roasted equality filled the air.
Grabmore’s voice boomed through every speaker:
“Lesson complete, class! Circulation restored! Remember—an economy isn’t rich when a few have everything; it’s rich when everything moves!”
Zippy caught one gleaming nut as it rolled past.
“Guess the market’s breathing again.”
Flip smiled. “And the nutless just got their oxygen back.”
Above them, the neon tickers rewrote themselves:
NUTSONOMICS REBOOTS — THE FLOW RETURNS
The bell chimed like a cash register.
Students shuffled into the Gimme-Gimme-Nomics amphitheatre, still buzzing about the Great Nut Redistribution.
Professor Grabmore Yield flicked on the holo-board. “Class, today’s topic—Nutsonomics 101: Why Economies Need to Flow.”
Zippy and Flip slipped into the back row, bandaged and smelling faintly of roasted equality.
The Professor Begins
“An economy,” said Grabmore, “is not a pile of nuts. It’s a circle of nuts.
When the circle breaks—too many on one side, too few on the other—growth stops and tempers flare.”
He drew a glowing loop: EARN → SPEND → CIRCULATE → EARN AGAIN.
“Remove one arrow, and you get stagnation. Add too many arrows, and you get inflation.
Balance, my fledglings, is the art of not cracking under pressure.”
Light-Bulb Questions
A Gimme-Gimme raised a paw.
“So Professor, if the few nutmemes keep stacking, do we tax them or snack them?”
Grabmore smiled.
“Tax, dear student. Snacking is temporary justice; taxation is permanent circulation.”
Another bulb flickered overhead.
“If everyone starts spending at once, do we get too much flow?”
“Indeed,” Grabmore said. “That’s called re-inflation—too many nuts chasing too few snacks. We slow it with interest rates, not with interest in panic.”
Debrief with the Agents
At the side door, a figure in a trench coat and acorn-badge whispered,
“Agents Z and F—report.”
Zippy saluted with his half-eaten homework.
“Mission complete, Secret Squirrel. Nuts back in circulation. Catdaddy and Bowowdoody evacuated under a storm of democracy.”
Flip opened his datapad.
“Economic balance restored temporarily. But market psychology remains unstable. Possible re-hoarding in Q4.”
Secret Squirrel scribbled. “Excellent. Keep watching the tree lines. Anyone seen Mr Dabble-in Inequity?”
Zippy shrugged. “Last we saw, he was trying to short his own reputation.”
Flip added, deadpan, “Market value zero, ego still inflated.”
Grabmore clapped for silence.
“Agents or students—remember the lesson. When money sleeps, we stimulate. When it runs too fast, we cool it. And when it piles too high…”
The class chorused, “We tax it!”
Grabmore beamed. “Splendid! You may one day graduate with compound interest in ethics.”
Closing Bell
The holo-board dimmed to a glowing quote:
“A healthy economy is not how many nuts you own,
but how many times they make someone smile.”
As students filed out, Zippy nudged Flip.
“So what’s next, partner—Recession Season or Snack Day?”
Flip adjusted his bandage.
“Both. In Nutsonomics, they usually arrive together.”
Secret Squirrel sighed, tucking away his notepad.
“Then you’d better keep your receipts.”
The lights flickered; the same old bulb over the professor’s head glowed one last time—
half tired, half hopeful—
as if even it knew the market would need another lesson soon.
The amphitheatre lights flickered back on.
Professor Grabmore Yield tapped the board with his laser pointer.
“Class, today’s rumor — and I use that term with dread — is that the Central Nutbank plans to retire all government nut-debt by issuing a new digital species: Cryptonuts.”
Gasps rustled through the rows like wind through dry shells.
Zippy mouthed, “Crypto-what?”
Flip already had his datapad open. “Digitized nuts. Backed by belief, pegged to confidence, vulnerable to stupidity.”
Grabmore continued, pacing.
“The scheme is elegant — and dangerous. By converting old nutcoins and government bonds into this new code, they erase the record of who’s owed what. Debt vanishes — so does accountability.”
A lightbulb flared above a Gimme-Gimme.
“So … if the government deletes its own debt, aren’t we free?”
Grabmore smiled sadly.
“Free like a balloon cut loose from gravity — and headed straight for the sun.”
After class, Secret Squirrel intercepted Zippy and Flip outside the Nutonomics Faculty dome.
“Agents Z and F — new assignment,” he whispered, slipping them a encrypted seed-chip.
“Someone’s pushing the Cryptonut rollout ahead of schedule. The Gimmest’s signature just resurfaced in the code-ledger.”
Flip frowned. “So the fox is back — writing policy in binary.”
Zippy groaned. “Let me guess — and Catdaddy’s probably selling mining rigs made of bling?”
Secret Squirrel nodded.
“Find who’s behind Project Reboot Zero. Word is, they plan to devalue the Cryptonuts right after launch — wiping trillions in government IOUs. Debt erased, markets reset, and anyone holding bonds ends up … nonuts.”
Zippy winced. “That’s not a reboot — that’s a detonation.”
Flip adjusted his goggles. “A controlled collapse disguised as innovation.”
They infiltrated the launch gala — a spectacle of holographic acorns floating above the Martian Stock Spire.
The banner blazed across the sky:
WELCOME TO THE FUTURE OF VALUE — CRYPTONUTS: BEYOND DEBT, BEYOND SHAME.
At the podium stood Barkmaster Bowowdoody and Mr Dabble-in Inequity Esquire, tails intertwined in fiscal harmony.
Dabble-in raised a gleaming token.
“Today,” he purred, “we cleanse the world of outdated obligations. Every bond becomes a Cryptonut — every promise, reborn in code. No more weight of old debts. Only velocity!”
The crowd roared.
Zippy whispered, “He’s not clearing debt; he’s deleting history.”
Flip typed furiously. “If these launch at one-to-one with nutcoins, and they crash to zero … they erase the ledger, the loans, the liability. Everyone owed money becomes a souvenir collector.”
Bowowdoody bark-laughed.
“And once the collapse is complete, we’ll reissue new debt against the fresh vacuum! Infinite borrowing, zero baggage!”
Grabmore’s voice crackled through their comms.
“Agents! They’ve built a self-deflating currency — value mined from belief, loss hard-coded. If they trigger the devaluation algorithm, the entire economy resets … to empty!”
Zippy leapt onto the stage.
“Hold your nuts, Dabble-in! You can’t just erase debt by renaming it!”
The fox smirked. “Watch me.”
He pressed a button.
Across Mars, nut-ledgers blinked out. Balances dropped to zero.
A hush rippled through the galaxy — the sound of value vanishing.
Flip hacked through the vault’s network.
“If I can reverse the checksum, we can restore the old nutcoin chain!”
Zippy yanked a cable, sparks flying.
“Do it fast—people’s savings are evaporating faster than confidence at tax season!”
The Cryptonut display spiraled into chaos — numbers melting like butter on a fiscal grill.
Dabble-in shouted, “Let it burn! Out of nothing, we shall print everything anew!”
Flip slammed Enter.
A surge of light burst through the holo-screens.
The backup chain roared back online — balances flickering, battered but alive.
Dabble-in’s grin cracked.
Zippy dusted off his gloves. “Looks like your blockchain got un-blocked.”
As alarms blared, Grabmore’s face filled every holo-billboard.
“Lesson of the day: you can rename debt, but you can’t delete responsibility.”
Secret Squirrel cuffed Dabble-in and Bowowdoody as security drones hauled them away.
Zippy stretched. “So we saved the economy… again.”
Flip nodded. “Yes — though statistically, it’s still nuts.”
Grabmore’s voice boomed through the static as the dust settled:
“And thus, students, the first rule of Nutsonomics endures:
If something sounds too good to owe — it probably is.”
Zippy looked up as the red Martian sun glinted off the broken crypto screens.
Flip sighed. “What happens now?”
Zippy grinned. “Simple — we start counting real nuts again.”
The wind rustled through the marketplace below — coins clinking faintly in tired pockets.
Somewhere in the shadows, an unmarked account blinked to life.
A soft voice whispered through the static:
“Reboot successful.”
The lights in the Nutbank flickered once more —
and The Gimmest smiled.
