Eric Cartman had knocked on eleven doors, and eleven parents had laughed in his face. He wanted to be the richest fourth-grader in Colorado history. His plan was simple: sell parents a fake investment fund and pocket their cash. But every mom took one look at his red coat, his puffy blue hat, and his grubby brown pants, and shut the door. "Aren't you a little young to run a hedge fund, sweetie?" one had said. Cartman kicked a trash can flat. The problem wasn't the pitch. The pitch was genius. The problem was that he looked like a kid. Kids didn't get money. Kids got juice boxes and pity. Grown-ups in suits got money. Cartman sat on the curb and did the math. Parents trusted anyone who looked official. So he needed to look official. He raided his mom's cash jar and hit the thrift store. He found a sharp black suit and tie, tailored small, hanging on a clearance rack. It fit like it was made for a tiny CEO. Next he grabbed a polished leather briefcase with silver corners. He stuffed it with blank paper so it clicked shut heavy. In the mirror he grinned. He looked like a man who owned things. But a suit needed an office. No parent handed money to a kid on a porch. Cartman walked downtown until he found an empty storefront with a FOR LEASE sign and broad glass windows. The door was unlocked. Inside sat one dusty desk and nothing else. Perfect. He set the briefcase on the desk, straightened his tie, and taped a printed sign to the glass: CARTMAN CAPITAL PARTNERS. Then he waited. A father walked past, slowed, and squinted through the window. He saw a boy in a suit behind a desk in a real office, briefcase open, papers spread out. Cartman waved him in and gestured to a chair like he did this every day. "I run a private fund," Cartman said, sliding a blank page across the desk. "Small clients only. Very exclusive." He tapped the briefcase. The father hesitated. Then he pulled out his wallet and counted three hundred dollars onto the desk. "My kid's college money," the man said. "Don't lose it." Cartman shook his hand and locked the cash in the briefcase. The suit worked. The office worked. Word spread fast. By the next afternoon, four more parents stood outside the storefront, checkbooks ready. Then a woman in a gray blazer pushed through the line. She held a clipboard and a business card. "I'm the leasing agent for this property," she said, glancing at the crowd of paying parents. "This unit isn't rented. So either you sign a lease today at full price, or I call the police about the man collecting money in my building." She looked down at Cartman and frowned. "Wait. You're a child." Cartman stared at the parents, then at the rent she'd scrawled on the clipboard. The disguise had gotten him the money. Now the money had a landlord.