Uncle Scrooge loves his money. He loves the feel of it and the smell of it, and he loves to dive around in it like a porpoise and to burrow through it like a gopher and to toss it up and let it hit him on the head. He has three cubic acres of the stuff in his vast money bin, and his great joy is to count it and fondle it. He treasures each coin as if it were an irreplacable keepsake.
One day Uncle Scrooge got to worrying about what might become of all that money when he, its doting owner, must wing off to the great countinghouse in the sky. He considered the horrible prospect of leaving the fortune to his nephews, who would have no better sense than to spend it. The government of Duckburg would do likewise. Uncle Scrooge winced at the thought of even one of his precious coins being spent for milkshakes or baubles.
This money hoard is a collection, he wailed to himself. It must be preserved en masse. He perceived that only while he, and he alone, lived and tended the money could the collection be kept intact. Well, he decided he would do the best he could for his poor, defenseless coins and greenbacks - and that was to live as long, as very long, as possible.
He wondered if somewhere in the worlds of food or air or chemistry there might be a rejuvenator that could keep his battery charging and his juices flowing - into infinity.
He summoned his nephews to help him search for a life stretcher.
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