Captain Blackbeard’s lesser-known cousin, Beigebeard, had a problem. After years of plundering, he had amassed a fortune in gold, but he had nowhere to spend it. Modern-day Florida wasn’t exactly accepting doubloons at Starbucks.
So, there he stood, peg-leg tapping nervously outside Premier Estate Buyer Boca Raton, clutching a massive, seaweed-covered chest. A man in a suit eyed him suspiciously.
“You here to sell?” the man asked.
“Aye, that be dependin’,” Beigebeard growled. “Ye folks be fair traders, or be ye scallywags?”
The man sighed. “You time travelers get weirder every day. Come in.”
Inside Boca Raton Gold Buyer, an appraiser cracked open the chest and whistled. “Spanish doubloons? These are legit!”
“Aye,” Beigebeard said. “Plundered ‘em meself from the galleons of the Caribbean.”
Greg, the head buyer, rubbed his chin. “Look, buddy, we pay top dollar for gold, but I need to know—are these cursed?”
Beigebeard hesitated. “Only a little.”
Greg nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll take ‘em. Estate Buyer Boca Raton has dealt with worse.”
Minutes later, Beigebeard walked out, a modern millionaire. He adjusted his tricorn hat, bought a yacht, and set sail toward Key West, leaving behind only a lingering smell of rum and regret.
