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Shell

It was once a beautiful place. At least, that’s how grandpa described it. But I only saw ruins. I could hardly imagine people living in this rubble, let alone the pharaoh. Even though the popular belief now is that the earth rotates around one sun, I doubt it based on the merciless sun in Egypt.
I have only come halfway across the world to bare this heat for one thing. It was not for a love of history, as I will later tell the media. It wasn’t to promote jobs though I’ve managed to do that. It wasn’t to discover the wonderful palace of my grandfather’s memories, as I told him when pumping him for information weeks ago. No, I did this for something truly important and worthwhile. I did it for gold.
Imagine, if you will, my position. I am practically stranded in a forgotten bend of the Nile. My men and I are searching for a healthy sum to the tune of six million each. Yet the only thing those bums were finding out of place among the shattered, worn, beige columns were shells. Like I wanted anything to do with stupid shells. Where was the gold, my gold?
I was in it for the cash, and that was the one thing I didn’t find. There was nothing but the river, the ruins of a pharaoh’s stronghold, the famous pyramids, scorpions, flaming sand, and sun for miles. I bought back desert in my socks, a sunburn on my neck, and a single stinking shell as my souvenir. It was obviously a major waste of my time, but it is fine. For now I will snooze in first class, and tomorrow I’ll get old Papa to talk about the Free Mason’s treasure.





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