It was the pride of the Historical society. The treasure map
of highwayman ‘Maddog Murphy’, still tacked to the original wooden slats of his
hideout. It showed a few hundred square miles of scrubland, and was covered in
symbols, lines, and ‘clues’.
Countless treasure hunters had come in, studied intently,
headed off, and returned empty-handed.
I glanced at it, wrote down some coordinates, and left.
I had dug all the treasure up within a fortnight.
I became the toast of the society, even though most of them
got annoyed when I told them I simply dug where the tacks were.
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