Here be treasure...
My late Grandfather was a hell of a chap. He saw action in North Africa during WWII - so much action that he failed to return home when the war was over. He hung out in Morocco and Algiers for the best part of 3yrs, doing dodgy deals and some 'work' for the Algerian freedom fighters.

Eventually he returned to Blighty, married my Grandmother and started a family consisting of my dad and his elder sister, our Aunt Bev. His North African adventures became the stuff of legend, embellished more and more as the years progressed. But the central theme of his stories always concerned an Indiana Jones-like hunt for Nazi gold. Apparently Rommel and his army used to bribe local Berbers and other tribes with sovereigns of pure gold, in return for information on the movements of Monty and the boys.

My brother and I would listen transfixed as he described his return from Africa with a 'satchel full of gold', which later became a 'suitcase' as he got older and finally a Raiders of the Lost Ark style 'wooden crate' in his late eighties. He always maintained that the location of the golden treasure could never be revealed - as he would be tried for treason.

My father would tell us repeatedly that Grandpa was prone to wild flights of fancy and exaggeration. He told us there was no gold. He told us he'd had 'fifty years of this nonsense' and the only gold my Grandfather possessed was in the fillings of his teeth.

Aunt Bev was a different kettle of fish. She believed adamantly that somewhere there was a vast hoard of Nazi gold, just waiting for her to find and make her filthy rich. She badgered my poor Grandpa for the last few years of his life. 'Where is it? Tell me! I won't tell anyone. I promise!' But my Grandfather refused to budge. And the location of the gold died with him in 1990.

His last will and testament was pretty harsh. Most went to his ageing brother in Australia and pretty much nothing to my dad or Aunt Bev. We accepted it mourned and tried to move on. Not Aunt Bev though. She fought a bitter court case to try and retrieve as much money as she could. Alas, we fell out with her. And she was exceptionally rude to me and my brother. Calling us 'devils spawn' and such like.

Eventually the case was settled and my dad, my brother and I set about the unpleasant task of clearing Grandpa's flat. He'd had the same place since 1957 and had lived alone there for at least twenty years. There wasn't much to do. Rescue some photos, make boxes for the charity shop and generally throw everything else out. My Dad left us to walk into town, as he drove the car to the dump via Oxfam.

We were leaving the block when the caretaker called us back. 'Hey...aren't you going to do the lock-up?' We had no idea what he was on about. We ambled back to the flats and followed the caretaker round the back, past the proper garages and down a lane, where he showed us an ancient, garden-shed type thing secured by a rusting padlock.

'This one's your Grandfather's,' he said handing us a key, 'don't know why he bothered keeping the rent up on it, he's not been near it for forty years.'

I was fourteen. My brother not yet thirteen. We took the key and managed to get the door open. There was no light. There was no window. Luckily we were both try-hard smokers, so we fired up our Zippos and looked around. There were bundles of old carpets. Probably ancient Arabic antiquities - but when we tried to move one, it fell apart in our hands. The bodies of a million moths and insects turning into dust with the carpet.

But you know what's coming?

Sure enough, tucked away in an old desk, in the top drawer was a small leather pouch. About the size of the bag that comes in a Scrabble set. But instead of filled with plastic letters, it was filled with strange, almost as square shapes made of metal. We'd found the Nazi gold. There wasn't much. Definitely not a satchel and nowhere near a suitcase. But here was the gold. It was real. It existed. We were rich!

We pocketed our find, jumped on the bus and headed into town. There was a pawn-broker on the High Street. In we went, leather pouch filled with stolen, evil, Hitler-gold, in we went and the bloke behind the counter, 'How much mate?' He looked at us, thought for a split-second about the poor OAP he assumed we'd probably kicked half to death for it and said, 'Dunno, gotta test and weigh it.'

He did his thing. Weighed it. Tested it. Bit it. Poured some chemical on it. Saw straight through us. And then declared: 'I'll give you £500 for the lot.'

£500!

£500 at that age is like £5m at this age. We grabbed his filthy, cheating offer of dirty notes and fled to Dixons across the road, where we immediately purchased a SNES, extra controller, three games and had change enough for a 14" portable colour TV to play on. Fucking result.

Fuck you Aunt Bev!

But fuck us too. That bag was at least 50z - worth nearly £50,000 at today's prices and probably far, far more when you add the historical value.

But fuck you again Aunt Bev! No one I know has ever beaten me at Street Fighter II. And that's worth £50k of my money any day.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 16:04, 5 replies)

Fantastic story,
and brilliantly justified!
(TheColonel, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 11:38, closed)

All the way through....

I was expecting a joke, a pun, or a film reference to rear it's fugly head at the end.

Yet what I got was a fucking brilliant post.

Clicks for you!
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 13 Nov 2009, 14:26, closed)

Nice.
Click-y.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Tue 17 Nov 2009, 18:06, closed)

look at it this day.
you gave a pawn broker a lovely gift...
*click*
(The Ear-Trumpet Addicting is NOT a word., Thu 19 Nov 2009, 0:24, closed)