At Premier Estate Buyer Boca Raton, Greg thought he had seen it all—gold bars with bite marks, a Fabergé egg found in a cereal box, and even a cursed pirate medallion that made the lights flicker. But nothing could have prepared him for the day two extraterrestrials waltzed into the shop.
They were dressed in trench coats and oversized sunglasses, which was only slightly less suspicious than the fact that their feet didn’t touch the ground.
"Greetings, Earth merchant," one of them said in a voice that sounded like a dial-up modem.
"Uh… welcome to Boca Raton Gold Buyer?" Greg said, cautiously.
The second alien placed a small, glowing cube on the counter. "We wish to exchange this for Earth currency. Specifically, the shiny yellow metal you call ‘gold.’"
Greg squinted at the cube. It looked important. Dangerous. Possibly radioactive. "Uh, what is it?"
"A fragment of a neutron star," the first alien said. "It is worth approximately seventy-eight of your metric tons of gold."
Greg choked on his coffee. "SEVENTY-EIGHT TONS?"
"Yes. But we will accept seventy-seven and a half if you throw in that tiny Rolex in the display case."
Greg considered calling security. Then he considered what it would be like to own a literal piece of a star. Then he considered how on Earth he was supposed to pay these guys.
"Look," Greg said, scratching his head, "we don’t exactly have… galactic currency exchange rates. But I can appraise estate jewelry, rare collectibles, and gold coins. That’s kind of my thing here at Estate Buyer Boca Raton."
The aliens looked at each other and beeped telepathically.
"Fine," one of them finally said. "We will settle for an appraisal."
Greg sighed, took out his magnifying glass (purely for dramatic effect), and pretended to inspect the cube.
"Hmm… interesting luster… highly rare composition… traces of collapsed star matter… I’d say this is worth about… a really nice yacht?"
The aliens conferred.
"Agreed," one of them said, snapping their fingers.
In a flash of light, Greg found himself standing in the parking lot. A brand-new, 200-foot luxury yacht was now where his car had been.
Back inside, the cube was gone, and the aliens had left behind a sticky note that read: "Pleasure doing business. Also, beware of space taxes."
Greg sighed. Just another day at Boca Raton Gold Buyer.