The estate buyers of Delray Beach were used to strange clients—millionaires who only paid in rare baseball cards, eccentric heiresses who believed their jewelry whispered stock tips, and once, a man who tried to trade a haunted grandfather clock for a Rolex.
But nothing prepared them for Mr. Nutters.
It started on a Tuesday, when a small, extremely determined squirrel marched into the gold buyers of Delray Beach shop dragging a tiny suitcase behind him.
“Good afternoon,” said the squirrel, hopping onto the counter. “I’d like to invest in property.”
The buyer blinked. “Uh… what?”
“I’m looking to purchase Delray Beach,” the squirrel continued, adjusting his tiny monocle. “I have a fortune in gold acorns and I’m ready to make a deal.”
The buyer rubbed his temples. “We don’t… sell cities. We buy gold, jewelry, and luxury estates.”
“Perfect,” said the squirrel. “I’ll take all of it.”
Within hours, Mr. Nutters had bought half the town. He outbid the diamond buyers for a yacht (despite not knowing how to sail). He purchased an entire estate using acorns dipped in 24k gold. And he somehow convinced a premium estate buyer to sell him an abandoned theme park, which he promptly converted into “Squirrel Land”—a luxury resort for high-net-worth rodents.
At first, people laughed.
Then things got serious.
Squirrels in business suits flooded the area, opening hedge funds and launching acorn-backed cryptocurrencies. Local banks began accepting “SquirrelCoin” as legal tender. A high-stakes bidding war erupted over a rare diamond, which Mr. Nutters won with a single gold nut rumored to have been blessed by ancient rodent gods.
It was too late. Delray Beach belonged to the squirrels.
Realizing their mistake, the estate buyers gathered for an emergency meeting.
“We have to stop him,” one whispered.
“But how?” another asked. “He owns everything!”
“Not everything…” said the head buyer, smiling. “We still have…” He dramatically placed an item on the table.
A peanut.
Mr. Nutters, now wearing a solid gold top hat, sat in his penthouse when the buyers arrived.
“We have a counteroffer,” they said, rolling the peanut across the table.
Nutters’ eyes widened. His whiskers twitched. His tiny paw reached out—hesitated—then grabbed it.
The moment he took a bite, all the contracts, deeds, and ownership documents dissolved into thin air.
The spell was broken.
Delray Beach was free.
And Mr. Nutters?
He vanished, but rumors say he now runs an exclusive underground jewelry exchange… somewhere beneath a palm tree.