“Alright,” said Ottoman, taking his cigar out of his mouth. “Crack that bastard open.”

Ottoman had spent a lot of time and a vast amount of his personal fortune to get to this moment. Shakespeare’s grave was, for the most part, unremarkable. But inside of the grave, Ottoman was certain, lay hidden treasures to be plundered. Long-lost plays, perhaps. Maybe an early draft of “Romeo and Juliet” where they don’t die at the end. Possibly a really funny version of “Macbeth”.

The lid of the decrepit coffin was cracked open, and centuries of dust – dust that previously made up the body of one William Shakespeare – plumed out, obscuring the inside of the coffin.

Once the dust had settled, Ottoman looked upon his prize.

“It’s…” he said. “It’s just bones.”

It started to rain as he walked away from the grave, and Ottoman found himself thinking of the words on the tombstone. As he sat in his car on the journey home, he realised just what that curse was – it was disappointment. Crushing, unending disappointment.