HLM -Chapter 804 Hoisted by His Own Petard

Zhang Rui’s eyes lit up when he saw a compact cavalry saber displayed in Mackson’s shop window. It was less than half a meter long, its handle carved from jade — the soft luster of the hilt contrasted sharply with the blade’s cold, dangerous gleam.

“How much is this knife?” he asked eagerly after admiring it for a while.

Mackson replied, “A thousand dollars. The hilt is carved from Miranda jade from North Island — warm and slightly rough to the touch, so even if your palms sweat, it won’t slip. The blade is hand-forged Damascus steel — don’t let its slimness fool you, it can slice clean through a lamb’s head.”

A thousand New Zealand dollars was close to five thousand yuan. Zhang Rui hesitated, a little reluctant, and put the knife back down.

Mackson stopped him. “You’re Wang’s friend, right?”

“Yes, we went to university together,” Zhang Rui said.

Mackson immediately smiled and said, “Good! Then you don’t have to pay — I’ll give it to you.”

Zhang Rui blinked, thinking he’d misheard. His English wasn’t great. “You mean… a discount?”

“Yes,” Mackson chuckled. “A zero percent discount — so you can just take it. It’s yours.”

Zhang Rui didn’t catch the joke. “How much discount?” he asked, puzzled.

“It’s free,” Wang Bo translated with a grin. “The boss means you don’t have to pay.”

Zhang Rui quickly shook his head. “No way, that’s not right — it’s worth five thousand yuan!”

Mackson laughed. “Wang helped me a lot. His friends are my friends.”

Wang Bo said, “Go ahead and pick something you like. I don’t have anything else to give you all, but this shop’s got some nice things.”

Mackson didn’t understand Chinese, so he just kept smiling and nodding.

Fan Dong teased, “Look at the old guy smiling! He has no idea this corrupt official is about to make him cry. If he knew you were letting us take stuff for free, he’d be bawling!”

Wang Bo rolled his eyes. “Cry? Please. It’s a big deal for him — I’ll pay him later.”

“Don’t bight sign, yo fa piao,” Mackson said suddenly in broken Chinese. He could understand the sound of the word money.

Everyone stared for a moment, then Qingyang snickered, “See? That’s what I taught him! Not bad, huh?”

Mackson’s tack shop mainly sold handcrafted goods. Sometimes the local Māori would bring in items for him to sell on commission, taking just a 20% fee.

Wang Bo had been right from the start — opening a tack shop in a back alley of Auckland was suicide, the goods would just rust away. But in Sunset Town, a tourist hotspot, it was a gold mine.

Not only foreign tourists but even city folks from all over New Zealand came here and liked to buy little trinkets to take home.

In fact, Mackson’s first month of business after relocating had already earned more than the previous ten years combined!

As everyone browsed for gifts, Wang Bo looked around the store and asked, “I remember you sold a lot of stuff last month. Why does it look like nothing’s missing?”

Mackson laughed heartily as he polished a silver cup. “Ha! Since my father’s time, we’ve been making all sorts of things we like. If they don’t sell, where do they go? Into the warehouse, of course. We’ve been stockpiling for forty or fifty years! No way it’ll sell out so soon.”

Wang Bo’s interest piqued. “So you’ve got crafts from forty or fifty years ago?”

“Of course. Take this cup, for example.” He held it up. “See its style? Light and simple — that’s post–World War II design. Because the war consumed so many materials, household items had to be made more economically.”

Wang Bo said, “Then this is practically an antique, my friend! You can’t still be selling it at regular prices?”

“I think my prices are already high. Like that knife — you told me to price it at a thousand, but I used to sell similar ones for a hundred and fifty. That jade isn’t even that valuable…” Mackson still had the old mindset from years in his Auckland alley shop.

Wang Bo shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. Listen — reprice everything based on material, age, and the time spent making it. For instance, how much would you sell that cup for?”

“This one’s expensive — two hundred and twenty dollars. It’s pure silver, and look how well I’ve kept it. Not a single spot of oxidation!” Mackson said proudly.

Wang Bo slapped the table. “Five times that — eleven hundred!”

“How could it possibly sell for that much?” Mackson hesitated.

Wang Bo said, “If you market it as a drinking cup, of course it’s hard to sell. But if you present it as a collectible — a World War II–era relic — then eleven hundred is too low!”

Mackson pouted. “That’s how profiteers think.”

Wang Bo chuckled. “Exactly. I’m developing tourism here so everyone has a chance to become a profiteer.”

If Mackson’s shop was just a tack store, it wouldn’t matter much. But if it was redefined as an art gallery, the value would skyrocket — even become the subject of hype.

Sure, there were plenty of tack shops and old craftsmen like Mackson all over New Zealand. That was why his shop in Auckland had been so deserted.

But foreign tourists — especially from Asia — didn’t know that. Most who came to New Zealand were wealthy, and Wang Bo saw no problem in making money off them.

The classmates each picked a few items — the boys went for knives and protective gear, while the girls chose finely crafted jewelry and ornaments.

When they were ready to pay, Wang Bo asked, “So, how much?”

The old cowboy grinned slyly. “Every knife here is an art piece. One of your friends just took a WWII-era Oceania cavalry officer’s saber — that one’s at least five grand!”

“So expensive?”

“You said it yourself — priced as an art piece!”

“I meant you should fleece the tourists, not us. Give us the insider price.”

Mackson burst out laughing. “For insiders, a hundred bucks is fine.”

Wang Bo shook his head. “No, business is business. You should at least recover your costs. I don’t want anyone saying Mayor Wang’s greedy for freebies. I’m an official who prides himself on clean sleeves!”

Mackson stared at him in disbelief. “What a waste for you to be a mayor. Someone who can lie so righteously should be at least a city councilman — maybe even a mayor of a city.”

After a round of laughter, Wang Bo insisted on paying, but Mackson still refused. “The reason I don’t like setting high prices, boss, is because I’m already in my sixties. I’ve got no kids, no family… what would I even do with so much money?”

Wang Bo thought for a moment and said, “You could start a charity fund. I’ll have Eva help you — the Mackson Cowboy Foundation, to support people in need. That way, even after you’re gone, your name will live on.”

Mackson blinked, clearly moved. His face flushed slightly. “That’s… a great idea. I could use the money I make for charity.”

“That means you’ll need lots of money,” Wang Bo grinned. “So you’d better start pricing things right.”

Mackson nodded. “Of course — I’ll make sure to price this batch properly. Tell your friends to come back; I didn’t look closely before, but now I’ll make sure to earn a tidy profit!”

Wang Bo slapped his forehead. “Damn it — I’ve just shot myself in the foot!”