The Boss Level In Bermuda - A Skool Story

I went on this cruise one time.. i think Bermuda was the port.

Of course. Here is that adventure turned into a readable story.

My family and I were on a trip to Bermuda, which I soon realized was less of a vacation and more of a perfectly designed shopping ambush. It was like a mastermind was behind the whole tourist map. From the moment you stepped out of your taxi to every "scenic stop," someone would conveniently appear out of thin air with a basket full of something to sell.

The final boss of this game was The Market. It was a giant, sprawling building with someone selling souvenirs in every single square inch of space. The sheer amount of noise, color, and people was so overwhelming that my wife took one look, said "NOPE," and made a tactical retreat to find somewhere quiet.

But me? I was in heaven. See, I know how much it actually costs to print shirts and make merchandise, so I saw this for what it was: a grand, chaotic game.

My mission was simple: acquire four t-shirts for the family. My budget was twenty dollars—which, coincidentally, was the asking price for one shirt. Knowing their actual cost was pocket change, I decided to have a little fun. In a market where every vendor's "competitor" is five feet away in every direction, I decided to start a war.

I did a few test runs. In one aisle, I picked up a shirt, looked it over, and put it back.

When the lady asked if I wanted it, I just said, "Hmm, I think I saw it cheaper somewhere else," and walked away. In the next stall, I gathered a few shirts and a hoodie, put them on the counter, and asked, "I've got twenty bucks. Any specials?" The man said "No" before I could even blink, so I just put them back and left.

In the third shop, I built a little rapport with the owner. I nudged my budget up, and we started haggling.

We got close to a deal—four shirts for forty or fifty bucks. He bent the rules on the price, which confirmed my suspicion: they can negotiate, but there's an unspoken agreement to keep prices high and they all work together. I told him I’d be back after I found my family.

After a few more laps, I walked into a new t-shirt stall. I grabbed four shirts, slapped them on the counter, and asked the woman if she could make me a deal. She launched into a speech about how rare and high-quality the shirts were.

This was my moment.

I leaned in conspiratorially and said, "Well, one of the other guys back there offered me a deal for four shirts for thirty dollars."

If you could picture the funniest double-take in a movie, it was that. Her eyes widened, and her face went from a friendly smile to pure fury.

"WHO?!" she demanded, her voice a low growl. "WHO SAID THAT?!"

I just shrugged and said, "I can't remember his name, but I'm going to find him."

That was all it took. The woman shot out of her store like the Road Runner, on a warpath.

She ran to every other t-shirt stall, grilling the owners, trying to find the traitor who broke the code. I just stood back and watched the absolute mayhem I had created with a single sentence.

A full-blown civil war had erupted in the t-shirt aisle.

Satisfied, I slipped out of the market, went to get my family, and brought them back in. In the end, I spent about sixty bucks on the shirts.

And the punchline to my grand adventure?

After one single wash, the beautiful "Bermuda" print faded into a vague, blurry smudge, and the shirts themselves shrank into something that would snugly fit a teddy bear. All that chaos, all that fun, for a set of high-performance body vests.

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