One morning I was a little late because I'd back-tracked to make sure I'd turned the propane heater off. The guys with smart phones started in with the text text text where are you?
I was fighting with a flip-phone that basically forgets everything each time a new text comes in. The frequency I was receiving texts prohibited me sending any responses. I'd get one composed but by the time I could hit send another message came in putting my outgoing text into limbo. OVER and OVER for 15 minutes I was fighting with the phone. Finally I said fuck it and drove back to the club house.
That was the beginning of the end of the club called Smilin' Mallard. It was doomed from day one. The guys in charge were not very bright and were hustling us. One guy ended up with a new polaris out of the deal. I was a sucker big time on that one.
The club house...lol I was supposed to fix it. I'm a general contractor but can't quite spin straw into gold yet and I sure as hell can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear even in Arkansas. I should have just let that place burn.
When I saw the way they intended to flood a 15-acre field with a 900 watt generator and a sump pump I knew that the season was going to suck. After two weeks they had a little puddle. It took five days of a real pump and about 60 gallons of diesel fuel.
I've heard that it's incredibly stupid to fuck around with a crazy man's head.