“It’s only been, what, three years since they painted the lighthouse,” George said, the annoyance in his voice clearly apparent.
“Yeah, boss,” responded Jimmy, who was standing next to George. “It was last done in the fall of 2014, according to the records we pulled yesterday.”
“Goddammit,” George said. “Gimme those binoculars, Jimmy.” George peered through the binoculars Jimmy handed him. He focused on the numerous, large, vertical rust stains all around the top of the structure.
“That sonabitch contractor fucked us over,” George’s annoyance having morphed into rage.
“So whaddya wanna do boss?” Jimmy asked. “Want me to round up some of the guys and go pound the snot outta him?”
“That muthafucka guaranteed that the paint job would last ten years,” George said. We paid a huge goddam premium for what he said was weather resistant, rust proof paint. Now look at all that rust up there.”
“Yeah, boss,” Jimmy said. “I remember that guy sayin’ that. So whaddya want to do, boss?”
“I’m gonna call my sister,” George said, picking up his cell phone, so upset that his hand was shaking. “Dammit, Sis,” he screamed into the phone. “Your lame ass husband screwed me over yet again!”
Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: A Mixed Bag.