Matty Dove had 18 months to try and find a buyer for her late grandmother's lighthouse. A buyer who, she hoped, would not only buy the lighthouse, but love the village so much that they would invest time and money into saving the community. In 18 mo...
Jackson Lamont sat on the seat of his snowmobile and lit a cigar.
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"Shouldn't we be getting on the move," Simon Hirst suggested.
"It is starting to get dark and its starting to snow."
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Jackson blew out a cloud of white smoke. "You never did have much of a set of balls on you, did you Simon. Bit of a spineless little fuck you are."
"Look, Jackson, I have apologized a thousand times for my fuck up. What more do you want me to do?"
"I want you to man up, you fucking pansy. I give you one simple little task. One little task and you can't even get that right."
Jackson picked a bottle of Glenfiddich from the snow and opened it.
"One little task."
He took a mouthful and stared at his son in law.
"Okay, okay. I know I fucked up. But these people are not ordinary people. The men and women of Tuckamore Bay are like fucking mercenaries. They are all fucking crazy."
"They are just men and women," Jackson yelled.
"Fucking Newfoundland outport hillbillies. A bunch of illiterate backwoods fucks. All you had to do was go in there, flash around a few dollars and get their fucking signatures on a fucking piece of paper."
"I did my best."
Jackson stood up and walked to Simon.
"You were outsmarted by a bunch of fucking hillbillies."
