So the leak ends up being under Scott's house and not under Scott's lawn. And Scott shells out a couple hundred bucks for a band-aid solution to his increasingly corroding iron pipes. And his couple hundred gets Scott two things: (1) "Your pipes are irreparable," and (2) a slow dribble from an arcing leak. The complete fix, so Scott is informed, is bound to run upwards of $3,000.
Scott tentatively asks how long it would take to replace all the pipes and Paul the Plumber, with great emphasis, says, "A good day." And then he says it again with even greater emphasis: "A GOOD day."
Scott quickly does some mental math - the "band-aid solution" took three and a half hours - and figures that a day unto Paul the Plumber is like a thousand years unto Scott and his pipes.
So pray for Scott and his old leaky pipes if you ever think about them again. And if you know a publisher who pays good money for some top-notch, Dyn-O-Mite! hella good, short fiction, let me know. Or if you know anyone who badly needs a kidney. (Or, and this is just between the two of us, if you need somebody whacked.)