Bad Island

A Story by SEA LOVE

What do you think would really have happened on Gilligan's Island?

The professor stabbed away. He had been working on this tattoo for a few hours now. An old Japanese style where the ink is jabbed into the skin with needles in a row attached to the end of a stick. He was tattooing the word “RESPECT” under the bikini line of a pregnant woman. He wondered if this was hitting the little fellow in the front or back of the head. Imagining a rotating fetus in his mind with impact arrows surrounding the 3D rendering of the unborn b*****d child. “Are you done yet”? Ginger yelped, “I’m not likin’ this much anymore!” “Almost, just one more line...there! Done!” “That will be 4 coconut cream pies!” he said in jest. Ginger rolled her eyes, grabbed her Chanel scarf and disappeared around the hut. The professor wasn’t completely ok with doing the tattoo but you didn’t say no to Ginger. The ship’s first mate had said no to her once. With out saying anything, she had lunged on him and buried a makeshift knife with a clam handle deep into the front of his shoulder leaving his arm completely useless ever since.

The professor was cleaning up and from behind, he heard someone trip and before he could turn to see who it was, he came crashing down on top of him, knocking all of his tools and ink all over the ground. “Gilligan!” you f*****g IDIOT!” screamed the professor. “Oh s**t!” “I’m sorry Professor!”

The Professor grumbled as he picked up his items and out of the corner of his eye, watched Gilligan try to get up with one arm. The gimp arm got entangle in his leg causing him to trip and fall through the flimsy hut wall that he had built and repaired many times throughout their unknown incarceration on the deserted island they call home.

Gilligan was hard to look at. He spent so much time in the sun, his face was a perpetual blister. His eyes looked like popped blisters on a pizza slice. Looking straight at him, his gimp arm was a good 6 to 8 inches longer than the other and that shoulder was well sunken in. His red, long sleeved shirt was well worn and almost see-through. He had huge brown n*****s and quite the outy belly button. His body quite sinewy from his horrible diet of coconut cream pies and barnacles.

He wondered around, finally cornering Ginger near the lagoon while she was washing clothes in a custom built, pedal powered washing machine. “Hi Ginger, looks like yer coming around pretty good.” As he poked his boney finger deep into her belly button. “AAAAH you idiot!” Ginger screamed. He really gave her the creeps but felt he was pretty harmless which eventually would prove to be wrong. “What do you want Gilligan?” asked Ginger. “Oh nothing, just like watching you… oh say, where is everyone?” Gilligan exclaimed. “I think the men are all having a meeting in the common area.” Ginger said. Gilligan shrugged his one shoulder, did an about face and smiled over his shoulder at her and skipped off into the bushes towards the huts.

The skipper had been repeatedly slamming his balled up ham fists on the bamboo picnic table so long that it had started to crack. Thurston had been slipping nuts under his fist between blows and cracking them. Little did anyone know, but these nuts were hallucinogenic. Thurston was higher than the island volcano. Neither he nor anyone else took notice and kept on with the meeting. Thurston occasionally interjecting with outlandish remarks. “My eyes feel like barfing.” “Where do Ginger’s legs go when she sleeps?” “My pants don’t like you, F**K YOU!”

The men had been listening to the radio and realized that their island was to be used for nuclear missile testing, a devastating storm was coming and the recession was heavily affecting Mr. Howell’s fortune. Then the batteries died in the radio and then realized that they hadn’t prepared for the talent contest later that evening and agreed it should be cancelled till further notice.

The Skipper was a big jolly fat b*****d. He constantly drank his fermented coconut wine and ate most of the provisions and everyone’s table scraps. He was a pretty good guy and everyone pretty much liked him other than the fact that he smelled like all hell and never bathed. He almost always had a handful of either Ginger or Maryann’s a*s. On occasion, Mrs. Howell’s. On other occasions, Gilligan’s. “Any lovin is good lovin I always say!” Skipper bellowed and farted coconut. “Hey Maryann, git me some wine!” She brought him wine so fast that even high Mr. Howell took notice.

Maryann was sort of a recluse, nutty cat broad even though she had no cats. She was a hoarder, passive aggressive hottie. She wore the smallest shorts humanly possible and tied up her little checked shirt so high that the bottoms of her b***s were always popping out. Within the same second, she could wink and smile at you while wiping poop all over your door frame and burn your hammock off of it’s poles. She made awesome pie. No one dare ask what was in it.

As evening rolled in, the talent show miraculously took place. Gilligan wound up the record player with his good arm and sat next to the machine for which no one knew why it was on the boat or who brought it. It was Tchaikovsky. The only record they had. The show began with Ginger singing and stripping. A little malformed, spotty skin, pregnant, weird. Followed by Mr. Howell reading poetry and stripping. Super weird. Next, Lovie Howell. Stripping and crying. Her vintage lingerie was cool but the crying was creepy. Maryann stripped and swore like a sailor with tourettes, which really took away from her actual skills as a stripper in Kansas. Skipper threw up while stripping. So wrong on so many levels. Gilligan just ate a banana. Finally the Professor was up. You guessed it. He stripped. But oh my god, he was GOOD! He was in awesome shape. He ate well, fish, leafy greens, coconut water in moderation. He was shaved smooth, perfect tan, wearing some nice small shorts fabricated by Maryann out of one of the signal flags from the boat. He was oiled up with coconut oil and glistened nicely in the candle foot lights. He got a standing ovation and showered with Plumeria flowers and glitter made from polished coconut shavings which stuck to his oiled pecks and made him look better than everyone combined. The, without warning, the clouds burst open destroying the stage and lighting. They all ran to there respective huts for a long, wet night.

It’s dark, cold, raining like hell. A crazed scream. The whole gang hears it and rushes to the hut from where the scream comes from. It is from the Howell’s hut. The grass door is already shredded back, the Professor and Skipper are both holding up candle lanterns which allows everyone to see Maryann on top of and choking Mr. Howell. They all rush over to pull her off but pushing his way up from the rear comes Gilligan. His powerful force shocks everyone but not as much as what he does next. From behind his back, Gilligan pulls out a big, jagged rock, raises it over his head with the good arm, gimp arm hanging low, and just completely caves in Maryann’s skull with one blow to the top of her head. The gimp arm throws him off balance and sends him head over heels, complete flip in the air and lands on the other side of the bed on his back which causes everyone, except Maryann, who is dead, to bust out laughing! Then a conch shell falls off the shelf and hits him in the head and everyone completely doubles over with laughter!

Morning comes, all is calm, heavy hut damage and Maryann is dead. The remaining castaways are fishing at the Lagoon. “What was that all about?” asks The Skipper. Mrs. Howell glares at Thurston. She knows why. “We’ll need to bury her or something” chimes in Professor. “DOY!” Shouts Ginger. Gilligan giggles. This causes everyone’s fur to stand on end. “Look, there’s that gallon of ice cream I wished for from the genie floating in the lagoon!”