ESSAYS / SHORT STORIES
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Mark Jonathan Davis has written numerous short stories, essays, and comedy pieces.
His work has appeared in illustrious publications such as The Arizona Republic, Insane Magazine, and Model Rocketeer. [MORE WRITING SAMPLES WILL BE POSTED SOON.] |
"GILLIGAN MUST DIE"
Sit right back and hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip.
a short story by Mark Jonathan Davis
Sit right back and hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip.
a short story by Mark Jonathan Davis
[from 1999]
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"Gilligan must die!" Thurston Howell's fist hit the bamboo table. His faux elitist accent was void of its usual snide aplomb. This particular leisure class decree was dead serious. "I can't disagree with you there, Mr. Howell," said the Professor. "Gilligan has foiled innumerable plans to get us rescued off this godforsaken island, and it's about time we put a stop to his detrimental antics once and for all." The Skipper's meaty hands fidgeted desperately. He was worried, but deep down, beneath that blue shirted flab, was a naval voice, commanding the sailor to do what's best for the survival of his crew. Yes, he regretted admitting to himself, Gilligan must die. "But...Professor...he's...my little buddy." "Oh, pooh on your little buddy." Mrs. Howell wasn't mincing her elegantly-pronounced words. "That little shit has screwed us out of chance after chance of rescue, and I'm not going to let him do it again. Thurston, get me my pistol." "Now, Lovey, you know the Professor melted it down last summer to build a component for that long distance telephone cable debacle." "Don't blame me," defended the Prof. "It was Gilligan who once again short-circuited our hopes of escape." "I hate to say it," whispered Ginger, "but I agree. He has to be killed. The only question is, how, and by who?" "That's two questions, you brainless bimbo," muttered Lovey. "I say the Captain should do it," declared Thurston. "He brought Gilligan along on that 3-hour tour in the first place. By the way, can we please resolve the refund issue once and for all?" "Well, you can't expect the Skipper to murder his best friend," said Marianne. "Roy, you should do it. You've always loathed him, barely tolerating his bumbling buffoonery. Now use some of those big brains to destroy him." "Since when do you call him Roy?" demanded Ginger. "Roy?" said Thurston and Lovey. "Oh, come on, you all know about me and the Professor," Marianne confessed. "He's the only halfway-decent looking guy around here, at least since the headhunters paddled away last winter." They all stared at Marianne, dumbfounded. The Professor cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Um, Marianne...let's get back to the subject at hand. Killing Gilligan." "Yes, let's," agreed the Howells hastily. The Professor continued. "Frankly, it's against my ethics as a scientist to personally take another life. But I'm more than willing to construct a suitable weapon for the task. Perhaps another speargun?" "How about a good old fashioned hanging?" offered Lovey. "No, the palm trees are too flexible." quipped Thurston. "Maybe we could drown him in the lagoon." "Or bury him alive in that quicksand?" suggested The Movie Star. "I wonder if there are any more giant deadly spiders on the island?" considered the Skipper. "Then none of us would actually be killing him." Marianne had heard enough. "Oh," she cooed that exasperated coo of hers, "you're all so pathetic. Professor, brew me up some poison and I'll coconut cream pie him to death." "No, Marianne," said the Professor. "The Skipper's right. We should let Gilligan destroy himself, the way he's destroyed our lives over the years!" "By, Jove, the Professor's got it!" cried Thurston. "Indeed," chimed in His Wife. "So...we just get him to kill himself..." said the Skipper nervously. "But how?" "Well, he probably won't appreciate his moral obligation to take his own life in order to spare ours," explained the Professor, "so I say we just leave a gun lying around, and let him accidentally blow his brains---or lack thereof---out." "But," said the Skipper, "you melted down Lovey's gun---" The seaman caught his slip-up. "Er, Mrs. Howell's gun---where can we get another one?" "RIGHT HERE, FAT BOY." There was a blur of red shirt and white pants, a single gunshot, and as the other castaways screamed, the Skipper's face hit the table like an anchor on a boat deck. Gilligan, who had been perched, listening, atop the supply hut, had swung via vine into the clearing. "Who's next?" taunted Gilligan, waving a loaded revolver. "Who wants a taste of my 'bumbling buffoonery'?" He had removed his white hat, and on these last two words, hit the dead Skipper on the head with it, twice. "Now, Gilligan, my boy, calm down! We were only teasing!" The bullet entered Mr. Howell's wrist, just above his Bulova. "Thurston!" screamed Lovey. "No!" All sat frozen as Gilligan paced. "Gilligan..." gasped the wounded millionaire. "Name your price, but spare me!" "And me!" begged Lovey. "You rich bastards think you can buy and sell life like stocks and bonds?" Two more shots sent both Howells crashing 1929-style to the dirty island floor. "Gilligan, this isn't going to accomplish anything. This senseless outburst of reactionary uber-violence is just a manifestation of your frustration with limited---" "Um, Professor? SHUT. UP!" Appropriately, the bullet entered the Professor's brain, killing him faster than you can say radioactive vegetables. "Gilligan!" Ginger pleaded, rising. "I know you're upset right now, but...but I don't want to die! Let me live! Let me live, and I'll make you feel like---" "A real man? Ginger, you've been teasing me and every other John on this island since the day you walked those pipes on to the Minnow. Your kind of love is an act, cheap and empty, to be used and thrown away like a piece of gum that's lost its flavor." Gilligan walked to her, and kissed her on the mouth, passionately, angrily, and for the last time. "No, please!" "Kill her." smiled Marianne. The last bullet from the gun turned Ginger's peach gown into a crimson bikini, her ample chest now blood red like the carpet at a Hollywood premiere. "Marianne," said Gilligan. "Go make me a coconut cream pie." "Yes, sir!" beamed Marianne. "And then, let's go back to my place. Bottom hammock." (C) Copyright 1999 Mark Jonathan Davis www.markjonathandavis.com |
