|The Story||The Authors|
|The skinny fellow in the red shirt with the white cap stood looking intently at the shrapnel. He called downshore while running wildly, his feet nearly tripping over themselves, "Skipper," he called, "Skipper!" "What is it little buddy?" came the reply.|
"Skipper! Skipper! I see Ginger," yelled Gilligan. "And she's tanning her boobies! Yee-haw!" |
"Now you just remember who's Captain, little fellow, and what it says on Page 6, Article 3a in Barnacle Bill the Sailor's Nautical Rule Book: "The Skipper always goeth first, and sloppy seconds to the First Mate are given."
So saying, the porcine Skipper lifted up his grass skirt and prepared to board the Shrapnel. Gilligan giggled like a idiot, drooling and rubbing his hands together and hooting like a Howler-Monkey as he looked on in moronic anticipation.
What in tarnation is going on here? gulped the shrapnel.
Just then there came the dull thwack of a shovel blade coming down on Gilligan's misshapen skull, followed, as if in response, by a similar, if fleshier thwack of a second shovel blade braining the lusty Skipper. Both bodies fell to the ground, and in their place qstood Dastardly Dan and Injun Joe.
"Good," said Dan; "Yum-tum-tum."
"Lunch," replied Injun Joe, "Yummy-tummy-tummy."
|The shrapnel gulped hard and blinked. When it looked again the two men had returned to their original form looming over him like skid row bats. Dastardly Dan snickered menacingly and twirled the end of his haphazardly groomed and curving handlebar moustache. Injun Joe scowled, the deep tan accentuating the long fierce scar that etched its way down his left cheek. The shrapnel was a bit uneasy, but there was no place for it to turn. Dastardly Dan sneer grew wider as if it were going to attempting to completely bisect his head. "Well, Well, Well, my fine metal friend, so we meet again at last." The shrapnel shuddered. "There's no Penelope Purheart to save you here, my friend." continued Dastardly Dan in a voice so icy that the shrapnel could see little puffs of steamy halitosis emanating from his nostrils. Hatrid burned in his eyes and a deep throaty growl emerged from Injun Joe's chest like a muffled chainsaw.|
"Everything to these two," said Dan, "Rin Tin Tin," |
"Became a mirage of Ginger," said Injun Joe, "Rinny Tinny Tinny."
"So we decided," they sang out in unison, "That the time had come to eat them!" They paused for a moment as if to measure the Shrapnel's house, so very much like two children looking to an elder for approval. The Shrapnel nodded. "So we hope," they continued, "That you will consent to be our Guest of Honor at this important luncheon on this most hallowed of days...?"
"And what day might that be?" asked the Shrapnel.
"The pewfect day fow a nutwitious wepast of wascawwy wabbit!" spake Dastardly Dan and Injun Joe in their best (Seidel-trained) tandem, as they set about trussing up Gilligan and the Skipper on long wooden spits. |
This done, the fire was stoked to a roaring blaze.
Apples were inserted into the mouths of Gilligan and the Skipper, carrots into their ears, sliced onions beneath their scaly armpits, and turnips and celery-hearts into their bottoms.
When the presumed-dead Skipper emitted a groan, Injun Joe bashed him over the skull once more with the shovel. The force of the impact was such that the apple popped out of Skipper's mouth and rolled off a dense thicket of bamboo.
"Damn it all, Joe, that was the last of the Granny Smiths," cursed Dastardly Dan, sweating up on his step-ladder, from whose heights he was basting the bound and garlic-infus'd Gilligan, who responded to the basting with hot, greasy pops. "Now get in there and retrieve it! And think, next time you go hitting somebody over the head with a shovel."
"Fine -- next time I'll let you be the one to finish him off, goddamn know-it-all," muttered Joe, grabbing his machete and heading off into the bamboo.
He never knew what hit him when the bizarre flying object came hurlting through the air and smacked him right in the kisser...
Consciousness fled him as he fell to the forest floor with the sticky dregs of the banana-creme pie running and gobbeting down his front.
"Drats," he swore inwardly; "Foiled again!"