Chapter 5
| The Story | The Authors |
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| But this was no time for curses, the natives had returned and they were thursting for blood. Injun Joe sprang into life screaming at Dan to prepare for the imminent attack. "They're back!" he cried. "The treehouse! Get the treehouse ready!" Dastardly Dan unwillingly abandoned the nicely browning Gilligan to his fate and rushed for the rope ladder to their treetop fortress carefully threading his way through the many elaborate boobytraps that he and Injun Joe had set up along its path. Injun joe his eyes white with fear barrelled along behind knowing full well the fate that awaited him if he didn't make the safety of the treehouse in time. It is said that all of our deepest and darkest earthly fears emanate from a promordial undermind that links us with realities from the lives of our distant ancestors and these Stone Age natives bore proof to this. An ancient tribe they were, long cut off from the continent and forgotten for millenia, living totally unscathed by contact with anything that might be thought of as "civilization". They were the Bozoti. Their wide round faces painted for raiding in white with hideous grins and hair dyed orange and flaming red with compounds made by grinding the pulp of secret jungle plants. Their noses (the concealer of the soul in the Bozoti belief system) protected by sea snail shells painted bright red. They streaked through the undergrowth and everywhere Dastardly Dan and Injun Joe looked about them they could see flashes of their blue and white polka-dotted war costumes moving behind the protective cover of the foliage. Injun Joe tried desperately not to breathe for fear of accidentally ingesting some of the banana creme into his system as it oozed down his face. He had seen the grotesque tarentella that the poison in it caused when the Bozoti had caught Fagan off guard not long after they had been marooned. It had taken him nearly six hours to die as he laughed and giggled and twisted his way to an agonizing death. Injun Joe was not ready to join him yet. | |
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Foooooooooooooooosh! went the next deadly pie as it shot through the macaw-spangled jungle. Injun Joe and Dastardly Dan ducked with the sure, terrified reflexes of Westchester county deer. The pie exploded against the massive trunk of an ancient tree with a resounding splat! Injun Joe felt a chill run up his spine and sniffed the air, and found, with a shudder, that indeed his nose had not failed him as a bearer of bad news. He gulped. Dan nearly tripped over a huge root as he turned around to glean the source of Injun Joe's distress as they ran. He shot him a nervous, questioning look. "What in Goshen is it, Joe?" "We're goners, Dan -- they're shooting coconut creme now." | |
| "Bwuuuuuugh!" Vashondra let out a volcanic belch as she wiped the coconut creme off the corner of her mouth. "Damn, girl!" said Bitzy waving away the stench. "Get yourself some Pepto Bismol." "And while you're at it," added Lydia. "Get yourself to a Weight Watchers meeting. Girl, you have let yourself go!" Vashondra scratched herself and belched again, rattling the windows. "I know," she sobbed. "I just don't know what's gotten into me." | |
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Vashondra's face had turned a livid shade of purple. "S-stand back!" she sputtered at the others. "I'm a gonna blow!" | |
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Meanwhile, as Dastardly Dan and Injun Joe dodged and ducked the deadly barrage of banana and coconut creme pies, and Gilligan woke up screaming to find his spit-roasted limbs being devoured from his still-somehow-living body by the island natives (several of whom were having a food-fight with the bloody chunks of what remained of the Skipper's brain), and fell away into a second dead feint (which was lucky for him, because his skull would be the next they opened, poor Little Guy) suddenly the earth began to shake. "Woo-boola e-boli bonga," [trans: Holy fucking shit!] cried the natives, who up to that moment had been squabbling over Gilligan's succulent temporal lobe. They tossed the tiny thing back into the smoldering coals, leapt to their feet and dispersed to the four winds. Upstairs/outside, Vashondra's puffed countenance sped through a kaleidoscope of ever-changing but distinctly unnatural hues. Her vast stomach and bosom heaved rhythmically and she prepared to expectorate volcanically. Her friends cowered at the far end of the room, not daring to look, but -- knowing how momentously necessary this spell of upchucking was to be, chant-sang softly that venerable song of their bygone days in Girl Scout camp: Co-met -- It makes your mouth Turn Green Co-met -- It tastes like gas-o-line Co-met It makes you Vo-mit It makes you Vo-mit And vo-mit Some more... |
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