"GILLIGAN!"

Gilligan's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he scrambled off his cozy hammock. "Y-y-yes sir?" Despite being awoken from the repeating dream of eating seven hamburgers and six orders of fries (and one order of onion rings) while drinking three milkshakes (and a soda) at the old diner in his old hometown, Gilligan was wide awake.

And hungry—from the deepest chambers of his iron stomach, he felt the familiar ache of hunger that had felt every morning for the past eight years.

And it would continue to ache. Mentally, Gilligan counted off his fingers all of the morning chores he was to do before breakfast: get firewood from the forest, fruits for the girls for breakfast and lunch, help Mr. Howell with another problem that wasn't an actual problem, get the Professor some sort of rock he needed for another useless experiment, and then make a fire from the firewood.

Every day, Gilligan woke up this way. And every day, he wondered whether or not the Skipper would decide to help him instead of "helping" the girls cook breakfast. Or anyone for that matter.

But, as soon as the Skipper finished his short rant, Gilligan still said, "Yes sir."

"And after you're done with all of that I want you to eat breakfast. And that's an order!" He said threateningly.

"Yes sir. I'll get right on it."

True to his word, Gilligan began to collect the firewood. For eight years now, things had gone on like this. Er, not eight years—things had changed around the third or fourth year.

The castaways had fallen into a schedule: they'd get up. The Howells would take a stroll around the forest (which, by now, was formed into an actual path), the girls would cook breakfast, Professor would lock himself into his hut, and the Skipper claimed that he helped the girls with breakfast.

"And you know what I get to do?" He asked himself, some bitterness coming out, "I get to work hard for everybody else while they sit around and eat!" He threw down his arm load of wood, staring at his actual arms.

They had grown stronger over the years. Bigger, even. He also noticed every day, when he found a few seconds to look around—nobody else had seemed to change except for the Howell's new shades of white and gray hair strands, and the Skipper.

He had grown fatter.

Maybe they all had, which was pretty ironic if they did. All there was to eat were fruits, whatever Mary Ann grew in her garden, and seafood. And, of course, the pies the girls cooked up.

But even Gilligan knew that a diet of only these things should whittle a person down to the bones.

"Heh. Or turn a person inside-out!" He giggled, heading back to camp.

When the firewood was by the pit, he turned right into Mary Ann.

Uh-oh. She has her hands on her hips.

"Gilligan! Where have you been?! Ginger and I need to make breakfast!"

"But Skipper told me to—"

"Oh, I don't care about that right now! Everybody's hungry and it's all because of you!" She lifted her hands in the air and threw them back down.

"Okay, I'll go pick some fruit right now, promise!" He sulked off while she ran around camp like Rosie, the red hummingbird that hung around his favorite part of the forest. "If it was so important, why didn't you go pick them yourself?"

He didn't dare say that in front of her though.

After eight years on the island, his and Mary Ann's relationship had become different. Sure, they were still close, but not the kind of close they were the first few years.

"I miss it the way it used to be. When everybody would yell at me and get over it and say sorry. Now they just get mad and get real mad at me!"

He plucked some berries off of their bushes and several bananas, tossing them into the fruit bag. After eating some, since when he was done with all of these chores they'd be gone. He went back to camp, where everybody sat expectantly at the table.

He listened to their complaints, apologized for being alive and shipwrecked with them, and went back into the forest for whatever it was the professor wanted. After being yelled at by the Skipper for not finishing the "daily chores" yet.

"Let's see—the Professor wants some sort of rock in the sand." He shrugged, and climbed his secret Hiding-Tree, where his rock collection was.

Gilligan got out a rock that he had stubbed his toe on, one that looked just like the sand! Only harder. And it had an indescribable shape; it was one of his favorite treasures. Professor had said it was called something that started with an 'f,' but Gilligan couldn't remember it. Fullgurgitate? Fulgurate? Gurgle?

He gave it one last sad look, knowing he would never see it again, shoved it in his pocket, and headed back to camp.

A bunch of chores down, several more to go!

Professor accepted the rock, giving Gilligan a great big smile before saying something science-y he didn't understand. Or care to remember.

Now Mr. Howell pulled him over. "Gilligan," He whispered, looking around. Phft, as if they were being watched. "I need you to do something extra important for me, you hear my boy?"

He sighed some. "Sure, Mr. Howell. But if it's about your polo pony, then you'd need to see Professor about that."

He made a pouty face, "But the—"

"Sir, the Professor can help you more than I can with your pony's broken leg. Maybe you should even consider building another, or having him do it for you. I need to do something extra important, for—"

"But this time is different! I need you, Gilligan!"

"Well, sir, I need me more! You'll just have to need the Professor more than me right now."

He ran away before Mr. Howell could say another word, towards the bushes in the forest.

When the billionaire was gone, he snuck into his hut, grabbed the "Runaway" duffel bag packed with clothes and other essential survival items, and started running at top speed for the other side of the island.


Gilligan stopped at a cave, one he recognized from years ago. When he had first attempted to run away, but the others all found him. Well, it had been at the very least five years since anybody was here.

He could rest in peace. For now.

"And then I'll have to go back. I have to! They won't be able to—to survive wi-without me. Huh." A grin slowly spread across his face. "I think it's about time for them to see how much work really needs to be done around there! I quit!"

With that, he laid back on the soft sand, covering himself with the gray blanket that was as old as Father Time. Maybe older, considering the smell.

Gilligan ignored it, letting his eyes close.


The next day, Gilligan was awakened by the Skipper. "Gilligan! Where were you yesterday?! Why did you run away? We needed you!"

"How did you find me?!" He squeaked out in disbelief.

"We checked everywhere but here. Now c'mon! We need you to do…"

But even after his list of daily chores and many threats to 'get his butt up,' Gilligan still wouldn't budge.

"Gilligan," Skipper said in an especially dark tone, "Please get up and do your share of the chores."

Share? You mean we SHARE those chores?

He sighed, lifting his sailor's cap and looking at him. "Skipper?"

"Yes, little buddy?"

"Do you really want all of those chores done right now?"

"Yes, little buddy."

"Collecting firewood for a fire is important for first thing in the morning on a hundred-degree deserted Hawaiian island?"

He stuttered a little, "Ah, well . . ."

"And getting fruit for the girls so they can add it onto that growing pile in the supply hut?"

"Yes!" He snapped.

"And helping everybody else with things they can do themselves, because we have all the time in the whole entire universe? But you guys pretend like we don't and I need to do them for you because you're all so busy with sitting around, complaining you're all bored?"

"YES, GILLIGAN! Now go do you share of the chores!"

"It's really that important, Skipper?"

"YES." He spoke through his teeth.

"Oh," He nodded, dropping the cap back over his face. "Then you can do them yourself, can't you?"


Yeah . . . Don't ask me where this came from. :P