Disclaimer: I didn't write Lost. I didn't film Lost. I don't know the actors from Lost. I don't live in Hawaii for Lost. I didn't win an Emmy for Lost. I didn't get paid because of Lost. For some unknown reason, I just like Lost.
Boom!
There is a giant mysterious boom as a man sprawled upon the jungle floor opens his eyes.
"Owch!!" yelps said man.
"Oops, sorry," says the cameraman, who hastily retreats into the forest. He was definitely getting a telling off for poking their lead star in the eye in the very first second of the very first scene.
Rubbing his watering eye, said man looks warily around. He is in a bright, cheerful little jungle. The bamboo sways happily. Said man ignores happy bamboo and instead experimentally wiggles his fingers in front of his eyes.
"This little piggy went to market," he mutters, "This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy ate his sister, and then she got none. Yup, all there." He says, satisfied that all his digits are where they are supposed to be.
"Woof!" says the happy bamboo.
"Quiet!" hisses said man. "I'm concentrating. It's hard to count your toes when they are inside your shoes, you know. This little piggy went to—"
"Woof!" says the happy bamboo.
"What did I say to you about—wait a minute!" said man gasps. "Happy bamboo does NOT woof!"
"Nicely deducted," says happy bamboo.
"Then what could that have been?" says bewildered man.
A very very fat dog emerges from the bamboo and looks scathingly at bewildered man. It woofs. "Woof!"
"Wow," gasps bewildered man. "A dog in the middle of a bright, cheerful little jungle. And a woofing one too!"
Rolling his eyes, said dog waddles past bewildered man, stopping only to lift his leg against the happy bamboo, which in no time, ceases looking very happy at all.
"Doggy, come back!" mutters bewildered man. He struggles to his feet, realizing suddenly that all his toes and fingers may be in tact, but the rest of him is not. Leaning against the moody bamboo, he examines his very high-price suit. He quickly looks away, disturbed.
"A rip!" he gasps, "And an unknown red substance in vast quantities staining my white shirt! Ughhh, all those big words have made me dizzy. Ooog…."
The gasping man searches frantically inside his pockets to find his Stain Stick, but is without luck. "Oh why didn't they let me put it in my carryon?"
His searching fingers clasp around several unknown objects, deep within his suit. He pulls them out. They appear to be bottles, filled with clear liquid. "Water!" he exclaims. "I am….so….thirsty!"
The thirsty man downs one bottle. "Yum! All better." Thirsty man drinks another, and another. He only has two left. He smiles at them. "I'll save you for later," he giggles. "You always need water when you are on a cheerful jungle hike."
Drunken man puts "water" back in pocket and looks around. "Which way to my house?" he wonders. "Let's see, I woke up on my back. The happy bamboo was to my left and the woofing dog ran off to my right. That means….home is this way!" He stumbles off in some random direction.
"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow." mutters lost man as every piece of bamboo he meets collides with his face. "I wish you would go back to being happy again."
He comes to a clearing, where he halts momentarily to observe a rather odd tree. "Hmm," ponders confused man. "They definitely don't have shoe trees where I come from. Where am I?" He plucks said shoe from the tree and nibbles it. "Nope, not ripe yet." He sets it gently on the ground, where it may ripen in peace and continues on his way. "Ow ow ow ow ow ow."
By sheer luck, lost man stumbles out of the jungle, and onto a white-sanded beach. "Wow," he exclaims, awestruck at the beauty. "What a posh little shore. Pretty blue water…." He smacks his lips and fingers his pocket. Did they have sock bushes here too?
"If only that annoying screaming and crying would stop so I can enjoy my vacation beach in peace," says he as he looks around, scanning the shore for the source of the noise. Nope, he couldn't see anything.
"Aaaagh! Help me!!" says the obviously female screamer.
"Quiet!" snaps the agitated man. "Can't you see I'm trying to sunbathe here?"
There is a small twig with a couple of leaves protruding from the edge of the jungle. The agitated man swipes aside said twig and sees behind it, an area of the beach that was formerly obscured. It is amazing what one little jungle leaf can hide from you.
"Ew!" yells the shocked man, upon seeing the ugly wreckage of a plane crash strewn across the sand. A bunch of dirty people are crying and stumbling around and typically being utterly useless. "This is definitely ruining the whole posh-beach décor, you know!" he shouts angrily.
The propeller of the plane is still going, sucking in everything in its way. A scruffy guy stumbles over and peers in. "Jeez!" he says. "You'd have to be on drugs to even want to get near this thing!" He stumbles away, humming discordantly.
"Sun, I need someone to blame for this mess! Come here!" yells a black-haired oriental in a different language.
A black guy with an afro pushes people left and right, kicking aside bodies as he goes. "Walt!" he screams. "Son-that-I-don't-know-and-who-doesn't-really-love-me-so-why-should-I-care, where are you?!"
A tall girl in pink stands amid the wreckage, wailing at the top of her lungs. "In an attempt to beat into your heads that I am useless and always will be, I shall stand here and scream! Screeeeaaam!"
The agitated man grimaces at the awful noises and covers his ears. The only way to have peace would to turn off that horrendous propeller. He runs about, asking people where the turn-off button might be. He trips over a man crushed beneath one of the plane's wheels.
"Help me! Aggh!" shrieks the guy.
"Be quiet and tell me where the turn off button is for that spinney thing!"
"Oh, the pain! The agony! Help me!"
"Never mind that! Tell me how to turn that stupid noisy thingy off."
"I'll only tell you if you save me first!" declares crushed guy.
Sighing, agitated man looks around frantically. "You, man with brown hair, you with grey hair, and you, guy with no hair at all, come save this crushed guy!"
The three helpers rush over and lift the wheel off of crushed guy's leg. Frantic man pulls him to safety. "Now, tell me where the button is!" he hisses.
"I don't know! I needed help that's all. Please bandage me up now! Get me a stretcher!"
"Oh, I am so through with you!" says frantic man, who then takes off his tie and stuffs it in crushed guy's mouth. "And I'm gonna want that back later!" he growls.
Now bereft of his best tie, frantic man scans the shore. He sees a pregnant girl struggling on the beach. He runs to her and kneels down beside her. "Hey, you look plane-literate! Can you tell me how to turn that big fan off?"
"What are you talking about?" she shrieks. "I'm having contractions! Please help me!"
"Hmph, who doesn't need help in this place?" mutters the moody man. He glances about and sees a scrawny guy beating on the chest of a woman. Now he had the right idea!
Meanwhile, the man with no hair at all is assisting crushed guy across the beach. Another dude runs past and dances in front of the propeller. "Ooh, you think you're so tough do you?" he giggles. "Well, check this out." He begins to do the chicken.
"Ew, that is some of the worst dancing I have ever seen!" roars the propeller.
The bald man tries to worn chicken guy, but it is too late. With a whoosh of annoyance, the propeller sucks in the dancing abomination……….and promptly blows up.
"Crap," says propeller. "Maybe I shouldn't have done that."
"Owch!" yelps moody man, covering his ears. "No more big booms please."
Pregnant chick prods him. "I thought you were saving me?" she demands to know.
"Oh right," he says. "I don't need you anymore. That helpful guy just turned off the propeller for me." He beckons to a large guy walking past. "Take her away," he orders.
"Wait a minute, what?"
"I said take her away," he repeated. "I don't want to see her anymore. She is icky."
"Who the heck do you think you are, dude?" says the chubby man angrily.
"My name's Jack," says Jack brightly. "See you later, big guy."
Jack wanders over to the scrawny man beating on the woman. "Hey there," he says. "Watcha doin'?"
"She's not breathing! I'm performing CPR on her."
"Here, let me try," says Jack delightedly. He kneels and beats on her a bit. Nothing happens.
"That looks like it'll make her worse though," says the scrawny man.
"Of course not."
"Seriously man, I'm a lifeguard. I would know."
"I think she's dead," says Jack, giving her another punch. "Yup, definitely croaked."
"No!" gasps the scrawny man. "There may still be hope. I'll go get a pen!"
"For what?"
"We need to shove it down her throat!"
"Ooo," crows Jack. "That sounds like fun. Go get some pens!"
Scrawny man stumbles away. Jack stares down at dead woman and sighs. "Sorry I couldn't help you," he whispers. "Punching people usually always wakes them up." He hits her one last time, as hard as he can, just for fun. She gasps to life.
"Darn," he murmers.
"Ow, my chest hurts so much," she whimpers.
"Can I still stick a pen down your throat?" asks Jack.
"No!"
"Bye then!" Jack toddles off, leaving her to cope on her own.
Jack wanders about the wreckage, noting how useful his Stain Stick would be at this moment. He looks up to see the pregnant chick and the big dude sitting on the sand amid some scraps of metal. "Hey you!" he yells. "I thought I told you to take her away!" He runs towards them, waving his arms angrily. "Pregnant people are gross!"
The big dude glares scathingly at Jack and helps the pregnant chick to stand up. They both walk away from him, throwing him dirty looks. He continues to chase them away.
"You're both eye sores! Shoo! Get off my beach!"
At this moment, the wing of the plane, which has until now been suspended above their heads, suddenly comes crashing down upon the spot where they had been sitting a moment before. A great explosion rips through the wreckage, sending people and shrapnel flying everywhere. One half of the propeller, engulfed by a ball of flames, whooshes through the air and lands not inches away from the scruffy, British guy. "Whoa! You'd have to be on drugs not to see that coming!" he gasps, and walks away.
"Dude, you like, saved us!" cries the chubby man to Jack.
"Hmm, I seem to be doing that a lot today," says Jack with a sniff. "Why don't you hang out with the icky pregnant girl for a bit? You seem to be her type."
"Maybe I am," says the chubby guy hopefully. "Thanks."
"Ta now," says Jack.
He strolls through the flame-engulfed metal, gazing at the destruction about him. "I'm gonna need to get a litter team together to clean up the mess these people made!"
He looks inside the plane, hoping he might find his own luggage and his Stain Stick, when the scrawny lifeguard jogs up, holding a fistful of pens. "Which color should we use first?" he asks eagerly.
"Unfortunately none," says Jack sadly. "She woke up and told me no."
"Awww!" says the lifeguard. "Nobody is any fun these days!"
Finding no Stain Stick in the plane, Jack searches through the luggage littered on the beach. It had to be here somewhere. He rejoices when he finds a leopard-print makeup bag! He has one just like it! Perhaps this is his! He opens it and is disappointed. It is nowhere inside, but he is not totally out of luck. His sewing kit is still in the bag. He can repair his high-price suit.
Giddy with joy, Jack decides to leave the ugly wreckage and go to a quieter place on the beach where he can sew and meditate. Sitting down amid some friendly-looking rocks, he removes his shirt and assesses the damage. Nothing a good cross-stitch can't fix. If only he could find some means of removing the vast amount of red stuff that had somehow leaked onto it. It smelled funky.
"In the town, where I was daaaa…lived a man….who da da da. We all live in a da da da da da." he sings happily as he works.
"Omigod omigod!" squeaks a voice behind him.
He spins around to see a woman hovering within the trees. "What? What is it?" he squeals. "Is there a bug on me? Where!? Where?!"
"Ummm, like, you have a great big bloody gash on your back!" gasps the woman, looking quite ill.
"What kind of bug is that?!" wails Jack. "Is it poisonous?"
"No, you idiot! It is a cut. You've been cut by something!"
"I'm gonna die!" Jack shrieks. "I'll get gang green and die!"
"Here, let me sew it up for you," offers the woman, glancing at his sewing kit.
"No! It's too late. I can already feel myself passing!"
"Can I at least try?"
"No, there won't be enough thread left for my shirt. And besides, if I DID want it sewed up, I would do it myself. I am a very good sewer. I can patch jeans and cross stitch. I even did the drapes in my apartment. So there!"
"Give me that stupid thing and hold still!" orders the woman sternly, and wrenches the kit from Jack's hand. His eyes well up and he glares murderously at her. "Don't waste your time," he sobs. "I'm a lost cause!"
"What color would you like, hon?" she says, ignoring him.
"Ooh, I like the purple thread!" he coos, the tears immediately vanishing.
"Got any alcohol on you?" she asks, holding up her filthy, bloody hands.
"No, just some water, and you can't have it!"
"That'll have to do." Grabbing his shirt, she rummages around until she finds the water. "This is booze, you moron!" She washes her hands and mercilessly pours the rest of the booze on Jack's gash.
"Agggggh!" Jack shrieks, and faints clean away.
"Hmm, that's better," the woman mutters, and gets out the longest needle she can find.
Meanwhile, back amid the wreckage, the other survivors are having a fine old time. A man with oily hair sits back and enjoys an entire box of cigarettes, puffing contentedly. Pregnant chick stands by the ocean, contemplating whether when her baby is born, she shouldn't just through it into the sea and be done with it. Chubby man is getting friendly with the rations.
"I am not hoarding it, if that is what you stereotypical people think!" he growls, chewing on a chicken thigh and digging into a bag of chips.
The man with no hair at all sits in the sand, dreaming about the poor chicken man. "He really didn't dance that bad," he murmurs.
The scrawny lifeguard fiddles around with his cell phone. "How come no one from my Five is answering?" he wails. "Is everyone I know dead?"
"Actually, I think it is just the signal," says a short dark man with tremendously long nails. With an armload of wood, he wanders over to the fire, by which is sitting the scruffy Brit.
"You," barks the man with long nails. "This scene is solely dedicated to us two learning each others' names, and really has no other point besides that. So I have to ask you what your name is."
"It's Charlie," says Charlie. "What's your name?"
"I am Sayid. And now that I know your name, I will have no more trouble in bossing you around. Go get some wood, so the fire is really really big!"
"Why does it need to be really really big?" asks Charlie.
"The chubby guy says he has a surprise for us. I think he will give us some marshmallows to roast!" says Sayid excitedly.
"Oh right," says Charlie. "You'd have to be on drugs to not want marshmallows, right?"
"Ummm, yeah," says Sayid.
"So we know each others' names," notes Charlie. "I guess the scene is over eh?"
"Yup," confirms Sayid. "Goodbye."
Meanwhile, the woman is getting along nicely, sewing up unconscious Jack's back with some purple thread. As he lies there, he sucks furiously on his thumb. She might just get through this okay if he doesn't wake up.
"Ohhhh!" he groans.
"Crap," she mutters.
"I think I'm gonna be sick!" he burbles.
"Probably from all that vodka you drank," she snaps. "I found three empty bottles in your pocket. Who crashes on a deserted island, drunk as a monkey? I think you have a hangover now."
"Quit talking, you're hurting my head!" he growls. Man, that voice is annoying.
"Why did I even offer to help an idiot like you?" said the woman with a sneer.
"Because I'm….dashing?"
"As if."
"Because I can sew drapes?"
"Uhhh…"
"Because I can count to five? See look. 1…2…3…4…5!"
"Wow! That really is cool!" she exclaimed. "I guess you aren't so bad after all. Can you teach me how?"
"Perhaps later when I don't feel so icky."
"You're awesome Jack. I think I will stick annoyingly by you at all times and be your best friend."
"That's…er…cool…"
Later in the night, everybody is cheerfully munching rations and roasting the chubby dude's surprise of marshmallows. The scruffy Brit, Charlie, who doesn't seem to like marshmallows, is sitting by a small camp fire, scrawling a four-letter word onto the back of his hand.
"The fact that my hood is pulled over the larger part of my face doesn't make me look even more skuzzy, does it?" he wonders doubtfully. He continues to scribble.
Sayid is sitting next to him, covered in a sticky mixture of potato salad and s'mores. He looks to be having the time of his life. "Hmmm, they could have added some more mustard to this," he says around a mouthful of mayo-smeared bacon.
"What?" says Charlie, who is having a bit of trouble drawing the K.
"Everyone knows potato salad is nothing without large amounts of mustard. Everybody!"
"Hear hear!" Charlie says, not really listening. "You'd have to be on drugs not to want mustard in your potato salad!"
Sayid looks questioningly at him, but then nods. "I suppose you are right. Would you like some more mustard in your potato salad? I am sure I could go find some around here."
"Ew, no thanks," Charlie mutters, and begins feverishly repairing his malformed D.
In another part of the campsite, useless chick is carefully mimicking Charlie by painting a four-lettered word on her toes, with nail polish. "Hehehe," she titters. "I spelled FROG."
The scrawny lifeguard sits down next to her and offers her a chocolate bar. She glares at it. "Ew, no way am I eating that. It needs more mustard."
"Shannon," he says, "We may be on this island for a few months battling four-toed creeps and columns of black smoke and tropical polar bears and reincarnated boars. You might want to eat something within that time."
"Not unless I get my mustard! I'm gonna scream if I don't get my mustard! Screeeaaam!"
"There is none. Sayid took it all, the bastard!" Says Boone, striving to keep her from drawing too much attention. "Just please eat it," he wheedles. He waves the candy in front of her face.
"No!"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Please!"
"Why don't you eat it?" asks Shannon, glaring at the chocolaty item.
"Er….I….um…well…" stutters the scrawny guy, giggling sheepishly.
"Boone, did you poison my food again?"
"Please, I am begging you to eat the friggin' candy bar! Eat it! Eat it!" shrieks Boone, with a feverish glint in his eyes.
On yet another part of the beach, pregnant chick is staring at her stomach, plotting elaborate ways in which her baby might accidentally get squashed beneath a falling banana tree. Marshmallow man, Hurley, still hoping that he has a chance with her, sits down and offers her a plate of rations. "I bet you're hungry. Pregnant chicks are always hungry. I heard that the cost of a pregnant woman in nine months, on food alone, is about seventeen thousand bucks."
"Errr, yeah," says pregnant chick, ripping off the tinfoil and burying her face in a heap of cole slaw.
"So, uh," says Hurley. "Any more funky baby dancing?"
"What?!"
"Constrictions?"
"Er….no…" says pregnant chick, devouring the last of her fake fish filet.
"Well, okay then, see you later," sighs Hurley, and he walks away.
"Wait a minute!" shouts pregnant chick. "I'm still hungry. Gimme those!" She grabs another ration from Hurley's hand and runs away giggling.
"I think she likes me," says Hurley happily, rubbing the scratch marks she has left on his arm.
Afro dude is sitting beside his newly found son, Walt. "How are ya son? Are you warm? Are you cold? Do you need another blanket? Do you need a drink? If you have nightmares, just tell me. We'll stay up and make shadow puppets and tell stories and roast more marshmallows and play charades and do a whole bunch of father-son things."
"Dad," says Walt. "It's bed time. Go to sleep."
"Okay, son. Whatever you say, son."
Somewhere else, the oriental man has found his wife. He whispers in her ear, though there is no chance of anyone overhearing what he is saying. "Tomorrow I shall make a leash and collar. The collar will go around your neck and I shall walk you everyday. I shall teach you to heel, to fetch, and to roll over. Do you understand?"
"Yes, dearest of husbands. I mean…dearest husband. You are definitely the only one!" says his wife hurriedly.
Jack and his stitching friend are back at the roughly-constructed campsite. The woman wishes for him to take a look at a man with a piece of shrapnel sticking out of his stomach. Jack shines the flashlight in his face.
"Ew! Why are you making me look at the gross dead body?"
"Jack, he's not dead. He can still be saved."
"He looks pretty dead to me. There is a vast amount of red liquid squirting out of his head."
Jack's friend sighs. "I was hoping you'd give me your opinion. Will he be alright?"
"Nope, one hundred percent chance of certain death, I say."
She looks relieved. Jack gives her a puzzled glance. "Aren't you supposed to like burst into tears? I just told you your boy friend was going to die."
"He's definitely not my boyfriend!" she snaps.
"Then why do you want to know if he's going to croak?"
"He was sitting next to me."
"Did he have bad breath?" Jack prompts.
"Yes, it was awful!"
They abandon shrapnel guy and sit down by a cozy little fire. Jack grabs a palm leaf and rips it up, holding up the remaining shreds. "Lookie! I made an airplane. Vroom! Vroom!"
"Jack, your airplane sucks," his friend remarks. He glares at her.
"Well at least I'm trying to have fun. You're just sitting there moping! Why are you lot so blue anyway?"
"We just crashed on a deserted island, Jack! All of us. Even you did. I don't know what little world you think you are in, man!"
"I thought we were in Hawaii," says Jack, disappointed.
"Don't be silly! If I was in Hawaii, I would have booked a hotel room by now and left you to sun burn. But no, I have to be stuck on this rock, with someone like you as my best friend, and no chance of rescue!"
Jack sniffs imperiously. "You said you wanted to be my friend."
"Well, I admit you're better than Charlie. That guy is definitely on some crazy dope, if you know what I mean."
"Now I feel honored!" Jack says with glee. "I will get you off this rock, so that you will never have to be with me again. Tomorrow I shall face the moody bamboo and go looking for the cockpit!"
"Why would you do that?" she asks.
"There may be a super telephone in there. And maybe I could get the in-flight movie to work. Wouldn't that be great?"
"That is a brilliant plan, Jack. I think they were playing Caddyshack or something. My favorite!"
"Why would you want to risk your life to go with me?" asks Jack.
His friend sighs. "I have already vowed that I will from hereon be your shadow and follow you wherever you go. If I don't, the universe might implode."
"I see. What's your name?" Jack suddenly asks.
"Kate," she replies. "Why do you want to know?"
"So that I know what to put on your gravestone when you get killed in the jungle tomorrow," he tells her, smiling cheerfully. "I'm Jack by the way."
"Awesome name!" Kate says happily.
Suddenly, from the jungle there comes a great big crashing, metallic noise! The trees shimmy and move as something large pushes them out of the way.
"'Scuse me! Pardon me! Coming through!!!" it roars.
All survivors of any notability look up, shocked at the frightening noise. The cameraman swoops dramatically around them, smashing painfully into bald man's nose. Walt jumps to his feet. "That was Vincent, I'd know him anywhere!"
His father looks puzzled. "Are you sure about that son?"
"Of course," Walt replies. "Vincent is really fat. Once when we were at the beach, he jumped into the water and caused a tidal wave!"
"Well, when you find him, keep him tied up will you," his father says, looking nervously at the sparkling blue ocean.
The survivors all stand up and gather in front of the jungle, Jack and Kate at their front. Their heads twist and turn, following the horrendous noise, which seems to be coming from several different directions. "The bamboo," says Jack. "It's after me!"
"I really need to go!" the thing shouts. "And there is no tree big enough to hide me." This is followed by several large crashes, as though a very large something has just begun to dance.
"It's the ghost of chicken man!" Man with no hair at all shouts, still rubbing his nose.
Everyone pauses to consider these new developments. Bald man could be right. Charlie glares from beneath his hood. "Bloody terrific," he growls. "You can't have your deserted island without a couple of dancing chickens. This is really beginning to feel like home."
There you have it. Stay in tune for the next chapter which will be completing The Pilot Pt. 1. Please review. Believe me; I always have room for improvement. Thank you very much. Peace.
P.S. I made up that thing about pregnant chicks and the seventeen grand. I actually have no clue, just thought it was funny. : )