Mary Ann served the Skipper's dinner personally. It consisted of the head and tail of a fish about three days past its 'best by' date and a banana peel. He got the message. What he didn't get was the same sort of treatment Gilligan had gotten at breakfast, because Ginger had not, much to the chagrin of all concerned, switched sides the way most of the others had. It figured.
The conversation was even more virulent than it had been in the morning, and when the Professor added a bit of nonverbal emphasis to his tirade by dashing a cup of pineapple juice in the Skipper's face, he decided that it would probably be a good idea to be elsewhere. Ducking into his hut, however, was no escape. Someone had apparently decided that their crates of emergency foodstuffs had not liked the climate in the storage cave, and would be far happier in his hut. As a finishing touch, one particularly large dried salt fish was lying comfortably in each hammock. The expression in the glassy eyes was smug.
"Psst. Hey, Skipper," hissed a voice from the rear window. Gilligan. Of course. "It's okay. I grabbed a few more blankets and your spare clothes when I saw them carting in the fish. They're in the cave already. I don't know about you, but I'm getting out of here while I still—oops!"
A red streak vanished into the jungle, a respectable distance ahead of Ginger, who was handicapped by her shoes. She shrugged, turned to the Skipper. "I knew you wouldn't mind if we put the extra space to use," she said sweetly. "After all, the Professor lives in the supply hut, and you don't hear him complaining."
The Professor, the Skipper did not say, had left of his own volition, probably because he couldn't stand the nighttime chatter to which he, the Skipper, had grown inured, and not because he'd suddenly been saddled with some very fragrant roommates.
"Oh, of course not," he said dryly. "Who doesn't like bunking in a delicatessen?" He didn't wait for an answer; just turned and stalked away, hoping sourly that the other five had all strained their backs wrestling those crates into his hut.
OoOoOoO
"Hey, Skipper?"
"What is it, Gilligan?"
"Next time, do you think maybe we should try dressing up like headhunters, after all?"
"Little buddy," the Skipper sighed, trying to find a position on the cave floor that wasn't as wretchedly uncomfortable as all the others he had tried. "Little buddy, next time, I think I'm just going to jump into the ocean and swim for it. Let them fight it out amongst themselves."
"I'm with you on that one," Gilligan said. "How long do you think we'll have to stay out here?"
"I don't know. Probably not more than twenty years or so."
"… Skipper?"
"Yeah?"
"We don't have a calendar or anything. How will we know when the twenty years are up?"
"Go to sleep!"
OoOoOoO
The next afternoon, two men approached the communal table. The two headhunters were painted with gaudy designs over most of the visible portions of their bodies. One—small and slender—had patterns of lightning bolts across his face, and down his arms and scrawny chest. The other—taller, and obviously not one to say 'no' to seconds whenever they were offered, and possibly even when they weren't—favored multicolored bands; perhaps he'd been told that vertical stripes were slimming.
Mary Ann, starting to set the table for dinner, rolled her eyes when she saw them. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she said. "Oh, well, as long as you're here, you might as well make yourselves useful. Here." She shoved her stack of plates at the smaller one, then picked up the bamboo canister that held their silverware and handed it to the larger one. "Start setting the table," she said briefly. "Forks go on the left; knife and spoon on the right, unless you want Mrs. Howell to cry, of course."
The headhunters looked at each other. The big one shrugged, and made a 'go ahead' gesture with the hand not holding the cutlery. The little one gave Mary Ann a wary look, but obediently started setting the table. Mary Ann, still trying to look stern, shook her head like a disappointed kindergarten teacher and went back to the kitchen.
"Oh, Ginger—you'll never guess what they're trying now," Mary Ann said, stifling a giggle.
Ginger looked up from the fruit she was arranging on a platter. "Who? Oh— you mean Skipper and Gilligan? What's their new plan?"
"They're all dressed up as natives," Mary Ann said. "Grass skirts, half a pound of war paint apiece, skull necklaces, and everything! It's the funniest thing you've ever seen in your life."
Ginger laughed. "They're really getting desperate, aren't they?"
"They must be. Oh, and better be careful where you look; let me just say that they'd better hope it doesn't get too breezy tonight and leave it at that."
Ginger raised her eyebrows. "I'll take that to mean that you weren't being entirely careful where you were looking, shall I?"
Mary Ann turned a bit pink. "Never mind that," she said, with what dignity she could muster. "I just acted like nothing was wrong and told them to set the table. I'll finish up in here if you'll go tell the Howells and the Professor what to expect."
"Cannibals at the table," Ginger said with a smile. "Certainly gives a new meaning to the idea of having company for dinner."
OoOoOoO
The forks—horror of horrors—were on the right. Mrs. Howell, bravely, did not quite swoon. "Oh, good heavens, Thurston, we're eating like savages!" she mourned.
"Well, Lovey, darling, that does rather seem to be the theme of tonight's dinner. Speaking of which… Would you pass the salt, Mr. Cannibal Headhunter?"
The larger man, who was sitting on the bench beside the billionaire and looking more than a bit bemused, ignored the request.
"I say, old man," Mr. Howell repeated, a bit louder, and nudging him in a conveniently unpainted rib for good measure. "Could you pass the salt?"
He started, and his hand went to the machete at his waist.
"The salt, good fellow," Mr. Howell repeated, pointing at it. The headhunters traded a look; this time the smaller one shrugged. The larger man, slowly and a bit uncertainly, picked up the bowl of salt and handed it to Mr. Howell.
"Thank you," he said, with an eloquent eye roll. "Only had to ask three times. I say, Lovey, if it's carrots for good eyesight, what might you have to eat for good hearing? Corn, wouldn't you say? Because it grows in ears! Ha! That was rather witty, if I do say so myself," he chuckled.
"Oh, yes, yes, marvelously clever, darling," Mrs. Howell said. "It's just a pity we don't have any."
"Unfortunately for us, Zea mays doesn't really grow in this climate," the Professor said casually. He glanced at the smaller headhunter, expecting at any moment a comment along the lines of either, 'Yeah, and there's no corn in these islands, either,' or possibly 'Zea Mays? Is he related to Willie Mays?'
The smaller of the ersatz 'headhunters' didn't say anything at all, somewhat to the Professor's disappointment; he was too busy shoveling down coconut soufflé with every indication of intense enjoyment. He didn't seem to mind that the forks were misplaced; in fact, he wasn't bothering with his fork at all. He finished his piece, licked his sticky fingers—Mrs. Howell could not quite contain a small moue of very ladylike revulsion—and reached across the table for more.
Ginger muttered to Mary Ann, "I think they're taking Method acting a bit far," and gave his freshly 'cleaned' hand a sharp slap before he could plunge it into the dish. "Shame on you! Didn't your mother teach you any manners at all?"
He jerked his hand away and cradled it in his other hand. He still didn't say anything, just stared at her, shocked and a bit hurt.
"Yes, just because you're uncivilized, it doesn't mean you have to behave like barbarians," Mrs. Howell added. Whether or not she noticed the irony was debatable.
"We do have to make allowances, my dear; where these chaps are from, 'finger food' has a very different meaning, eh, my good man?" said Mr. Howell, nudging the larger man in that same unpainted rib. He smirked at his own joke, and at the expression of stunned outrage spreading across the man's face.
He abruptly stopped smirking when the man stood up, put his hand to his machete again and half-drew it from its sheath. Mary Ann reached across the table and slapped his hand, much as Ginger had done. "That's quite enough of that," she said. "If you need a knife, there's one on the table. Sit down and behave yourself!"
Now it was the larger man's turn to look shocked. The smaller headhunter turned to him with an imploring, the-jig-is-up-can-we-stop-now sort of grimace. The larger man glared quellingly at him, then gritted his teeth, slid the machete back into its sheath and sat down.
"Come now, Captain; a joke's a joke, but don't you think enough is enough?" Mr. Howell was rapidly losing patience with the game, especially now that machetes entered the picture. "We all get it. Yes, you're headhunters. Terribly frightening. Now could you do us all a favor? Go wash your faces… and for the love of God, man, put on some trousers!"
"What are you talking about, Howell?"
Five heads swiveled towards the source of the voice, just emerging from the jungle. It wasn't one man, it turned out; it was two. One small and slender. The other taller and stockier. Both, it need hardly be said, were fully clothed.
"Hey, you guys ate without us?" The smaller of the two figures sounded hurt. "I didn't think you were that mad."
Slowly, in a synchronized movement they would have been hard-pressed to duplicate under any other circumstances, five castaways dragged their gaze from the two men standing at the edge of the clearing and turned to stare at the two men still sitting at the table, their painted faces unamused. The Skipper and Gilligan followed their lead, and got their first look at their dinner guests. Again in lockstep unison, seven people shrieked, then vanished into the jungle so quickly that they broke several speeding ordinances, if not the laws of physics, in the process. As an aside, and as a point of no specific relevance, Ginger screamed in a piercing coloratura soprano, hitting notes that she had had to work with a voice coach for the better part of a year to attain. It must be noted, however, that Mr. Howell did the same, and with no prior experience whatsoever.
"Haruka was wrong," said the smaller one to his comrade in their own language. "These people are insane."
"That's for sure," replied the larger man, grimacing as he rubbed the place he had been poked. "I'll admit these girls are good cooks, but aside from that, they'd make lousy wives. I say we get out of here while we still can."
"The sooner the better," agreed the small one. "I'm not about to come home from a hard day's work and have to wonder if my mate is going to kiss me or kill me."
The larger man nodded wry agreement as they rose from the table. "Wait a minute," he said to his companion, and picked up the dish with the remaining half of the soufflé. "It's a long canoe ride back home," he said reasonably. "Might as well bring a snack for the trip."
"Good idea," said the smaller man. "Now let's get the heck out of here before those lunatics come back. This place isn't safe for decent, everyday guys like us!"
OoOoOoO
"So… nobody's mad anymore?"
"I can only speak for myself, my dear boy, but I rather think not. I don't know about anyone else, but poking a cannibal in the ribs has rather blunted any desire I might have felt to continue arguing with anyone," Mr. Howell shuddered. "I might have been fileted!"
"You wouldn't have been a filet, darling," Mrs. Howell comforted. "Tenderloin at the very least."
His expression was not precisely indicative of unmixed delight at the compliment, but he took it as he was certain it had been intended, and patted her arm. "Thank you, Lovey."
"Anyhow, we all acted a bit silly," Mary Ann admitted. "I can't even quite remember what we were all arguing about to begin with."
"Hmm, is that so? I certainly remember, but I'd hardly want to go into it in front of everyone," Ginger said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mary Ann said, in a completely different tone, putting her hands on her hips.
The Professor sighed in annoyance. "Girls, please! Is this display of childish emotion really necessary?"
"Oh, who asked you?"
"Yes; why don't you mind your own business?"
"Women! So temperamental!"
"Thurston, I don't think I like your tone!"
"Lovey! Whose side are you on?"
Gilligan looked from one castaway to another, all around the circle, and back at the Skipper. "Oh, no. Not again," he moaned, with an expression like a kicked puppy dog.
The Skipper just sighed, and jerked his thumb towards the jungle. As they slipped away from the others, Gilligan looked up at his buddy and tried to smile. "You said, 'probably not more than twenty years,' right?"
"I sure did, little buddy," the Skipper replied, trying not to think about another night—or possibly twenty years of nights; it really could go either way—sleeping on the cold stone floor of a cave. "And compared to this three ring circus, it'll be a picnic!"
"You're not kidding," Gilligan said. "You think we should try to invite the headhunters back?"
"No, but if they do come back, maybe I can get them to take us with them."
Gilligan grinned. "Going to 'thumb' a ride with a cannibal?"
Thwack went the Skipper's cap, but that was really no more than might have been expected.
