--Edited for accuracy--

Once the two sailors had finished their breakfast and dinner, respectively, they left twenty dollars on the table, giving the waitress a little over six dollars for her tip.

The Skipper glanced at his watch as they exited the grateful-to-be-closing restaurant. Their waitress locked the door as soon as they went through it. "We'd better make tracks if we're gonna make our plane," Skipper said, staring at the rude waitress.

"We've still got time," Gilligan insisted.

"It'll take us fifteen minutes to hike back to the airport. Then we'll have to go through all the people trying to book flights and—we've gotta get a move on!" the Skipper rambled.

"It's only eight-thirty," Gilligan added. "If we wanted to, we could go to that arcade." He pointed across the street at a shady-looking building that said "GAME-RO M" in neon lights.

Skipper spotted a long-neck bottle in the window. "Gilligan, that's a bar with a pool room, and we really don't have time for that."

"Pool?" Gilligan repeated excitedly. "My friend Skinny Mulligan had a pool when we were kids and one time we almost drowned at the same time!"

The Skipper was getting aggravated again. "Oh, Gilligan, first of all, I'm not talking about that kind of pool, and second of all, how did you two manage to almost drown at the same time?"

"We had a contest to see who could hold their breath longer."

"Underwater?"

"No. Above."

Skipper, worn down by these ridiculous stories, searched for an outlet for his anger. He grabbed the only easily detachable part of his clothing, his hat, and whacked his lackey's head with it. "Gilligan!" he yelled. "If you say one more stupid thing like that tonight, I'm gonna kill you!"

Skipper stepped off the sidewalk and into the road. Then, everything after happened so quickly, yet so slowly in his mind. A flash of light whipped around the corner. Like the panopticon prison, he couldn't see it coming, but he knew it was coming, nonetheless. The headlights of the car burned his eyes, like the terror that was burning in his soul. He felt nausea and wanted to throw up. He was frozen with fear to the spot where he stood.

Gilligan didn't know how he did it. A more educated person might have said that it was a rush of adrenaline in a time of panic. Gilligan guessed that he was just a lot stronger than he thought he was. Even though he had never been on the high school football team, Gilligan assumed a defensive tackle position and heaved his shoulder into the Skipper's side with the force of a charging bull. Immediately after, Gilligan felt the immense pain surge through his right shoulder.

Skipper hit the pavement hard, throwing out his hands reflexively to catch himself. They bled and stung, and his knee felt like it had been crushed when he landed.

Seconds later, Gilligan felt the impact of the car. He could hear the brakes screaming out because they were punched so suddenly and with such force. His legs were pushed out from under him and his upper body crashed onto the hood of the car. Immediately, he felt pain on his face and his chest.

The driver of the car cried out in a dialect the Skipper did not recognize as Gilligan rolled off the car and onto the road, unconscious.

--

NoV: CLIFFHANGER!