The Ballad of Gilligan’s Isle echoed inside Bob’s head as he lay on the beach and watched his blood stain the clean, white sand. It seemed appropriate that the soundtrack to his final moments was the same stupid song that had haunted him for the last forty years, since he had apparently learned nothing from his original tour as Gilligan. Taking the role had utterly ruined his career. Why had he expected whoring himself for a charter boat company called Gilligan’s Island Tours to have a better outcome?
He lay, curiously detached, and pondered the question as blood continued to seep from the ragged, shark-ravaged stumps of his arms and legs. It seemed like dying should be more traumatic, but despite a bleeding, three-hour tour of the waters of the Pacific, he was oddly euphoric. Even the sharks had been unusually polite, tenderly nibbling at his flesh, shearing away only the most desirable bits and leaving the remnants to wash ashore and die. It was rather like being in syndication.
And like that pain, this too would eventually fade.
Content to wait, Bob closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. Perhaps he had learned something after all.