Gilligan's Island of Mystery!: The Millionaire & His Wife

I have always maintained that one’s legacy is measured not by one’s wealth—but by one’s discretion. Which is precisely why the incident in Honolulu was… unfortunate.

My beautiful wife (and partner in crime) Lovey and I had been retained—at considerable expense—to remove a certain industrialist who had developed the regrettable habit of remaining alive. The plan was elegant. A quiet dinner. A discreet poison. A tasteful exit. Contract complete.

“Darling,” Lovey whispered, “are you certain that was the target?”

I adjusted my cufflinks. “My dear, Thurston Howell III is always certain.”

At that precise moment, the orchestra stopped playing, the lights came up, and our “target” stood to reveal himself as the mayor’s husband—very much not the industrialist—and now very much foaming. The poison we intended for our mark instead was ingested by the spouse of a political figure.

"Chaos, Lovey," I said to my bride of 25 years. "Utter chaos."

"It's magnificent, Thurston," she gushed. "But, surely, we must flee!"

We escaped, of course. We always do. But the headlines were… unkind. “Billionaire Bungles Banquet.” “Champagne of Errors.”

Which is why, within forty-eight hours, I found myself booking passage on a modest vessel called the S.S. Minnow. A temporary retreat, I assured Lovey. After all, what’s the worst that could happen on a three-hour tour?

• 
  

Lovey and I stroll the jungle of this uncharted island. The eyes of the other castaways have been studying us ever since Lovey shot that giant spider on the beach. While seeing my love take action always drives me wild, her decisiveness also drew unwanted attention. We can't let these civilians know our true identities as two of the world's most notorious assassins. Fortunately, we had already adoped a clever cover as vapid, narcissistic millionaires who would treat this shipwreck as a yet another holiday.

"When will the servants be attending to us, Thurston?" Lovey would say. She played this part so well. Makes sense. She was a theater major when we met in college. I was working on a meaningless business degree, working undercover for the agency to take out a fellow assassin. Feldman was his name. He had a horrible sense of direction so he rightfully earned the nickname Wrongway Feldman.

The other castaways seem to be falling for the rouse. The offense they take at our performative quips is almost endearing in its naivete.

"Mr. Howell," Mary Ann once said with exasperation, "How can you think of mai tais at a time like this?"

"Well, we've already had Bloody Mary's for breakfast," was reply, using my 'rich asshole voice.'

• 
  

Lovey and I chuckle at all this nonsense as we make our way through brush and foliage of the dense jungle. This isn't our first rodeo on an uncharted island. Experience tells us we are not the first to land here, be it by boat or plane. Our excursion reaches a clearing that extends to a waterfall drifting over a small cliff. Not uncommon on an island such as this. We reach the edge and peer over. What we find gets the adrenaline pumping.

A plane. A small personal jet is lodged in an overgrowth of vines. Lovey and I climb down some rocks and inch our way over to the jet. The rust and growth indicate this aircraft has been here for sometime. It hangs in the vines, the tip facing the waters below.

"Thurston, dear," Lovey says. "Look at this. The name of this plane is The Spirit of the Bronx. Why does that sound so familiar?"

"Oh my god," I say. "The Spirit of the Bronx is Wrongway Feldman's plane."

I climb out onto the plane, Lovey calling to me to be careful. The jet's position is precarious but I need to reach the cockpit. I use the vines as leverage to guide me down the side of the jet. The hatch door has been opened. I climb in, careful not to jostle this vessel too much. My foot catches an errant cargo belt and I spill into the cockpit. The plane lurches downward a bit. Lovey screams from outside. I call out to her through the broken cockpit windshield.

"There are not bodies on this plane, dear! It's been abandoned or whoever was flying it was dislodge into the water!"

"Well, how in the world did we end up shipwrecked on the same island where Wrongway Feldman has apparently crashed?" she calls out.

"Lovey," I answer back. "Where are we?"