Weyland washed up on the shore of an island, unscathed. The sand was as white as cocaine, and it hurt when Weyland snorted it into his wheezing nostrils, thinking it was cocaine. He had landed on an island so remote that it didn’t appear on any maps. It was also ripe with purple foliage, making it an eye-sore and difficult to print. To this day, millions of dollars have been wasted on reprints of maps and globes around the world, due to people thinking the small purple speck was a mistake. Approaching from the shore it looked as if you were walking into a purple cabbage field, and something about the air smelled like purple cabbage farts.
The plane had crashed, killing Billy Joel and Billy Joe Armstrong, along with everyone else on board. He couldn’t remember exactly how he made it out alive, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was alive. He picked himself up from his raft of dead bodies to see five indigenous men running straight for him. He was able to knock them all out before they could tell him they were there to help.
It was incredibly easy for Weyland to dispatch the five men. Throughout his life he had taken an enormous amount of self-defense and skill training classes, from Tae Kwon Do to clay potting. He was quickly kicked out of every single class within the first few weeks for either not paying, or sexual harassment and not paying. Despite the individual setbacks, the sheer amount of beginner-level knowledge combined with self-training made him a killer. His conviction for DUI and Manslaughter also made him a killer.
He looked over the men’s bodies. They had skin like peanut butter and open head wounds like jelly. Typically Weyland wouldn’t have attacked the men, but they were rushing towards him and had a different skin color than him. Any normal day he would have let them beat him up and then filed suit, either embellishing heavily or lying completely. Today was no normal day though. Today Weyland would become a hero, again. Even if it meant certain death for someone else.
Overlooking the carnage, he thought how nice it would have been for someone to high five him, but no one ever wanted to high-five him, and no one was there. No people, but there were spears raining down.
Weyland launched into a barrel roll to dodge the oncoming spears, getting hit by every single one of them in the process. He got one in the head, one in the heart, and three in the crotch. All of them missed his vital parts on account of them being so small.
His vision started to go black and he uttered what he assumed were his last words, “Stacy Miller’s body can be found in the Hillsboro national park behind a redwood,” and then he was out.
The village looked like one of those amusement park tiki towns, only real and not fun at all. With all the straw material used to construct the buildings, the whole place could go up with one small spark (FORESHADOWING!). Even the utensils and condoms were made of straw, which the people, the Hichawas, sometimes confused for one another.
The chief of the Hichawas, Frank, watched Weyland’s chest heave up and down under the bandages. He knew that his prisoner was dead asleep, but had somehow masturbated to completion. Frank stabbed salad with a condom and took a bite as he studied his guest.
No people ever visited the island, so the chief was admittedly “pretty stoked,” but he was also disappointed that Weyland was such a turd. Weyland had caused severe injuries to some of his men, but Frank didn’t even know the half of it yet (Weyland likes to chit chat during movies, but he always talks way too quietly, so you have to ask him to repeat himself. By that time you’ve missed half the movie).
The Chief had assumed that Weyland’s attack was just a misunderstanding, so he planned on making a peace offering to Weyland, and aiding him in whatever way was necessary. He imagined the endless possibilities of two men from different walks of life working together.
That’s when Weyland’s hand shot up on the chief’s throat and snapped it in between his thumb and middle finger, dropping him to the ground immediately.
The guard hurled a spear at Weyland, but he caught it with his shoulder before it could hit another part of his body.
The guard called out for help, but in his own language, so it sounded really stupid. A group of other island warriors came rushing in and tensed up for their attack.
“Stop,” choked a voice from below.
It was the Chief, still alive, but completely paralyzed from the neck down. He had quickly adapted to using his lower jaw to help him move on the floor. Either that or he was choking on his own blood.
“This is a simple misunderstanding. This man is afraid. He thought we were going to attack him-”
Weyland stomped on the Chief’s head.
The Chief groaned, “Ok. What the fuck?”
The 12 other warriors shrouded Weyland like smoke – thick, stinky smoke – and wound back their spears like pinball turrets. Weyland realized he had made a mistake. He never should have been in a plane crash, but there was no time to think about his follies now. Admittedly, he was afraid. He already thought he was going to die once today, but now he had to worry about it again? He’d never even been married or had consensual sex with a woman.
He could practically feel the tips of the spears piercing his skin, because they were, when a man larger than all the rest, even the chief, entered the disgusting hut.
“Stop it. My father is right.”
His father, the Chief, was gargling blood on the floor, doing his best to nod in agreement.
Weyland thought, “Boy these guys are forgiving. And they’re suckers. I’ll have to find a way to steal from them,” as his hand glided into the nearest warrior’s tunic, snatching a trinket that ended up being the warrior’s penis.
As the Chief’s son, Lukala, approached, Weyland fell to his knees and bowed since his wounds wouldn’t allow him to stand anymore. In the hubbub I think we all forgot that he was shot by five spears. Lukala blanched when he saw his father’s crumpled body on the ground.
“Why did you do this?” demanded Lukala.
Weyland sat, stoically on his knees, unmoving.
“I asked you a question, stranger.”
“I’m trying to shrug, but I can’t,” Weyland groaned as little spouts of blood bubbled from his wounds.
“Father, he is not dangerous. Not in this condition. What should we do?”
Three of the guards hoisted Frank up on their shoulders like a big, floppy sex-toy. Frank choked out, “Bring him to the palace guest room.”
Lukala wasn’t happy to hear this. As much as he respected his father, and his over-welcoming attitude towards guests, he didn’t trust Weyland yet. With good reason too, as Weyland was flipping everyone off as he got hoisted away. Lukala was the more traditional man of his lineage. Frank had spent some time in California on a quest for god back when his name was Rahkala. All he ended up finding was Los Angeles’ City Walk where he spent the next 10 years becoming Frank.
The palace guest room was no different than any of the other straw hut rooms, in that it was awful. If you saw it, you wouldn’t call it a palace guest room. For something that was so authentic, it looked tacky. Weyland mentioned that fact to the man carrying him, though the man couldn’t understand him past the blood gushing from this mouth. He was hurt badly, but it was nothing he hadn’t been through before. When he had worked construction he held the record for the most pieces of rebar to penetrate someone. It wasn’t a real record, but it was one he kept, honored, and championed. The damage it did to his body is the reason why he looks like a guy in his 50s when he’s really 23.
The guards swung him onto a cot that buckled and whined under his weight. The cot continued to squeak. The guards saw that Weyland was either writhing in pain or masturbating. They didn’t want to stick around to find out, so they quickly left.
He was masturbating.
Once he was finished he knew he had to think of a way to get out of there, find the chief, and finish the job. Everything in his brain and heart told him that killing the chief was the wrong thing to do, but something visceral was telling him it was the right thing to do. He decided to masturbate one more time before leaving.
From deep inside the jungle, eyes were peering into the Chief’s chambers, watching Lukala scold his father. The hum of night-vision goggles married with the hum of the jungle bugs, perfectly covering up the spy’s urinating onto a leaf.