It isn’t going to be easy for us to escape from this island, but as long as we all follow my directions, I believe — nay, I know can make it out here alive. My qualifications to lead in such situations are minimal, yes, but I spend a lot of time listening to other people talk, and when it comes to being stranded on an impossible-to-find island after a plane crash, people really seem to know what they’re talking about. Do exactly as I say.
FIRST, a few of us should gather food. Anything edible and not visibly poisonous. Also find a reliable source of water so we can hydrate and bathe — this is a desert island, not some music festival in Tennessee. There is a small chance that while you are out picking berries the sky will flash and you will travel through time and end up in the 1970s. If this happens, look for a squirrelly dude in charge of some hippyesque commune and go live with them for a few years. We’ll get you out of there eventually, but in the meantime, the hippies are probably very kind.
SECOND, some supernatural premonition leads me to believe that our plane wasn’t the only plane to crash in the vicinity of this island, so some of us will form a search party and traverse the ends of the island looking for the survivors of the other plane crash. We’ll desperately need their help when trying to convince the guy who looks as if he’s perpetually exiting a New York City club at 4:30am not to detonate the nuclear bomb he has buried somewhere on the island. Should he detonate the nuke we’ll all die horrible, painful deaths and never get off this godforsaken island and, man, won’t that be a pain the ass.
THIRD, if you’re anything like me, you’ll need a beer (or ten) by this point. It may sound strange, but I get the feeling that somewhere on this island there is a hatch with a guy living in it. Not a guy from our plane, no. He was sent here by some corporate wahoo to keep tabs on us and drink a shitload of Miller Lite. According to my rudimentary calculations there could be as many as 500 cases of cold, refreshing Miller Lite bottles in the hatch! What we should do is find the hatch and beat the shit out of the asshole in the hatch and steal his beer.
FOURTH, in addition to the hatch, this island is probably the home to a magical well. The magical well is in disguise, on a day-to-day basis it operates as an ordinary well. It is imperative we find it. When we do, one of us will have to climb down into the well and find the secret room. Worry not! There will be a guy waiting for you in the secret room. I’m not sure what he does all day to elude the justice of boredom, but he’ll point you toward a large, wooden steering wheel and when you turn it a certain number of degrees, boom, we’re all off the island.
FIFTH, unfortunately, due to the flashes and the time travel, some of us will be stuck in the 1970s. The turning-the-wooden-steering-wheel-in-a-secret-room-in-a-well trick doesn’t work on people who have time traveled to the seventies. Which is not good. Some of us will be back in America living the fucking sweet life, while others toil in some lame ass commune in some lame ass decade. However, those of us who have already left the island will realize that the corporate wahoo who sent Miller Lite Boy to the hatch to spy on us has an elaborate, Skynetesque plan for world domination, and we’re the only people who can stop it. The plane crash wasn’t a coincidence. It was all a part of the corporate wahoo’s plan, and for us to save humanity we’ll need everybody who was on that fateful flight. Which means for those of who have already left the island forever, yeah, we’ll have to go back to save those of us in seventies.
We’ll have to go back.
