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The topic for this challenge is:

You awaken to find yourself stranded on a deserted island with nothing but a pocket knife, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and Britney Spears. How did you get there, and what do you do now?

And here we go!

I was her third lawyer. The only reason I agreed to take over her custody case was because she was a great lay. She was a pain in the ass, and I couldn’t stand her constant bitching and complaining about her life. It had become increasingly difficult to represent her, but I could bill a thousand per hour just to put up with her bullshit. Plus, the firm liked the exposure. She was in my office for the better part of a day, and most of it was spent with her up against a wall and me fucking her like some kind of desperate monkey. Today she was bitching about the fact that it took five days for me to get her out of that “fucking hellhole of a psych ward”. Unappreciative, she had no idea the lengths I went to get her ass out of that four-star hospital. I had to bribe two judges and call in three favors.

She was begging me to get her someplace, anywhere, where no one could find her. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? I’m not a fucking travel agent!” I told her. She looked at me with disdain and cursed at me. That’s it. It had been five days, and I was sick of it. Just to piss her off, I grabbed her and threw her into a chair. “Shut the fuck up! Who the hell do you think you are? You’re just some piece of trailer trash that got lucky and fucked up your entire life!” I screamed. She touched me gently, as if to placate my anger, and gave me what I needed.

I had to think, and she was barking away again. I sent her ass off to Starbucks for a bit so I could figure out how to get her off this goddamned planet. The picture-whores were outside constantly, taking shots of our building as if it was some kind of architectural wonder. How do I get her out of here? Damn. I ran into my senior counsel’s office, and shut the door. “She wants to go. It’s time. How do I get her out of here?” Bob thought for a moment, and offered up the corporate jet. “Get her down the service elevator, shove her ass into the trunk, and get going. I’ll call and set up the trip.” I walked out of his office and suddenly realized I would have to go with her. “God, I don’t think I could handle that skank for even two days.” I mumbled.

She stumbled back into my office with a venti frap, pissed of and yelling something about the paparrazi. I started to tell her that it was her own fucking fault, but I decided against it. “Okay, we’re going on the jet somewhere undetermined. I gotta take you down the back, and you have to ride in the trunk.” “You’re fucking kidding me!” she screamed. I grabbed her arm and dragged her out of my office and over to the service elevator. No doubt the paparazzi would be hanging out in the garage. Bob got into the elevator with us, and pushed a combination of buttons which I had not seen before. As we descended, we ended up in a desolate part of the garage. A towncar slowed as it approached us and parked. As Britney protested, I picked her up and dropped her into the popped trunk. She flipped me off, and I slammed the door shut.
We hustled onto the plane and I pushed her to the back. “Sit down, shut the fuck up and don’t do anything. Just sit there,” I told her. She finally ceased speaking, and sat down, dejected.

Flying to Bermuda was relatively relaxing. I downed a few shots of tequila from the jet bar, getting settled in. I tossed a bottle of Grey Goose over to Brit, and said nothing. I watched her drink three ounces straight out of the bottle, reminding me of the trailer trash that she was. We sat in perfect silence for about three hours, drinking. We refueled in Miami and headed out to over the Atlantic. About twenty minutes in, the pilot yelled over his shoulder that things were going to get a little bumpy as we flew through a small thunderstorm. After about ten uncomfortably rough minutes into the storm, I heard the pilot radio the Bermuda airport that we were leaking fuel and we needed emergency assistance on the ground. Before he could look back at me, I jumped up and said, “What the hell is going on? “ He told me that we were going to make it with a little fuel to spare and told me emergency services would be there as a precaution. Brit, startled but drunk, looked up and said, “The fucking pop will know where we are if you try to land this thing in Burmuda with people around!” “Lady, I don’t care what you think. It’s going to be this way, period.” the pilot retorted. I looked at Brit and said, “We’ll just refuel, figure out what’s wrong with the plane and go somewhere else.” At the mention of that, the pilot sighed and turned his attention back to the storm. As I sat back down to have another drink, the plane began an improbable descent. “Hold on guys, we got a major problem up here!” We continued to descend as the plane felt like it was being ripped apart. I grabbed Brit, grabbed a parachute, took a look out the window and said “Fuck it”. Putting the parachute on, I hurriedly buckled Brit in for a tandem jump. I threw open the door and we were pulled out of the plane with incredible force. That was all it took. The plane went down, and the pilot would never be found again.

Brit was screaming at the top of her lungs. I tried in vain to cover her mouth with my hand, attempting to maneuver us closer to what appeared to be land. As we approached this small island, I told her to brace for a hard landing, and she cringed. We hit the sand and Brit cushioned my fall. “Shit, god, get off of me, you’re killing me!” she screamed. I rolled off of her, and she sat up. Banged and bruised, we were both okay, but in a great deal of shock. I threw off the pack, and realized that there was an emergency kit attached. Putting my hand close to her face so she wouldn’t speak, I opened it up. It appeared to have been used before, as all that was left was a pocket knife and a bottle of Jack. Brit was still drunk, but dumbfounded. Nothing escaped her lips. I kicked into survival mode. Getting up, I said, “Okay. What’s done is done. Scout around. Go find some water. Let’s see what we have to work with.” Getting up gently, as if to feign injury, she said, “I am NOT walking around this place by myself.” Sighing, I told her to follow me as we began to explore our newly-found hell. The island was about a mile across by my estimate, with no fresh water. No mammals appeared to live here, which meant relatively little food. Little vegetation would provide sufficient but scarce sustenance. Basically, we were screwed. I took Brit back to the beach, sat her down and explained the situation. Jokingly, I told her that this is exactly what she wanted. She slapped me across the face. That was it. I grabbed the pocketknife and shoved it in her face. “Don’t ever do that again to me, you trashy fucking whore, or I swear to god, you will definitely get your wish of disappearing!” She got up and ran off, about a quarter mile away, sat on the beach and cried. I sat there thinking. “What the hell are we going to do?” Time was ticking, and we had to find a place to sleep it off. I walked down and told her we needed to find cover. She was terrified of me, and got up to follow me. We found a little shelter under some brush, laid down and passed out.

The sun was blinding. Both of us sat up at the same time, and slowly realized where we were. In shock again, forgetting my threats of yesterday Brit began to scream. I grabbed the knife again and told her to shut up. She remembered, and got quiet really fast. Back into survival mode, we quickly built a structure on the beach that would be easily recognizable by a rescue party. We attempted to start a fire with the brush, but frustratingly failed. Brit was hungry, and she was bitching again. I threw the bottle of Jack at her and told her to drink up. She guzzled it hungrily. I was hoping she would pass out, but no such luck. The day went by slowly, as we began to thirst, the Jack making us more dehydrated as time went by. Then, things went downhill from there.

She became frisky in her stupor, but I was not in the mood. She was pushy, and I was pissed. I told her no, but she persisted. I thought, “You gotta be kidding me. What kind of reversal bullshit is this?” She started pouting, crying and over-dramatizing, mostly due to her inebriation. She tried to fight me, out of frustration for the situation. As I became angrier and angrier, I thought about what I was capable of in this type of situation. I knew she was a liability to me, and although I am a relatively peaceful person, I thought to myself, “Man, the world would be such a better place without her.” I had little time to make a decision about what to do with her and myself, because I knew that the GPS unit had sent out coordinates just before the plane went down. Since we were not far from the site of the crash, I knew we would be found in a matter of days. I told her to go somewhere else, but she was too afraid. She tried to cling to me, but I wouldn’t have any part of it. Somewhere deep inside of me, a rage grew that I had never felt before. Thinking back, it was probably due to the ridiculous crap I had to put up with from her over the last few months. As my rage took over, I grabbed the knife, grabbed her, held her down, and saw the fear in her eyes. This only increased my controlling desire to cause her pain as she looked at me terrified. She pissed herself, knowing fully well what her fate was at that moment. All I could think of was how the world would be a better place without her. In a second’s time, I slashed her throat. Blood spurting all over me, she gurgled, looking at me. She couldn’t speak, and her jugular bled out in a short period of time.

I felt no remorse. I was glad to be rid of this albatross. I knew that, once rescued, I would feel differently, but for now, all I cared about was getting rid of the body. Should I throw her ass into the ocean? Probably not. She would just wash up on shore anyway. I then thought about the fact that there may indeed be carnivores on this island. I decided to take her body to the middle of the island where there was the least amount of brush, and allow her blood to permeate the air to attract any meat-eating monsters that would be willing to consume her. I dragged her weighted body to the best location I could find and left her to her crumbled on the ground.

Back on the beach, it was getting late. I thought about what I had done, and wondered if would ever feel remorse. Still feeling no regret, I felt a great weight lifted off of me. I knew that I would be able to survive much more easily without her presence. Soon enough, it was time to find my safety spot to sleep for the night. I eased into sleep, having no nightmares of this particular day. Around what I would have considered about three a.m., I heard a growl, a shriek and what sounded like wolves or boar fighting. I realized that indeed there were carnivorous animals on the island, and I became afraid that they would feast upon Brit, smell my scent and come after me. I decided to move up closer to the beach. Serendipitously, as the wolves cried and fought, then simmered, I heard a small puddle-jumper, and shortly saw it on the horizon. As the plane approached, I waved and jumped up and down. It was clear that they saw me. Apparently, I would find out later, they did not leave me, as it appeared that they had as they flew overhead and off into the night sky, leaving me feeling hopeless. Shortly thereafter, a helicopter approached, landed and rescued me to safety. Slumped over in the helicopter, IV intact for fluids, I was questioned about the accident. I explained that there was no option but to parachute out of the plane, but Britney refused to do so, terrified. I had no choice but to jump, and she and the pilot went down with the plane.

After a day in the hospital, answering questions, and being relieved of any responsibility, I was finally flown from Miami back to LA, where my home awaited me. I crossed the threshold, breathed a great sigh of relief, collapsed into bed, and slept, almost comatose for twenty-six hours.