The man groaned and leaned back into the sand, Of all the rotten luck, I have to get marooned on an island with two of the craziest natives of all time. I hope they aren't cannibals.
Natives who spoke perfect English.
He mulled that over for a moment and wondered aloud, "Where am I?"
The man, Helmo, tapped his fingers to his chest, "Are you asking me or Georgia?"
Anger flared a little for the first time from his lips, although by the sensations in his pounding head his blood pressure was undoubtedly already sky-high, "Whoever will answer the goddamn question, that's who! Now do you know where we are or don't you?"
Helmo was a small man, no bigger than five-seven, with salt-and-pepper stubble and faded blue eyes. Though not a true doppelganger, the man nonetheless resembled Dustin Hoffman for some reason, though John (or Merv) couldn't exactly put his finger on it. Helmo frowned toward his feet and shook his head, "Because we have very strict rules here. They must be followed."
Helmo shuddered in surprise, "I'm sorry?"
"Well, what if the rules don't get followed to the absolute letter? Is there anyone else here to enforce any sort of consequence should the rules get broken?"
"No, we are the only ones here. In fact, Georgia and I are humbly pleased to make your acquaintance."
The man in the wetsuit cocked an eye toward the woman and matched her glower. He responded sourly, "Yeah I can tell. Real talkative, that one."
Helmo was either oblivious of the dig or chose to ignore it. He continued amiably, "It gets lonely here with just the two of us. We would certainly welcome another to join us in conversation."
What the hell is this guy smoking? thought the man, and responded sharply, "No. No you wouldn't. Obviously. If I'm only allowed to talk to one of you, that seems to pretty well curtail any and all conversation, hmm?"
The man groaned and pressed his palms into the sides of his head. His head was spinning. Was that from his injuries or from the dialog? He closed his eyes and wondered if he was going to vomit.
The shelter his eyelids provided actually helped dissipate the queasiness in his stomach, but Helmo's voice instantly pierced that comfort, "So I take it you have made your choice then?"
"Yes, I choose to get the fuck off this rock and far away from you two assholes. Don't worry, when I get back I'll send help."
The vulgarity left a distasteful aroma in the air which made Helmo wrinkle his nose from the bitterness. However, he seemed not to care that the stranger had just called him an asshole, and continued on, "You have chosen to talk to me, is what I meant."
"I'm talking to ya right now, aren't I?"
"Splendid. Now there's --"
"Besides, Georgia here hasn't said boo since I opened my eyes. Don'tcha think it would be just my luck to choose to talk with a beautiful woman for the rest of my shipwrecked days, until the day I die, only to find out she was hit in the head with a horseshoe when she was twelve and hasn't uttered a single word since? Or worse, she can only recite the Gettysburg Address, but backwards? No thanks, I'll take my chances with you, Mister Helmo. You're obviously the brains behind this duo."
Suddenly Helmo's tone dropped a few degrees; downright icy, in fact, "It would be most unwise of you to underestimate Georgia's abilities, my friend."
And, despite being mostly encased in neoprene under the blistering equatorial sun, Helmo's words sent a chill up the man's spine.